“Just write down whatever comes to mind,” Billie said, “and they can be the same things each time.”
So that’s what I did nightly before trying to sleep. Sometimes my two lists would merge: “I’m grateful for . . . the walk I took in the park” and “I love in me . . . walking in the park.” The more I did it, the more things came to mind:
“I’m grateful for . . . my children . . . eating soul food at Sylvia’s . . .”
“I love in me . . . my smile . . . teaching Lakisha to read . . .”
Just writing these lists, I began to feel better; each line was a rope that pulled me to shore.
But there’s more to this story. For there still were days lost to despair, when I felt too broken to ever feel grateful. On one of those days, a cold day in November, I left work, trudged through soot and snow to the subway, and walked slowly, very slowly, down to the train. It was impossible to move any faster because of the three elderly women in front of me who cautiously stepped down the wet, slushy stairs.
It’s hard for me to tell the ages of older black women. They don’t wrinkle and dry up like white people do. But I could see they were very old, these women, with their hollowed cheeks and wispy white hair. And I could tell how poor they were by the thin, worn-out coats they wore in this, the coldest of winters.
One of the women, the eldest perhaps, would rest on her cane and speak after each step. She was instantly echoed by her two friends, as if they were her congregation.
“Praise the Lord!” she commanded.
“Praise the Lord!” they repeated.
Slowly, carefully, another step was taken.
“God is good to us!” she said with reverence.
“God is good to us!” they acknowledged.
All three now leaned on their canes or the railing, tired, out of breath, in old-age pain. And while they rested, I wondered about their prayer. God is good to us? They thought that now? Shivering in their thin coats, barely able to move?
Then their leader took another step, looked upward, and said, “It could be worse!”
Suddenly turning to face me, she asked, “Right, missy? It could be worse?”
She stumbled, almost losing her balance, so I offered my arm. “Yes, ma’am,” I agreed, as we walked down together. “It could be worse.”
Which is why, years later, I still write my gratefuls. On good days, they’re a way to always give thanks. And on bad days, each line helps to pull me to shore—and reminds me, it could be worse.
Life is glorious, but life is also wretched. It is both. . . .
Gloriousness and wretchedness need each other.
One inspires us; the other softens us. They go together.
—PEMA CHÖDRÖN
TEA AND COMPASSION
While staying in Manhattan to visit family, I went with John one Sunday to see my Sufi teacher, Halil Baba. He had asked us to meet him at Aisha’s apartment, where we’d all met twice before. The first time it had felt strange, seeing him in a mundane setting and wearing a sweater and pants instead of the white robe and prayer cap he wore as a sheikh. But his kind, weathered face and soft brown eyes were familiar, and it was a special treat to be together at Aisha’s. Nonetheless, on this day I felt uneasy because early that morning John and I had a fight.
I have a dark side. I guess all people do. But mine just might be a little darker. Anyway, most people don’t get to see that part of me. I save it for my dearest John—a dubious honor. Not that John is perfect. Still, like most men, his sins are more passive—grumpiness, sins of omission—while mine have drama and flair. I won’t go into scary details, but I’ve noticed that when I’m bad, I’m often bad the same way. Later, I feel so remorseful, and John always forgives me, though I have trouble forgiving myself. I also feel like a total phony if I’m off to do something spiritual, like writing this book or hanging out with Halil Baba.
Which is why I felt uneasy that Sunday afternoon when John and I went to Aisha’s to meet him, right after one of my darker moments. If he knew what I’m really like, I thought, he wouldn’t want to be my teacher.
Aisha, a fellow Sufi, lives on the Upper East Side and, like Halil Baba, is from Turkey, where hospitality must be a national trait. She always welcomes us so graciously: “John! Rabia!” she exclaims with great pleasure, Rabia being my Sufi name. And no matter what time it is, she offers us an abundance of Turkish delights—vine leaves stuffed with rice and nuts, carrots in olive oil, sweet chocolate halva—which she serves on a round brass tray. With Halil Baba, we sit in a circle on the floor, resting on large velvet pillows as we eat, sip tea, and exchange niceties.
No one does niceties like the Sufis from Turkey. They don’t just ask “How’s your family?” but are always blessing them as well: “Blessings on you, Rabia, and your sweet daughter and son, and blessings on your beloved mother. And may Allah bless you all with good fortune, good health, prosperity, and peace! Inshallah (God willing)!”
Then, at some point, we begin to chant together the names of the Divine—a Sufi practice called Zikr, remembrance of God—and talk about matters on a higher level.
“Do you have any questions, Rabia?” Halil Baba asked on this particular day; for though he once modestly said he didn’t consider himself a teacher, he added gently, “perhaps a guide.”
So I told him in a roundabout way that I’m often not the person I hope to be or he sees me as, and that, in fact, I can be quite dreadful. “I always feel so sorry afterward and swear I’ll never be that
