I wrote the blog post below nine years ago. I thought I had living with gratitude figured out. Well, not quite, because I still don’t know how to slow down with intention each day to consider my good fortune. Without exception I fall off the gratitude wagon with the slightest push.

My son Matt is about to celebrate four years drug free. He has grown exponentially in wisdom and faith. He understands the commitment required to be a grateful person, and he puts in the work. I listen to him sometimes, and I feel spiritually lazy, almost embarrassed that he’s the light for his mom. He passed me on the highway to living with intention about a year after he completed an 18 month rehabilitation program. He’s been all in every day, praying, writing gratitude lists, being active in AA and meeting with his sponsor and therapist every week. He counsels friends in recovery and spends time with them golfing, mountain biking, lifting weights and hanging out. When I ask for advice, he keeps it simple and real, and I listen like he’s John the Apostle.

So here’s the blog post I wrote nine years ago about living a grateful life. My words were true at the time, but I haven’t become an intrinsically grateful person…yet. I’m not giving up.

I woke up this morning with a foreign feeling of gratitude. The object was my backyard. It’s one of the first things I see. It’s big and green and landscaped with curves like a winding stream. I love it. But I’ve seen it ten thousand times. Why so grateful now?

I’ve been trying to be a grateful person for years with little success. I kept a gratitude journal. Then I tried to think about things to be grateful for during morning meditations. I stuffed my head with gratitude lists and waited for the feel-good reward. Nothing.

Gratitude seeped in when I slowed down, way down, and gave myself space to listen, think and feel. It’s something I decided to do when my dad died last summer. I didn’t want to rush back to work like I did when my mother died in a car accident. That tactic had long-term, negative consequences. My mother died thirty-seven years ago, and I still tear up every time we drive by a car wreck.

Gratitude took root during nine months of slow living. I spent most of my time at home, sitting around, reading, writing, gardening and doing household chores. Of all the seeds I planted,  I wasn’t expecting gratitude to germinate. I had my mind on peace, forgiveness, and love. My fingers were crossed for better writing and good mental health. And then out of the blue gratitude bloomed. It was as if I’d found a lost lottery ticket with a winning combination.

I hope my good fortune comes to mind the next time I freak out about not being a busy person. Or when someone asks me what I do for a living. In these instances, the words blog writer seem like a joke. I feel lazy and unimportant until I go home and revisit my choices.

I’m truly grateful for my life. It’s not the kind of existence that lends itself to awards or turns at the podium, and that’s just fine with me.