Advice For Men: Keep a gratitude journal
"The simplest prayer I know is 'thank you.'"
Don't scream on social media. Write in a gratitude journal. Longhand. Men should write longhand from time to time: love letters, grocery lists, gratitude journals. I have been keeping a gratitude journal recently because that is what sober, mentally healthy adults do. I want to be sober and mentally healthy.
Gratitude is an action. A verb. Yes, fine, it is a noun, too, maybe primarily. But it is also something you do. Gratitude is a performance. It is a spell. Gratitude is a jetpack, the rockets fueled by kindness and patience. The fastest route between two hearts is gratefulness.
I have not always been grateful. Let me tell you a quick, sad story: I have been angry. I have been unhappy. I have wasted time.
The journal itself is basic. A spiral notebook. The kind that teenagers decorate with doodles and poems about heartbreak. The pages are lined, but I ignore them. I prefer to use a black felt tip pen to write down my lists of consequential nouns, but there are pages written in blue and pink, whatever color ink I could find.
At first, it was easy to avoid writing a gratitude journal. I would just choose to do anything else: eat a candy bar, take a nap, rewatch the giant-robot movie ‘Pacific Rim’. Anything could derail my attempt to record who and what I was thankful for that day.
But then someone at a meeting, or my therapist, would ask me if I’m keeping up with the journal, and I’d lie, of course, and they’d know I was lying and remind me that it’s the easiest, cheapest thing I can do to keep myself from drowning in fears and resentments.
So I set a time every day, usually first thing in the morning. Sometimes my thoughts and fingers are lightning. Sometimes I sit down to write, and the pen in my hand has the weight of a dying star. There are days when writing in the journal feels intimidating, like my feelings are too big, and there are too many people in my life who love or barely tolerate me. Other days, writing in a gratitude journal felt pointless, busy work, a thing to do to fill time before you die. So I’d come up with new excuses for why I couldn’t write in the journal — my eyes were tired! It’s taco Tuesday! — and then I’d talk to a friend who was keeping up with their journal, and I’d return to it.
I’d start the list with the big ones: I am grateful for family, friends, and my relatively good health. I’m thankful for my wife, who listens to me patiently and with love and who makes me laugh all the time.
I then move on to classic alcoholic thanks: I’m grateful I’m not in prison, or on the streets, or in some miserable flop house. I’m thankful I’m alive.
And then I’d take a friend’s advice: “Celebrate the small stuff.” At the time, I replied: “Don’t you mean ‘don’t sweat the small stuff?’” No, that is not what he meant, but that is also true. I am grateful for a warm bed. I am grateful for the way the morning light slowly crawls across the bedroom ceiling. I am grateful for the hugs from my nieces on weekends. I am grateful for fuzzy socks and tiny cactuses and that jar of fancy kimchee in the fridge.
I am grateful for kettlebells. I am grateful for hydraulic press videos on YouTube. I am grateful for all the humans in my life who are like siblings to me. I’m also thankful for my actual brother, who has a talent for texting me absurd memes just when I need them. I am a lucky person because I have everything I need. My journal is proof.
I am grateful for hoodies and humidifiers. I am grateful for late-night talks with my wife about our day. I am grateful for plentiful cans of seltzer water. I am grateful for breakfasts with old friends at diners.
When I give thanks, I am in the moment. I can’t help it. I am anchored to reality, and my mind doesn’t drift. When I write in my journal, “I am grateful for toaster waffles,” I am not lost in the future or wallowing in the past. I am grateful for every kind of breath, deep ones, slow ones, fast ones, after jumping rope. When I am firmly in the present, I am able to receive love, which is as hard as giving love.
I am grateful for my thirteen-year-old one-eyed dog, who is always happy to lick the inside of my nostrils. I am grateful for my record player and vinyl collection. I am grateful for walks in the woods. I am grateful for all the old movies I can stream. I am grateful for my Instant Pot, which is a fancy pressure cooker. I am grateful I’m able to make chili for my wife. I am grateful for candles and foamy hand soap. I am grateful my mom has recovered from her hip surgery. I am grateful for surprise letters from people who knew me back when, and for video calls with people who are just starting to get to know me.
I am grateful for walks in the park and colorful sneakers. I have spent years strolling through Brooklyn’s Prospect Park. I am thankful for raccoons, which I see every so often during my walks. The first time I saw raccoons in the park, I shrieked, but now we’re pals. I am grateful for coloring books, which chill me out, believe it or not. I am grateful for pillows.
When I’m in a hurry, my entries look like a list of ‘thank yous,’ as if I’m nominated for an Oscar. Thank you, Mom and Dad. Thank you, everyone, who believes in me. Thank you to everyone who ever helped me. Thank you, Academy.
The shortest prayer I know is “thank you.” I don’t believe in a bearded, Galactus-sized God, but I do believe in a universe that is larger and weirder and more wonder-stuffed and complex than my hand-cracked eggbeater of a human mind can possibly understand. I believe in a universe that knows I exist. I know that I fit into some kind of near-infinite cosmic Lego playset. I am glad to be here, for however long I’m allowed. Thank you, universe.
Keeping a gratitude journal has not been easy for me. For one, I have spent my life counting my curses. I’m fat. I’m dumb. I have less than others. It is hard to thank what I have, precious little as it is, because that precious little is more than enough. This is not a way to live a happy life. But trying to write in my gratitude journal has been especially hard, given these stressful times. There is so much anger, and I know screaming won’t help, because I’ve tried. I have also tried all the least self-destructive coping mechanisms, like eating an entire sheet cake or watching so many TV shows that I actually dream about the TV shows I was watching.
There are plenty of rational reasons to despair, and some of those reasons aren’t even specific to our miserable era. Life is lonely. It is scary. Cruelty is uncomplicated. But I have to keep reminding myself that I have enough and enough is all I need. I have to practice gratitude, emphasis on the word “practice.” The only way you get better at something is to keep doing it, over and over again. Like karate or rollerblades. Or muffins.
That’s why I’m trying to keep a gratitude journal. It is my only defense against the creeping doom. I am safe, and so are my loved ones. And if that were ever to change, and it might, the only way to fight is to focus first on who and what you’re fighting for, and my journal is one long list of reasons.
I work hard to be optimistic. To not give up. My default setting is to quietly and not-so-quietly seethe. Recently, I’ve been feeling uninspired. I actually wrote: “I am grateful for gratitude” the other day. But today was different. I don’t know why. The news was bleak. My social media feed was full of inchoate rage. I was melting with worry. So I called a friend. I reached out to someone I care about. A few years ago, I probably would have suffered in silence because men are living statues. It turns out my friend was struggling too. To quote classic literature: “Winter is coming.” He thanked me for calling him out of the blue. Only robots do that nowadays.
We laughed. I let him know he wasn’t alone, and he returned the favor. He thanked me, and I thanked him for thanking me. I should have told him I loved him, but I did the next best thing: I reminded him we had plans to see the new zombie movie.
After we got off the phone, I found a few minutes to empty my mind. And when I opened my eyes, I found my gratitude journal. At first, I filled a page with drawings of skulls. It relaxes me. Next, I dusted off my ancient cursive writing skills and scribbled out my name, making sure the capital “D” and “V” in “DeVore” were grandiose like a musketeer’s hat. And then the words flowed out of me:
I am grateful you read this far. Please take care of yourself and those you love.
Advice For Men: Question your faith
I am grateful for you and your uninhibited writing. Thank you.
grateful for you, John