I try to be grateful for the abundance of the blessings that I

“I try to be grateful for the abundance of the blessings that I have, for the journey that I’m on, and to relish each day as a gift.”
So spoke James McGreevey, a man who walked through both light and shadow, and who learned, through trial, the sacred art of gratitude. In this simple yet profound confession lies the wisdom of all ages—that happiness is not born of possession, nor power, nor pride, but of awareness. To see one’s life as abundance, to regard the path as a journey, and to cherish each day as a gift, is to live as the ancients once taught: awake to the miracle of being.

In McGreevey’s words we hear not the voice of triumph, but of transformation. Once a governor, he rose high upon the world’s stage, only to fall into scandal and self-reckoning. Yet from his fall was born a deeper ascent—the awakening of the spirit. He learned, as many before him, that life’s greatest wealth lies not in success, but in the humility that follows loss. Gratitude became his compass, guiding him not back to glory, but toward peace. In this, his wisdom echoes the teachings of the philosophers and the saints: that to relish the day is to conquer the tyranny of time.

The ancients knew this truth well. The Stoics, those sober guardians of wisdom, taught that the wise man greets each morning as if newly born. “He who forgets to be thankful,” wrote Seneca, “has lost the sight of heaven.” Gratitude, then, is not a passive feeling—it is a discipline of the soul, a chosen state of grace. To live gratefully is to resist the blindness of desire and to remember that even breath itself is a blessing. It is to dwell not in what is missing, but in what already overflows.

Consider the story of Helen Keller, who, though deprived of sight and sound, lived with a heart illuminated by wonder. When asked if she pitied herself, she answered, “No, because I have three things to thank God for—my soul, my imagination, and my friends.” In her darkness, she saw more light than those who could see the sun. Her gratitude transformed limitation into liberation, proving that the richest life is not one of ease, but of awareness. Like McGreevey, she understood that the journey itself—with all its pain and beauty—is the true reward.

To relish each day as a gift is to break free from the illusion of permanence. Everything we love, everything we hold, is borrowed for a little while. The wise do not mourn this truth—they rejoice in it. For impermanence sharpens gratitude; it teaches the heart to treasure the fleeting hour, the smile of a friend, the sound of rain upon the roof. To relish is to taste deeply, to drink from the cup of life without haste or waste. It is to say, “This moment is mine, and I am thankful for it.”

Yet gratitude is not always born in comfort. Often, it blooms in the soil of sorrow. Those who have suffered and survived—the exiled, the broken, the redeemed—speak most clearly of its power. They know that each dawn is mercy renewed, that to wake and walk again is no small miracle. Gratitude, for them, is not sentiment—it is salvation. It lifts the heart from bitterness and teaches the soul to see beauty even in ruin.

So let the teaching of McGreevey’s words be this: Do not wait for abundance to be grateful. Gratitude itself creates abundance. When you awaken, give thanks for the breath that fills your lungs. When you labor, be thankful for the strength that still moves your hands. When you suffer, remember that even pain refines the soul. And when you rejoice, do so with humility, knowing that the gift of today is the only treasure time allows.

For in the end, to be grateful is to live in harmony with the divine rhythm of existence. It is to see, beneath all struggle, the steady pulse of grace that beats through the universe. Walk, then, with open eyes and an open heart. Count not your burdens, but your blessings. Live as one who knows that every sunrise is a benediction—and every breath, a prayer.