The art of gratitude

He is a wise man who does not grieve for the things which he has not, but rejoices for those which he has.” Thus did Greek stoic Epictetus advise his pupils against the vortex of insatiable cravings, which ruthlessly cloud feckless minds.

Epictetus’ Enchiridion and Discourses provide one of the greatest works of wisdom from antiquity, a much-needed antidote against the mindless consumerism and enlightened hedonism of our age.

Even the greatest sayings, however, will only reveal their true power once embodied in actual human experience and internalized by our hearts.

The trials of the past month provided me the opportunity for some stoic practice. In what have likely been my toughest moments over the past decade, I was confronted with indescribable grief and despair in recent weeks.

Just when I was recovering from chronic fatigue after a year of tireless travels and unimaginable mental exertions, which was only compounded by a soul-shattering heartbreak, my sister informed us that our father had slipped into a deep coma.

She seemed totally distraught, terrified by the doctors’ “poor prognosis.” What made it even more painful was that we didn’t know what exactly caused our father’s descent into cognitive oblivion, and that he was confined thousands of miles away.

At that moment, I picked my father’s picture, in his handsome youth, and greedily embraced it with a whirlpool of emotions and constant prayers. The following day, I immediately purchased a ticket to visit him, or whatever I could find left of him.

I asked the Almighty to just give me the chance to talk to him again, to hold his hands with tender strength, tell him how much I love him, and how sorry I was for not being by his side as much as we both wanted to. While on the plane, flying over the oceans and under the beaming moonlight, I wondered if I would ever see him again.

Shortly after arriving in the lush shores of the beautiful Caspian Sea, now half-freezing in the thick of melancholy winter, I rushed to the hospital, where, after hours of waiting and endless intercessions, I managed to see him in the intensive care unit.

There, I found him helplessly stretched over the bed, a notch below consciousness, his skin white as paper, his limbs lifeless and frail. Yet, I didn’t give up hope, cherishing what I had (my father still breathing life) rather than what I didn’t at that moment (him in full consciousness and health).

In short, I embodied stoicism, since I knew that my emotional breakdown wouldn’t help the situation, and I needed to be strong for everyone. I was grateful to see him breathing, to hold his hands, and whisper into his ears how much I love him and that I am eagerly awaiting his return to consciousness and our home.

For the next week and a half, every single day I visited him, lovingly beckoning him to awaken from his gloomy slumber, to come back to us, his family. Once home, after regularly witnessing all the numbing despair and heart-wrenching sorrow in the eyes of countless families visiting their loved ones in the hospital, I would retreat to my room and wrestle with the most profound grief I never thought a human heart could bear.

Yet, I didn’t give up, voraciously reading all the stoic and spiritual works I could find to strengthen myself, drawing inspiration from the wisdom of Seneca and Marcus Aurelius and divine energy from prayers to the Almighty.

Two weeks into his confinement, I finally had the chance to properly talk to my dad again. New challenges arose. For several nights, I had to constantly watch over him for almost 15 hours straight throughout the night until the next afternoon, an ordeal that was compounded by his trying stubbornness and nocturnal lamentations.

Yet, I was grateful to the core of my soul, for I had the chance to once again see him effortlessly smile, proudly press my hand with renewed vigor, and tell me how much he missed me. And, at that moment, I was overwhelmed by pure blissfulness. Gratitude is strength, our weapon against despair, and our path to redemptive joy.

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