Sometimes the largest sentiments hide in the smallest words. Perhaps it’s an English thing - “Thanks” seems so denim and blue jeans compared to a satiny, “Spaceeba” (Russian), or Fedora-esque, “Falemenderit” (Albanian). The Swedes and Norwegians have us beat- their barely there, “Takk” through frozen lips must be enough to melt the space between them with gratitude. Sassy little number, “Grazie”, spreads appreciation among Italians and an Arabic “Shukran” tastes of sugared rose petals, billowing like stately white dishdashas against the Middle Eastern sand. However we say it, it’s interesting that we do. “Thank-you”, “Thanks”, “Cheers”. It means someone offered us something they could have chosen not to. It means we recognize their (however small or casual) sacrifice of freedom on our behalf as something valuable. Something that ought to be acknowledged. Something that is as important for us, as the recipient, to notice as it is for the giver of the gift/serve/opportunity to be noticed. Gratitude blesses both hearts involved.
Even more interesting is the fact that sometimes, my soul is overwhelmed with gratefulness -nearly to the point of bursting - though no particular target has been identified. A serendipitous turn of events, an undeserved blessing, the sunset blush on quiet waters of pink and tangerine – thank-yous rise up in me unbidden, no dam could hold them back. Their out-pouring relieves my soul.
Why do we thank? Not simply why we release the sweetly spoken potpourri of danke, gracias, or merci, but from where does the humbling sentimental cloud behind them come? What purpose does appreciation serve the human race? Do I acknowledge only the efforts of those who will someday acknowledge my own? No, for then I would never thank a stranger. Do I somehow prolong the life of the one I thank by recognizing their efforts? No, for how could I then prolong my own? The “thank-you” itself is as much a sacrifice of freedom as the thing provoking the thanks. I don’t have to give it. And, yet, somehow I do. Is it even possible that thankfulness could be nothing more than a mere social convention? An exercise in courtesy? To whom, then, am I being courteous when I am rendered speechless by the sharpness of blue against clouds and long-shadowed sunlit grass? Why does my heart seek out an outlet for gratitude?
Socially conventional thank-yous are expected and usually offered as such. “Please” and “thank-you” the verbal lubricants that decrease relational friction and increase societal symmetry. But there are other thank-yous. Occasions of gratefulness when the magnitude of a gift cannot possibly squeeze into any number of letters, any sound uttered by lips or tongue. Moments of mercy when the silence of what could have been spoken is deafening. The simple gift of self - open, honest, vulnerable, and accepting to a heart parched and withered by life, a dried “thank-you” gloriously gulping and drowning in the tidal wave of offered understanding. The overwhelming humility of being given what we cannot gain for ourselves is what gathers together from the farthest outposts of our hearts and souls and minds, condensing the enormity of that experience into a potent verbal extract small enough to slip through our lips. Huge sentiment, tiny little “Toda” (Hebrew).... Thank-you.
"Feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a present and not giving it." -William Arthur Ward
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