We take so much for granted. Every day we receive all kinds of things without ever recognizing where they come from. Food, clothing, and shelter barely begin to describe the endless commodities upon which we all depend. All of this comes to us at tremendous cost—and we just expect it. We don't even think about it.

Is it possible to become more grateful? We've all heard parents attempt to teach children gratitude by saying "Thank you," whether they mean it or not. At least it shows some recognition that gratitude can be cultivated. How can we teach ourselves not just to say "Thank you," but to really mean it?

Some people start their day in the worst possible way: they crawl out of bed and turn on the TV news. Do you remember the movie Groundhog Day? Why do you think Bill Murray had to keep repeating his day? Every morning at six, his alarm clock/radio played Sonny & Cher singing "I Got You, Babe." Talk about putting yourself behind the eight ball.

What you might consider doing instead of burying yourself in the noise of the world first thing in the morning is buying an old-fashioned alarm clock, and when it goes off, sitting up in bed and reciting the beginning of a poem by E. E. Cummings, which goes "I thank you God for most this amazing / day." See what that does for you.

But why be grateful at all, in the morning or at any time? What is the nature of gratitude? Why should one say "Thank you"? Thank you for what?

Being grateful is the natural response to the realization that you've been given something. If you receive something and you realize it, thankfulness is the proper response. And in order to get something that you didn't have, something must have given it to you—something that is not you. Thanks is always an outward expression toward something other than you.

This is what Jesus was talking about when he gave the Beatitudes. Remember the first Beatitude, "Blessed are the poor"? What could he have possibly meant?

On one level, it's easier for the poor to recognize that what they receive doesn't come from themselves. The original Aramaic word actually means beggar. You can see them in the Middle East to this day, coming over to you, their arms outstretched, holding their cups. When you give them something, they say "Bless you! Thank- you." They bless you for what you give, all out of proportion to the coin you gave because you didn't want them to bother you. This is the stance of the beggar. You know what the rich say? "Get a job. Make yourself useful. Leave me alone." A very different stance.

This is from Luke's Gospel. Matthew goes a little further. He says "Blessed are the poor in spirit." In Aramaic, "in spirit," refers to a person's inner attitude. Jesus says this just in case you think- he's talking about money. He's talking about an inner state in which you recognize that you are empty. If you're empty, then you can receive. Then you can recognize that what is coming to you is a gift, it's something for which to be grateful.

Along with this particular Beatitude there comes this great, resounding promise: "For theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven." Jesus isn't talking about when the poor die they're going to go to heaven. He's talking about a different state of mind, a different state of heart, of consciousness.

The Kingdom of Heaven isn't a place "up there." It means being wide awake. If you're asleep, lost in dreams, then you think everything is your due. You never get enough. Things aren't the way you want them to be, and as a result, you're never satisfied with what life brings you.

If that's your attitude, you can do all kinds of things. You can hurt others with impunity, because you actually believe you're the center of the universe and who else is gonna look out for Number One?

The Kingdom of Heaven is the state of seeing things the way they really are. In that state you see where things come from, the source. You trace the source back to the Source. You realize that you've been given everything, and you know the Giver. That's the blessed state of being poor in spirit. You've been given the human possibility. Why? What did you do to merit this? Nothing you can see. You just have it.

This kind of approach leads you to a more and more precise understanding of your own life. Everything registers more specifically, more minutely, and therefore more fully. Moment by moment we are constantly receiving. Someone speaks. You listen. And not only do you hear, you understand what's being said. Nothing gets in the way of your hearing—none of your usual stuff.

But what stops us from being this way? Emotions can't be forced or faked. Our hearts become hard, hard as stones. We've become so filled with negative emotions such as anger, resentment, and fear that what's higher can't seep in. The heart becomes hard when all our emotions are about "me." Me and my life. Me and my needs. Me and my desires.

The heart softens when the emotions go out toward others, because that's what the emotions are for—to connect us to others. If they turn inward, the flow stops. Nothing really effective can be done by anybody so long as their heart is stone. You can try to do great good in the world—give away your money, work in a soup kitchen—but if your heart is dead, you're just going through the motions.

But suppose the heart is alive in a person and they're serving you some soup. When they're alive in this way, they're adding the missing ingredient. That's why you're eating the soup—so you can get that ingredient. Call it attention. Whole-hearted attention is what nourishes a person. But if the person who's serving the soup has a stone for a heart, you may as well be in a prison commisary for all the nourishment you'll get.

If somebody does something—the smallest thing—and they do it from the heart, you can't ask for anything more. They've supplied everything.

You've heard Shakespeare's metaphor for life: The world is a stage. Well, this world is where this missing ingredient can take effect. The activities we get tangled up in are just the plot. But what makes the play—what makes all the difference—is what's going on in the heart.