This has been a suboptimal year. And as it treads toward its close—and especially as we enter the wintry stretch of Covid before at last being released, we hope, into a new bloom of life—it is easy to find our reservoirs of joy running low if not indeed already run dry. Most of us have, quite humanly, sought to treat our beleaguered souls by expressing sadness, anger, distress, exasperation to those within trusted circles (and venting them as well, perhaps too often, into the void of social media). Yet such treatments, though restorative for a time, may give way to a condition that has worsened beneath the temporary relief. The medicine, administered too liberally, turns to poison. I can only speak for myself, quite sickened of constantly talking about disease and political strife, but you might feel the same. What is most difficult to capture, especially in moments of great agitation, is a deep contentment and tranquility of spirit.
When casting about for perspective in such moments, many turn, as I do as well, to the wisdom stored in such things as sacred writ and great literature. Sometimes, however, the loftiest wisdom can be found in the most mundane places. For me it’s the barbershop. (Or at least it used to be, before seemingly everyone started shearing their locks at home if not abandoning the enterprise altogether.)
My barber of some ten years, before moving to Providence, was someone I looked forward to seeing every month. Muhammad (not his real name) didn’t have a string of accolades to boast of—no fancy education, no big bank balance, no high-profile influencer status—apart from being a hard-working owner of his own business. He had foibles like the rest of us; he was perhaps even not, nor did he expect to be seen as, the best role model in all areas of life. But each visit, it seemed, Muhammad would treat me to some new knowledge or perspective. He’d often drop on me a piece of the Arabic poetry he had picked up over the years, in that way that ordinary people from other cultures still seem to do. We’d banter about religion and politics and have friendly arguments. We’d talk of our personal lives, and over the years he shared with me his personal and professional hardships. One episode stands out to this day.
It was several years ago, and I went in and asked Muhammad as usual how he was doing. “My father passed away,” he said, adding that the death had been sudden and unexpected. Knowing his father to be abroad, I expressed my sympathies and asked whether he would be going home to visit and grieve with extended family. Muhammad explained that, because of some quirks in the law and his background, he occupied a sort of immigration no-man’s land—perfectly legal in status but unable to leave and re-enter the country. “I’m so sorry,” came my feeble response. “It’s okay, brother,” he said calmly, following it up with Alhamdulillah, a common praise of God. “We have to thank God for what he gives us in life.” He then thanked me for my friendship and kept on cutting my hair.
In doing so, my friend unselfconsciously emulated the Prophet Muhammad, who, when asked why he kept the prayer candle burning through the night alongside his daytime burdens, said, “Shall I not be a grateful servant of God?” My friend preferred to be joyful and grateful in a moment when others, including myself, might have been despondent and bitter. And so it is, I have found again and again, that those who have gone through the most hardship are the most alive to the blessings that they have and the most magnanimous in expressing shukr, or gratitude, for them.
That kind of contentment with the fortunes of life, together with the ability to carry on serenely with the business of living, is within the reach of each of us. For some, especially those who enjoy considerable material comfort, it may be harder to attain than for others. But one step to getting there, available to all of us, is to practice gratitude. Not to cogitate about it abstractly, but to actively display and express our gratitude for all the mundane things and to all the mundane people in our lives. And to do so even when it doesn’t entirely make sense. For if we can discover the barber’s insight on life, we may find, to paraphrase the Quran (14:34), that we will never fully be able to number the favors of God.
