Terry Hershey

We all wrestle with some internal governor prescribing some need for moderation or temperance, which translates, “It’s time to put the kibosh on all manner of joy or ecstasy or elation or, God forbid, wholeheartedness.” Here’s the deal: When we give way to any such shackling measure, we put a lid on our passion and our spirit, and we short-circuit the bounty and generosity that would spill from our heart. This all begs the question: What is the reason we internalize this script, and how does it procure its power? In other words…why do we allow ourselves to live so small?

To be blessed, is to know that place of no striving.

To be blessed, is to know that place of rest and dignity.

To be blessed, is to know that I am loved by a gracious Creator, and that I can own and celebrate my identity—this identity—knowing that it, and it alone, is enough.

Let us pause and remember that savoring isn’t something you add or acquire. Unabashed joy is already inside. It springs from within. It is a well of abundance that you draw from. So, savoring is not a technique. And savoring is never an end unto itself. It is always fueled by gratitude. And gratitude lights up our senses. We enter into, we show up to the needs and cares of this day. I suppose that it’s a chicken or egg scenario. And which comes first, I’m not sure. I do know that savoring makes space for gratitude. And gratitude begets savoring.

I have lived most of my emotional and spiritual life with a heart condition. Because I have lived cautious and afraid, holding back my heart because of what it might cost, or require of me. Or fearing (running from) my brokenness, not believing that an open and broken heart is an invitation to live my days giving, creating, embracing, connecting, savoring, and celebrating. It is no wonder that, too often, I do not see. Hundreds of years ago, in an era much more fraught than ours, St. Francis learned to live without holding back his heart.

Living intentionally and fully alive—from a place of groundedness, being at home in our own skin—is not a technique. Nor is it a kind of mental Rubik’s cube, to be solved. There is no list. But if we demand one, chances are, we pass this life by—the exquisite, the messy, the enchanting, the wondrous, the delightful, the untidy—on our way to someplace we think we ought to be.