The Learning Curve of Gratitude


After suffering a life-threatening illness, singer-songwriter Mary Chapin Carpenter had time to reassess her priorities. She came to believe in more fully appreciating the blessings each day brings

From NPR News, this is weekend edition. I am Liane Hansen.

I believe in mystery.
I believe in family.
I believe in being who I am.
I believe in the power of failure.
And I believe normal life is extraordinary.
This I Believe.

Today on our regular feature, This I Believe, we hear from singer-songwriter Mary Chapin Carpenter who lives in Charlottesville, Virginia. Carpenter has won five Grammy Awards and sold 13-million records. Yet she says she has learned from difficulty, not from success. Here is our series curator, independent producer, Jay Allison.

Recently Mary Chapin Carpenter found herself in a bad way. She wanted to be able to answer her friends and family when they asked, “How are you feeling?”. After a visit to a grocery store one day, she began to write, to communicate the thing she had a hard time expressing on the phone or in person. That was the origin of her essay for This I Believe.

I believe in what I learned at a grocery store. Eight weeks ago, I was released from the hospital after suffering a pulmonary embolism. I had just finished a tour and a week after returning home. Severe chest pain and terrible breathlessness landed me in the ER. A scan revealed blood clots in my lungs. Everyone told me how lucky I was. A pulmonary embolism can take your life in an instant. I was familiar enough with the medical term, but not familiar with the pain, the fear, and the depression that followed. Everything I had been looking forward to came to a screeching halt. I had to cancel my upcoming tour. I had to let my musicians and crew members go, the record company, the booking agency. I felt I had let everyone down. But there was nothing to do but get out of the hospital, go home and get well.

I tried hard to see my unexpected time-off as a gift, but I would open a novel and couldn’t concentrate. I would turn on the radio and shut it off. Familiar clouds gathered above my head. And I couldn’t make them go away with a pill or a movie or a walk. This unexpected time was becoming a curse filling me with anxiety, fear, and self-loathing, all of the ingredients of the darkness that was depression.

Sometimes, it’s a smile of a stranger that helps. Sometimes, it’s a phone call from a long absent friend checking on you. I found my lifeline at a grocery store. One morning, the young man who rang up my groceries and asked me if I wanted paper or plastic, also told me to enjoy the rest of my day. I looked at him and I knew he meant it. It stopped me in my tracks. I went out and I sat in my car and cried. What I want more than ever is to appreciate that I have this day and tomorrow and hopefully days beyond that. I am experiencing the learning curve of gratitude. I don’t wanna say “Have a nice day.” like a robot. I don’t wanna get mad at the elderly driver in front of me. I don’t wanna go crazy when my internet access is messed up. I don’t wanna be jealous of someone else’s success. You could say that this litany of sins indicates that I don’t wanna be human. The learning curve of gratitude, however, is showing me exactly how human I am.

I don’t know if my doctors will ever be able to give me the precise reason why I had a life-threatening illness. I do know that the young man in the grocery store remind me that everyday is all there is. And that is my belief.

Tonight, I will cook dinner, tell my husband how much I love him, curl up with the dogs, watch the sun go down over the mountains and climb into bed. I will think about how uncomplicated it all is. I will wonder at how it took me my entire life to appreciate just one day.

Mary Chapin Carpenter with her essay for This I believe.

We asked her which of her songs might resonate with these words and she suggested Late For Your Life.

You've been saying for the longest time that the time has come
You've been talking like you're of a mind to get some changing done

As ever, our invitation to write for this series extends to everyone. Please visit our website npr.org/thisibelieve to find out more about how to submit and to read what others have written. For This I Believe, I am Jay Allison.

And watch the sun go down
No one knows where they belong
The search just goes on and on and on
For every choice that ends up wrong
Another one's right
A change of scene would sure be great
The thought is nice to contemplate
But the question begs why would you wait
And be late for your life

Next Monday, our NPR’s all things are considered a This I Believe essay from James Loney, a former hostage captured by Iraqi militants. This I Believe is independently produced by Jay Allison, Dan Gediman, John Gregory and Viki Merrick with Emily Botein.

Support for This I Believe comes from Prudential Retirement.