Yes, the World Is Imperfect, and I Am Imperfect, but I Will Not Let that Extinguish the Light I Carry
It is good, I feel, to begin a new year, or even a simple new day, with a small reservoir of gladness. Gladness is not the loud exclamation of joy, but a quiet, enduring light—a kind of inner sanctuary where the soul can rest. In a world that often overwhelms us with its pace and demands, cultivating gladness is like planting a small, steadfast tree whose roots drink deeply from the wellspring of gratitude.
Here are some gladnesses I have gathered, consciously and with care, as a way of consecrating our days: the blessed fact that we weren’t promised any of this, and yet it was given. No ancient covenant required that there be mountains crowned with snow or music that threads through the air like an unseen miracle. No law of nature demanded that trees bloom again each spring or that we might taste the salt of the sea on our lips and feel it anchor us to something vast and timeless. And yet, here we are.
It humbles me to think that the earth owes us nothing and yet offers us everything—its physics and its poems, its silence and its storms, its capacity to hold both devastation and regeneration. We were not promised even the smallest thread of beauty or kindness, and yet they weave through our days, often unnoticed but ever-present, waiting for us to stop and see.
This realization, I believe, can anchor us in a deeper kind of living. To wake each morning with the thought, “This was not owed to me,” is to see life as a profound gift rather than a transaction. It is to walk through the world not with entitlement, but with reverence. It changes the texture of how we live. The simplest gestures—a bird’s song at dawn, the warm grip of a friend’s hand, the ache and expanse of an ever-breaking, ever-broadening heart—become sanctuaries of gladness.
And this gladness, fragile as it may sometimes feel, is not naive. It does not deny the sharp edges of life. Gladness does not mean we will not grieve or feel the bitter winds of disappointment. But it reminds us that even in the midst of sorrow, the fact that we can feel at all is itself a wonder. To feel pain is to have loved, and to love is to have glimpsed something eternal.
There is a quiet defiance in gladness—a way of saying, “Yes, the world is imperfect, and I am imperfect, but I will not let that extinguish the light I carry.” It is an act of rebellion against cynicism and despair, a refusal to allow the hardness of life to harden the heart. Gladness keeps us open, keeps us tender. It reminds us that beauty does not need to be grand to be transformative; it often hides in the smallest of things—a child's laughter, the golden edges of autumn leaves, the first sip of tea on a cold morning.
As we stand on the threshold of a new year, or even just the next unfolding moment, I wonder what gladnesses you might gather for yourself. What small treasures of wonder and gratitude could you place at the altar of your heart, not as a denial of life’s struggles, but as a quiet affirmation of its grace?
May we learn to carry these reservoirs of gladness with us, not as fleeting emotions, but as enduring companions. And may they remind us, always, that we were not owed any of this. The gift is here, freely given, waiting for us to receive it with open hands and open hearts. For in the receiving, we learn the art of living fully, of loving deeply, and of walking through this world with a touch of the divine shimmering within us.
BLESSING
Dear Friend,
May you begin each day with a quiet reservoir of gladness, a light that steadies you and a warmth that sustains you, even in the shadowed hours. May this gladness be your compass, guiding you to see not just what is missing, but the quiet abundance that surrounds you—the beauty that asks for nothing, the grace that arrives unbidden.
May you walk with reverence through this world, carrying the knowledge that none of it was promised. May the mountains remind you of steadfastness, the music of life’s mysterious harmony, and the ever-changing sky of the freedom held within each moment.
May you find gladness in the simplest of gifts—the warmth of the sun on your face, the scent of rain on the earth, the sound of a bird’s song carried on the wind. May these small wonders remind you that the world, even in its imperfection, overflows with offerings to those who pause to see.
May your heart remain tender and open, ever-breaking and ever-broadening, for it is in this vulnerability that the sacred dwells. May you come to see your wounds not as burdens, but as doorways through which the light of gladness can enter.
May your gratitude deepen with each passing day, drawing you closer to the profound truth that life is a gift, unearned and unrepeatable. May this awareness free you from entitlement and lead you to a quiet humility that honors both the fleeting and the eternal.
May you carry within you the courage to face sorrow without losing sight of beauty, to encounter hardship without abandoning hope. May you know the strength of gladness, which does not deny the darkness but holds steadfast to the light.
May the world speak to you in whispers and wonders, offering you signs of belonging, of connection, of the mystery that sustains all things. May you walk gently through your days, awake to the holiness of this fragile, fleeting life.
And as you move through the seasons of your life, may you become a wellspring of gladness for others, a quiet beacon that invites them to remember the sacredness of their own days. May your presence be a blessing, your life a testament to the power of a grateful heart and an open soul.
I love You,
Alma
