On the erosion of wonder and gratitude in the age of abundance
I remember visiting my grandmother’s home in the summer holidays.
She lived in a small town where water came for only two hours every morning. The entire household’s rhythm was built around those two hours — filling buckets, watering plants, making tea, washing clothes. Even as a child, I sensed the care with which every drop was used, every meal was savoured, and every visit from a neighbour was welcomed like a small festival. There was a certain alertness to life because nothing was permanent.
Years later, when I moved to the city, I was amazed to find water flowing from taps all day. At first, I noticed. I felt grateful. But within a month, the novelty faded. The flow became invisible. I never even thought to say “thank you” to the tap. And somewhere, without meaning to, I had crossed into that quiet, dangerous territory: taking it for granted.
In today’s modern world, abundance is our baseline. Shelves are full. The lights rarely flicker. Our phones carry more convenience than my grandmother could have imagined. But the cost of this abundance is subtle — we stop noticing what is always there. Comfort breeds blindness. And what is unseen is eventually unloved.
This quiet theft happens everywhere — in our relationships, our work, our health.
We assume the friend will always pick up the phone, the partner will always understand, the body will always bounce back. We confuse presence with permanence.
And without realising, we let gratitude slip out of the back door.
Taking something for granted is rarely an act of arrogance. More often, it is an act of unconsciousness. The human mind is wired to adapt quickly — what feels miraculous today becomes ordinary tomorrow. The extraordinary becomes wallpaper. And when we no longer see it, we no longer nourish it.
The results are everywhere: marriages that drift into silence, friendships that dissolve without a fight, families that stop talking except on festivals, teams that burn out because appreciation is rationed. In the absence of gratitude, love becomes background noise instead of a song.
So how do we find our way back?
Not through grand speeches about thankfulness, but through a daily practice of noticing.
A morning pause before the phone is picked up. A moment at the dinner table to acknowledge the hands that prepared the meal. A deliberate “I appreciate you” said even when it feels obvious.
Sometimes, imagining the impermanence of what we have can reignite its value. Think of the friend you have known for decades — what if, tomorrow, they were gone? Not to invite fear, but to awaken awareness.
I come to believe, everything we hold is on loan from life.
The water will not always flow.
The people will not always stay.
And the heart, like my grandmother’s careful hands filling the buckets, must learn to love what it holds while it’s here.
Letters for the Inner Journey by Pushkar
If something lingered in your heart while reading this letter, I’d love to hear from you. Leave a comment below..
