Discipline of Pleasure

I am eating bread. A sesame bagel – toasted, with butter. It is crisp and warm. There is little as so fundamentally good as toasted, buttered bread. But oddly, tragically and in so many ways, I avoid such common blessing.  I flee pleasure.

Oh, I complain about pleasure all the time. I plan, scheme and dream it. I lust, fantasize and sneak it. But seldom do I enjoy it. But now? I have, here in front of me, the pleasure of this bread, beckoning to my nostrils. I wolf it down. I’m busy, you see, planning for some pleasure out there – in the future – somewhere else.

Truth is, I’m surrounded by pleasure. It knocks at my door. It follows me around begging to be let in. I ignore it. I have bigger plans than say, stretching in the sun. But what could be bigger than receiving this (literal) astronomical gift? What could be more important than welcoming common grace? What could be larger than noticing daily love?

It sounds funny, but enjoyment is a discipline. Maybe it wasn’t this way always, I don’t know. But now, I have to ask myself to taste,  savor and enjoy. When I do, it is a spiritual achievement. When I do, I receive blessing. And that is what I was made to do. Especially, buttered blessing.

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