This was my second Vision Quest.

I had done this before.

I knew I would be going into the woods for four days and four nights without food or water. I knew it would challenge me. I knew there would be discomfort. I knew that part of the purpose was stripping away the distractions of ordinary life and creating space to listen.

What I didn't know was that it was going to rain.

And rain.

And rain.

It rained all week.

I was sleeping on a hill, which turned out to be about as practical as it sounds. At one point, I literally slid down the hill in my sleeping bag while I was sleeping.

My sleeping bag got soaked.

I got soaked.

Everything felt wet.

And by the third night, I was done.

Not spiritually done.

Not beautifully surrendered.

Not sitting serenely beneath a tree feeling at one with the universe.

Done.

I was cold. I was wet. I was hungry. I was thirsty. I was exhausted.

And somewhere inside this grown woman who had willingly chosen to be there was what felt like a little three-year-old child having an absolute meltdown.

I want to quit.

I don't want to do this anymore.

This isn't fun anymore.

I wanted out.

And then I heard a voice.

"Angela, When Is the Next Time You're Going to Eat?"

The voice asked me:

"Angela, when is the next time you're going to eat?"

I sniffled a little and answered:

"Tomorrow."

Then:

"Angela, when is the next time you're going to have clean water to drink?"

Again, I sniffled.

"Tomorrow."

And then came the question that changed everything:

"So where is your gratitude?"

I knew I was going to eat tomorrow.

I knew I was going to drink clean water tomorrow.

I knew there was an ending to my hunger.

An ending to my thirst.

An ending to being soaking wet in the woods.

And suddenly I was confronted with something much larger than my own discomfort.

There are people in this world who cannot answer those questions the way I could.

There are people who don't know when they will eat again.

There are people who don't have clean water waiting for them tomorrow.

For me, hunger and thirst were temporary conditions I had consciously entered as part of a spiritual practice.

For someone else, they are simply life.

The voice told me:

Get on your knees and pray for them.

So I did.

The Moment the Quest Changed

Something shifted.

The rain hadn't stopped.

My sleeping bag wasn't suddenly dry.

My stomach wasn't full.

My thirst didn't disappear.

My circumstances hadn't changed at all.

But I had.

Minutes earlier, all I could see was what I didn't have.

Food.

Water.

Warmth.

Comfort.

And suddenly I could see what I did have.

Certainty.

I knew there was food waiting for me.

I knew there was clean water waiting for me.

I knew this experience had an end.

I knew I was going home.

And I realized what an extraordinary privilege it is simply to be able to say:

Tomorrow.

When will you eat?

Tomorrow.

When will you have clean water?

Tomorrow.

I had never thought about how much security exists inside that one word.

Gratitude Is Easy When You're Comfortable

We talk about gratitude constantly in spiritual spaces.

Gratitude journals.

Gratitude practices.

Morning affirmations.

Lists of things we're thankful for.

And I believe in all of those things.

But this wasn't gratitude while sitting somewhere warm with a cup of tea.

This was gratitude while soaking wet, hungry, thirsty, exhausted, and wanting desperately to leave.

That was different.

I wasn't being asked to pretend I wasn't miserable.

I was miserable.

Gratitude didn't require me to lie about that.

It asked me to recognize that my misery and my blessings could exist at the same time.

That has stayed with me.

Sometimes we think gratitude means we aren't allowed to be unhappy with what is happening.

I don't believe that anymore.

You can be cold and grateful.

You can be hurting and grateful.

You can be scared and grateful.

You can be exhausted and grateful.

You can even be completely over the experience you're having — and still recognize what you have.

Gratitude doesn't erase suffering.

Sometimes it simply changes where we are looking from.

I Went There Looking for a Vision

There is something almost funny about going on something called a Vision Quest.

The name itself can create expectations.

You imagine revelation.

Messages.

Visions.

Some enormous spiritual truth descending from the heavens and explaining everything.

But sometimes Spirit is considerably less dramatic.

Sometimes Spirit asks you a question.

When are you going to eat?

Tomorrow.

When are you going to drink clean water?

Tomorrow.

Then where is your gratitude?

That was enough.

More than enough.

Because I didn't need another spectacular spiritual experience.

I needed perspective.

Four Days and Four Nights

I stayed.

I didn't quit on the third night.

I completed my four days and four nights.

Eventually, tomorrow came.

And I ate.

I drank clean water.

I got dry.

I returned to ordinary life.

But ordinary things didn't feel quite as ordinary.

There is something profound about turning on a faucet when you have spent days knowing you cannot drink.

There is something profound about food when you have deliberately gone without it.

There is something profound about shelter when you've spent night after night exposed to the weather.

Things I could normally move through without thinking became visible again.

Water.

Food.

Warmth.

Home.

Things so ordinary that it is incredibly easy to forget they are blessings at all.

What I Brought Home

I don't want this lesson to become another spiritual platitude.

"Be grateful because someone else has it worse" isn't what I took from the woods.

Someone else's suffering does not invalidate mine.

And gratitude shouldn't be used to shame ourselves out of having feelings.

What changed me was something subtler.

I realized how many miracles in my life had become ordinary simply because I could count on them.

Clean water had become ordinary.

Food had become ordinary.

Shelter had become ordinary.

Knowing that my basic needs would be met tomorrow had become ordinary.

But none of those things are guaranteed to every human being.

That night in the woods, soaking wet and feeling like a miserable three-year-old, I was reminded of that.

And I got on my knees.

I prayed for the people who couldn't say "tomorrow."

I prayed for the people whose hunger wasn't chosen.

For the people whose thirst wasn't ceremonial.

For the people who didn't have a warm place waiting for them when the experience was over.

And somewhere in those prayers, I stopped wanting to quit.

Not because I suddenly became tougher.

Not because the experience became easier.

But because for a little while, I stopped being the center of it.

That may have been the vision.

Not something I saw.

Something I finally saw differently.

And that changed me.

— Angela Love

The Ascension Journal