I just returned from an evening stroll along the Arno River here in Florence. The sky wore its lavender dusk like a soft shawl. The water shimmered in conversation with the fading light. Couples lingered on benches. Cyclists glided past like whispers. And something in me—without effort or intention—kept repeating:

Thank you, God.

Not as a mantra in the traditional sense. Not as a teaching. Not to replace anything sacred from my own lineage. But as something simpler. More human. More immediate. A quiet acknowledgment that this moment, this breath, this life… exists.

I didn’t learn it from a book. It didn’t come from a teacher. It came from stillness—and from the truth that gratitude, when it's real, doesn’t need a reason. It wells up like a spring.

I’m not trying to proselytize. I’m not asking anyone to adopt the phrase. I’m not even sure it is a practice. It’s just something I find myself saying—internally, softly, like an inner exhale. A small shift in the current of thought, turning it toward the light.

It doesn’t always sound like words. Sometimes it’s just the feeling: of a hand brushing across old stone. Of a child’s laughter echoing from a nearby alley. Of the hush that falls between footsteps when the city starts to sleep.

Thank you, God.

Not because I got what I wanted. Not because things went my way. Just because I’m here. Because there’s beauty, even in the ache. Because grace isn’t always dramatic—it’s often quiet, ordinary, missed by the mind but caught by the heart.

This isn’t about religion. It’s not about belief systems. It’s about relationship. The kind that needs no credentials. Just presence.

Some may prefer ancient mantras. Others speak to the Divine in silence. For me, lately, it’s this simple phrase that keeps returning—like a bell ringing gently inside:

Thank you, God.

Not to manifest. Not to ascend. Just… to love. To remember.

And maybe that’s all any mantra ever is: a reminder.

‍