I’ve known people who keep a gratitude journal, and I admire them for it. Appreciating what we have is an art improved by practice, and noting the specifics for which we feel thankful — not the generalities but each particular stroke of good fortune — is one way to do it.

But I enjoy being ambushed by gratitude: opening the shutters on a cold spring morning and being shocked by the light that pours inside. Running an errand and being enraptured by a sunset that sets the sky on fire. Eating warmed-up baked ziti and marveling at how good it still tastes.

Gratitude can be coaxed and analyzed and marshaled like a foot soldier. But I prefer the stealth variety, the kind that surprises me with joy.