On a recording by Richard Rohr that I listened to he tells about a flight out of Orlando. The noise level was epic, and he asked the flight attendant about it.

"This is one of the least favorite legs in the industry. It is packed with kids who have been at the Magic Kingdom for a week and have been indulged with too many choices. They scream all the way home."

I remember one time I was babysitting a pack of children and their parents had given me carte blanche to offer them any treat they wanted while we were on an outing. One girl reached for a balloon. I bought it. A boy begged for candy. He got it. Another child whined for a third ride on the carousel. She went around again. I felt so empowered to be able to say yes to everything but as the afternoon progressed their consumption went up in proportion as their appreciation went down. It was awful. 

The memory has lingered these forty years, as a hint that maybe complete gratification is not always a good thing. 

Rachel Naomi Remen told a story about a little boy she knew. He treasured his three toy cars and to make him happy she got all her coworkers to chip in to get him more. Rachel brought him a present of fifty new matchbox cars. But when she visited him a week later, the cars were tucked out of sight. 

"Do you like the cars I gave you?" she asked.

He fidgeted. "It was too many to love," was all he could say.

The other day I went to sit with a man who has dementia. He needs constant supervision to keep him from wandering or eating the wrong things. He played solitare, and was stumped by the lack of a queen. 

"What day is it?" he asked. 

"It's Sunday."

"I like Sunday. I like whatever day it is." He went back to his game. 

I wonder what would happen if I could be as content with what is.