Over here, where my feet have taken roost, this is a day of celebration. One of the limited few marked on our calendars and installed in national practice. It began with a story lodged in local lore: of settlers enduring a severe winter and being confronted by likely death and indigenous people coming to their last-second rescue. From that brush with finality came the lesson of appreciation for others, a moral of helping one’s fellows, of caring for those less fortunate. A value still rooted somewhere in this nation’s collective psyche. The Bushes and Cheneys and Rumsfelds, notwithstanding.
For most, though, this day has become more an excuse to watch football on TV, indulge in food, and kick off four days of work-free down time.
For me, this year: a chance to experience the event as a “real American”, meaning doing the whole shebang: the bird, the stuffing, the mashed potatoes, the yams, the giblet gravy, the pies . . . and the wine that never seems to fit.
A day of toiling in the kichen. Growing something from nothing. Then watching it to return to nothing once more. The iron law of cooking and consuming.
Looking at it that way, it might seem that there is nothing much to show for the effort, except a sinkful of soiled pots and pans . . . and another quarter inch in the waistband.
But in fact there is at least one other thing. One thing, but actually much more: the reminder to be thankful.
Life. Family. Health. Consciousness. Love. Hope. Creativity, Promise. The future.
And peace. If we only could. Something we might all be thankful to share in.
As for you? What are you thankful for? I hope all of the above. And more.
Happy Holidays. Whoever you are. Whoever you may once have been. Whoever you aspire to now be.
Wherever you currently are, have been, will ultimately go.
Be thankful, that you are.