I’m in the co-work space this morning, and already set up for a new work day (and week). Short week; it is Thanksgiving this week, and for me that kicks off the winter holiday season, generally. Over the years, my thinking has evolved with regard to many of the holidays on the US holiday calendar, even Thanksgiving. When I was a child, I had a child’s perspective on this holiday. Family, feasting, and… pilgrims. Somehow, the USA made this holiday some sort of foundation myth of our national identity, but without the nasty bits. We glossed over land grabs and genocide with a hearty portion of turkey with stuffing and mashed potatoes with gravy, a side of corn, and big slices of pumpkin pie for dessert. Tradition.
For me, this holiday is not in anyway to do with the mythology of US identity, nor pilgrims, nor even the indigenous peoples we surely could have treated more ethically than we did. It is first and foremost, a harvest feast, a celebration of thanks for making it through another year of struggle, an opportunity to sit down together and share whatever abundance we have with each other, and exchange our gratitude and anecdotes along with our treasured recipes. It doesn’t need to be more than that. It never did.
My fondest Thanksgiving memories from childhood are of distant cousins coming to town to sit down for the most lavish meal of the year at Grandfather’s house. Family from as far away as the Dakotas and Texas would journey to coastal Maryland. The meal would be served at “the big table”, after a day of women in the kitchen, and men out hunting. Kids underfoot at the house would be enlisted to complete various chores, setting the table, carrying things up or down stairs, tidying up some shared space. The conversation among the women in the kitchen was often lively, and sometimes “scandalous” (if I understood what I was hearing). The men would return from hunting, in jovial moods, whether they were “successful” or not – it was the outing that was the thing, strolling the forest and hillsides in the crisp autumn air. I have dim recollections of occasional snow, and occasional football. I have clear recollections of stealing cookies from the big tins of holiday cookies baked by my Grandmother. (Her cooking wasn’t great, but she made fantastic cookies!)
My adult Thanksgiving memories span multiple partnerships and locations. They vary. The food was always good, generally the company was as well. Most of the time, people managed to set aside petty gripes and bullshit and drama, in favor of a merry holiday meal. Sometimes that wasn’t so easily done. Some years, the meal was a quiet one, just my partner and I. Other years, it was a busier affair with friends or family. I even enjoyed Thanksgiving quite alone once or twice, without sorrow or disappointment; they were lovely holidays, and I enjoy my own cooking. A couple times, we’ve gone out for Thanksgiving dinner, putting the time into other things, and the money into someone else’s work in the kitchen. Those were delightful celebrations, too.
I guess what makes it Thanksgiving for me is more about the intentional observance of giving thanks, together. The practice of making a moment to truly express and experience my gratitude for here, now, and the sufficiency of the moment is what makes it Thanksgiving, and not just a party or an elaborate dinner.
I begin the week thankful. The pantry is stocked with everything I’ll need to make Thanksgiving dinner. I’ve got a secure home, pleasantly warm, with indoor plumbing and highspeed internet access. I’ll enjoy the meal with people dear to me. I’m in love, and have the good fortunate to share my life with this person I love so dearly. I have what I need in life. I’ve got this job to pay for it all. It’s a lot to be thankful for, so I guess I should not be surprised that I can find opportunities for gratitude almost every day, and probably all week long. I smile to myself and sigh contentedly. Nothing lasts forever, I know, but wow this is one lovely moment, right here, now. I take time to enjoy it, before I begin again.
