I woke up this morning feeling a little sad. My mom is in Italy, my dad and my grandmother are in Southern California, my sister and her husband are in Texas, my other sister is in Northern California, my second family (my in-laws) are in the Bay Area, my Nicole is in Florida, my Sarah is in Oregon, and the rest of our family and closest friends are, well, all over the place. We are scattered, and I woke up today feeling a little too untethered, a little too far away from the ones we love. I didn't realize how much I missed a big family holiday until I woke up this morning feeling an achey mixture of deep gratitude for the blessings in my life and a longing to be with our parents and siblings. I feel better now, a little restored and more determined than ever to create the kind of life someday where holidays with our families are the norm. I had my cry, Kevin held me, I called my mother-in-law, I had a nice home-cooked egg breakfast, and then I talked to my mom via Skype - all of these things helped.
Despite feeling a little blue today, I am also feeling grateful. I am grateful for friends who are like family who will welcome us into their warm and comfortable home for today's feasting. I am thankful for the many beautiful people in my life, for my sweet Lola, for my health, for a roof over my head, for a job, for my mind, for my marriage, for the many possibilities before me. I am thankful for books, wine, activists, and music. I am thankful for our family of friends here in Minnesota. I am especially thankful for my partner, my sweet husband, and for the strength and hope he's shown over the trials of the past year.
Poetry always helps get me into the right frame of mind, and today has been no exception. Here is a lovely Thanksgiving poem by Linda McCarriston, from today's Writer's Almanac.
Thanksgiving
by Linday McCarriston
Every year we call it down upon ourselves,
the chaos of the day before the occasion,
the morning before the meal. Outdoors,
the men cut wood, fueling appetite
in the gray air, as Nana, Arlene, Mary,
Robin—whatever women we amount to—
turn loose from their wrappers the raw,
unmade ingredients. A flour sack leaks,
potatoes wobble down counter tops
tracking dirt like kids, blue hubbard erupts
into shards and sticky pulp when it's whacked
with the big knife, cranberries leap away
rather than be halved. And the bird, poor
rather than be halved. And the bird, poor
blue thing—only we see it in its dead skin—
gives up for good the long, obscene neck, the gizzard,
the liver quivering in my hand, the heart.
So what? What of it? Besides the laughter,
I mean, or the steam that shades the windows
so that the youngest sons must come inside
to see how the smells look. Besides
the piled wood closing over the porch windows,
the pipes the men fill, the beers
they crack, waiting in front of the game.
Any deliberate leap into chaos, small or large,
with an intent to make order, matters. That's what.
A whole day has passed between the first apple
cored for pie, and the last glass polished
and set down. This is a feast we know how to make,
a Day of Feast, a day of thanksgiving
for all we have and all we are and whatever
we've learned to do with it: Dear God, we thank you
for your gifts in this kitchen, the fire,
the food, the wine. That we are together here.
Bless the world that swirls outside these windows—
a room full of gifts seeming raw and disordered,
a great room in which the stoves are cold,
the food scattered, the children locked forever
outside dark windows. Dear God, grant
to the makers and keepers power to save it all.
I wish you and yours a very happy day of feasting and gratitude.
