I grew up in a household that believed Norman Rockwell’s vision of the world was an attainable goal. This was particularly true at Thanksgiving. My mother’s table, covered in hand embroidered linen, set with cream and gold china, surrounded by aunts, uncles and cousins from both sides of the family, and laden with food ready for a Gourmet magazine photo-shoot, was the centerpiece of the holiday. On it we’d find chestnut soup, sweet potato soufflé, cranberry sauce made with oranges, an enormous roasted turkey, gravy boats, sausage stuffing, always pecan, pumpkin, and apple pies. It was traditional and everything was homemade. The house was spotless, the wine was flowing, and since I never had to do the dishes, it was a perfect holiday, both in its simplicity and in its magnificence.
When my mother was no longer able to host Thanksgiving, it fell to me. That first year, I purchased a 12 foot, handmade farmer’s table, and black Windsor chairs. My mother gifted me an antique soup terrine. I found the silver candlestick holders from my wedding, ordered a 26 pound turkey from a local farm and was ready to carry on the tradition. And, I did. For more than a decade, my table has been surrounded by hungry and grateful family every November.
That is, until last year when so many dining rooms around the country were left fallow. In an attempt not to lose Thanksgiving altogether, some in my family brought our laptops into our kitchens so we could cook together, and later in the evening even more of us joined on Zoom to share a meal. It wasn’t the same, but we made due and we assured ourselves next year, things would be back to normal.
As we prepare for another Thanksgiving, a new normal is beginning to make itself known. Smaller crowds for sure, although that might be temporary, if still in effect this year. No, it’s something else. It became apparent when people started wearing leggings and sweatpants to places they never did before, or showering less often, or cleaning their homes with less frequency, or generally dropping – or more accurately, not picking up – societal expectations that had been defining American life for decades. It extended to broken supply chains that have disrupted our “get whatever you want delivered to your door immediately” lifestyle, forcing us to wait, to look, to compromise. People are staying home if they don’t want to go out, are leaving jobs they don’t like, and they’re moving out of hip, fashionable cities, leaving for the quiet countryside where they don’t have to worry about getting in to the hottest new restaurants.
There’s a big social shift toward informality, reduced expectations, and a prioritization of balance.
And this is where my gratitude list begins.
We’re heading into a holiday founded on the notion of pausing for thanksgiving. As Abraham Lincoln declared when instituting this holiday in 1864, “The year that is drawing towards its close, has been filled with the blessings of fruitful fields and healthful skies. To these bounties, which are so constantly enjoyed that we are prone to forget the source from which they come, others have been added, which are of so extraordinary a nature, that they cannot fail to penetrate and soften even the heart which is habitually insensible…”
That Lincoln is the one who made this an annual, national ritual, makes sense to me. He was the president who presided over the largest loss of American life from a single event or war until this year. 620,000 Americans died in the Civil War, more than both world wars combined, but not a match for COVID-19 that has so far taken out 750,000 of us. In the wake of such grief, with anger and fear reverberating through the nation, Lincoln told us all to take a day off to count our blessings.
Scholars tell us that our current political situation looks a lot like those years leading up to that war. I don’t doubt it. Anger, distrust, and division are hallmarks of 2020 and 21. And, I’m no bystander. The acquittal of Kyle Rittenhouse sent me into a tailspin of grief and anger. The state of our nation’s justice system, the institutionalized racism, and the general acceptance of the violence done to black and brown people by white people throws some of us into a state of constant agitation.
When we’re not paying attention to that, we’re worrying about climate, a massive system collapse about which most of us feel powerless. And when I say most of us, I include state actors, people with tremendous power who themselves can become overwhelmed with the enormity of our situation. I’m just getting back from Glasgow where I attended the United Nations Climate Summit. A common theme was people looking to other people, each hoping someone was going to do something or say something or somehow make this all better. Poor island nations were looking to big nations and the global south was looking to the global north and Presidents and Prime Ministers were looking to Congress and Parliament where representatives were looking to average people who were looking back at them and to the scientists who were hoping someone would figure out how to make something happen. More than a few people who stood in the most prestigious halls thanked the youth who had mobilized to be heard while the youth were shaking their fits reminding them it’s the leaders with the power to actually change things. And when all is said and done, we have better promises but no more actual action than we did before.
All of this can make gratitude feel very far away. Which is why Lincoln’s Proclamation was so brilliant. It’s exactly at this moment when we need to be called back to ourselves, back into thanksgiving. We’re in the midst of both major and minor social upheaval, creating discomfort and agitation and more free-floating anxiety than we’re used to. This is when we need to stop to make our thanksgiving.
While so much is changing, and the world feels precarious, let’s think about what have to be grateful for. It’s possible you aren’t going to see as many people as you’d usually see. Covid might be keeping your table small this year, or maybe people have moved or are no longer here at all. Broken relationships, physical distance, death, and an ongoing pandemic are conspiring to make this Thanksgiving different. But, even with that reality, is there someone you can be grateful for? A partner or spouse? A best friend? A sibling? A child? Who can you hold this week in deepest gratitude?
Once you have them in mind, let’s add another. A second person. Who else brings you joy, helps you feel connected, seen, heard? Is there a friend, a colleague, a fellow traveler for whom you are grateful?
That’s two people. That’s really good. Some of you might have far more than that. So many people to love and hold near.
Where else does your gratitude rest? Do you have enough to eat? If not, do you know where to get it or who can help you find it? That’s something to be grateful for.
Do you have somewhere warm to live? Somewhere safe? If not, do you know where to find it?
Do you have clothes to wear? A hat? Gloves? A coat to keep you warm?
What about this city, this gorgeous, glorious city? That skyline? These flawed and beautiful people? The energy coursing through the streets? Those buildings. I think if I could find the right place to sit, I could meditate on the buildings in Manhattan for hours.
And all the gifts of this planet. The aye-aye, the blobfish, the chicken turtle. The fried egg jellyfish, the pink fairy armadillo and the sparkle muffin arachnid. The skunk cabbage, the sausage tree, and the sticky willy. The frizzle-neck lizard, the leafy seadragon, and the sarcastic fringe-head. The ice cream cone worm, the loblolly pine tree and the sneezewort yarrow. So much to discover, so much to love and enjoy!
We are grateful for the water. For the air. For the land. We are grateful for art. For liturgy. For music. We are grateful for cozy softness. For cold smoothness. For dependable hardness. We are grateful for sunlight. For moonlight. For dusk and dawn and even for hazy light. We are grateful for notecards in matching envelopes and shoes that fit just right. We’re grateful for that first cup of coffee in the morning and hot apple cider in the late afternoon. We’re grateful for lip balm and hair brushes and zippers.
We could spend our day listing the things for which we’re grateful. Mary Oliver tells us…
It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.
My table isn’t going to be a model for Norman Rockwell this year. It will be smaller. Some people I love very much won’t be around it. I’m not planning to clean my house spotless or use the antique soup terrine. I’ll stuff and roast a turkey and there will be plenty of gravy, but I’m buying some of our dessert from the local bakery and my aunt can bring the sweet potatoes. Because none of that matters. None of those things are the point of this day. Thanksgiving isn’t limited to years when things are dandy, things are going so well for everyone that we have to be reminded to stop to notice. No. Thanksgiving is a gift to us when things are complicated. When the world feels messy and unforgiving, when hope isn’t apparent. It’s exactly then that we are offered a day to pay attention to the beautiful, to look around at what we have and wherever we find ourselves, to pause right there to make our thanksgiving.