Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving is my second favorite holiday. I love the smells, the tastes, the excitement of gathering with loved ones (yes, even my introvert self). I love the simultaneous, nationwide act of taking a moment to be grateful for the good in our lives. I love baking my from-scratch, Grand-Marnier, death-by-butter apple pie every year, and I love the chicken noodles that the women in my family make better than anyone else. I love the fullness, the “oh my god, why did I eat that last bite?” I love trying to fight my way through several rounds of euchre when I really REALLY want to be taking a nap. I love the traditions, even the ones that never caught on with my family: football, parades.
I also confess to loving the story I was taught about it as a kid. There is still enduring power for me in the parable of helping the stranger, overcoming differences, gratitude for a kindness when it is most needed.
Thanksgiving is joyful, wonderful, and…complicated.
That parable about helping the stranger? Even as it warms my heart, I’m aware that it’s a myth that covers one of our nation’s greatest sins, one we still haven’t atoned for in any meaningful way. How do we reconcile a beautiful national ritual with the realities for Native Americans, not only historically, but now, this year, today?
And while we’re being real here, I also know that Thanksgiving can be personally fraught, even in a normal year. As a kid, I remember the frenzy of cooking and baking and burning and piles of dirty dishes that somebody has to clean up. I remember wrangling over the dress code (comfort vs. family representation), mom trying to corral us into the car in time while we searched frantically for a missing shoe, the unspoken but ever-present anxieties about expectations and judgments.
And forget about it if we were the hosts! I remember one Thanksgiving a few years ago…I can’t remember exactly what was going on, but there were extra life stressors and for the first time in a while, people were coming to OUR house. Maybe it was the first time we’d hosted since my parents had moved from the big house? I honestly can’t remember.
What I DO remember is Mom being insistent that everything look amazing. I had come home late the night before, and the living room was spotless. I could still see the tracks in the carpet left by a thorough and vigorous vacuuming. The next morning, right before the guests arrived, while the turkey was roasting in the oven and there was nothing left to cook, Mom asked me to vacuum the living room. Again. I’m pretty sure for the third time in two days.
That request had nothing to do with the actual cleanliness of the house. I was probably 30, and this was the moment I fully realized how stressful Thanksgiving could be. It’s a holiday that – for many – can be a wide-open door for shame and self-doubt.
Isn’t that fun?
A few more moments of realness, and then some light.
Thanksgiving can also be a time of great loneliness, where everyone else’s gatherings can make us feel even more isolated if we’re in a period of our lives where our ties to family, friends, community may be at an ebb. And, again, that’s in a normal year.
This year, many of us are choosing not to spend Thanksgiving with our loved ones. I’m not. With COVID cases rampaging through Chicago, and frankly, the rest of the U.S., it didn’t feel safe or responsible to me or to Mom. Thank God she’s a stubborn, unsentimental Indiana kind of woman, who said to me just last night on the phone, “It’s just a day! We can do Thanksgiving in May!”
I’m not nearly so unsentimental. It hurts not be there.
Maybe you’ve made a similar choice, and you’re feeling it, too. Or maybe you’ve experienced loss this year, or extra hardship, and you’re sensitive to the glowy showy performative gratitude that can be a part of Thanksgiving. Or maybe you’re gathering with a big family, as if this were any other year, knowing that it’s not.
It’s a lot.
How do we begin to find the beautiful and true, when we’re in the middle of a holiday-induced emotional muck?
Stay open to simple joys. Things that have everything to do with your senses and nothing at all to do with the holiday. The feel of freshly made dough under your fingers. The deep satisfaction of finally scratching that place on your back that’s been itching. The warm softness of your favorite blanket. Ooooo…the warmth of sheets right from the dryer! The smell of rich coffee. Take a moment to ground yourself in something that is pleasing to your senses.
Get outside. All of my interviews show very clearly that nature is one of the main ways we experience the beautiful and true. So, get out there. Breathe a little fresh air. Move your body a bit. Make it a goal to notice one new thing about your neighborhood, something you’ve passed by a thousand times but haven’t paid attention to. “Huh, that’s a weird tree, it looks like it’s dancing!”
Do something kind for someone else. Keep it small and easy. Hold the door for someone. Send a card to a friend you haven’t spoken to in a while. Bake surprise cookies for a neighbor. The funny thing about small kindnesses is that they remind us that we have the strength and the power to influence someone else’s life for the better. It’s not a full antidote for anxiety and depression, but it can give your spirit and your sense of self-worth a little boost. And sometimes that’s enough to get you through.
Look for small positivities. Look especially at the minute details. The crinkly eyes of a genuine smile. The little butt wiggle of a cat about to pounce. How satisfyingly symmetrical the pictures on your wall are. Actively look for the beauty around you.
Here’s the one thing I’ve learned so far about experiencing the beautiful and true. Sometimes these things are so big and glorious that you can’t help but be swept up in into the experience. But much more often, they’re subtle, camouflaged, waiting for us to notice them.
But they’re there. All around. I promise. We just have to pay attention.
Be well, this holiday. I am grateful for you.