With images of glossy bronze turkeys, fine china, and smiley, happy kinfolk who like each other, Thanksgiving can appear an unchanging stalwart of tradition — if not a bit impossible to replicate. It’s the one holiday that refuses to change more than a slight wobble in the menu. With imagery that perfect, why ask it to? Yet my own memories of Thanksgiving have weathered as much change as a barnyard pen exposed to the seasons of life.
My earliest memories of Thanksgiving have nothing to do with food or fancy cutlery but of me repeatedly singing the nursery rhyme “Ten Little Indians” to my Granny. The crinkles around her corn-flower blue eyes outlined a mysterious mix of tears and joy as she laughed and asked me to sing it yet again. I didn’t quite understand the teary-eyed laughter but I knew it to be good and I sang with gusto.
While it’s been almost 30 years since her passing, I still hear the rhythmic beat of that song drumming in my head bringing me a contended peace that reminds me that the world needs our unique song and listening to others is an act of love that speaks volumes.
I remember the enchanting thrill of sliding down a hill of dead grass on castoff cardboard boxes with my cousins and siblings. The Florida hill was hardy high but we were on top of the world inherently knowing that happiness isn’t determined by what we have but who we have by our side through life’s ups and downs.
Thanksgivings weren’t all downhill on cardboard boxes and songs about numbers and Native Americans, there was also the Thanksgiving after my parents separated when we ate a not so traditional dinner in a dark restaurant which felt sober and sad. I learned that life doesn’t always look the way it’s supposed to or turn out to plan, but practicing mercy towards ourselves and others during difficult times can be a comforting expression of hope that is its own kind of gratitude.
I recall one Thanksgiving when I was pregnant with not only my first son but also all of the hopes and fears that accompany motherhood. Being so close to delivery underscored how the very nature of life teeters on the precipice of change. This Thanksgiving Day we will celebrate that baby’s 23rd birthday; another reminder not only of life’s passing but of the bounty of blessings that fill our years making ordinary, everyday moments some of our most cherished memories.
Thanksgiving continued to change over the years. Our family shrank with the inevitable passing of time and loved ones. Eventually it grew again with marriages, new babies, and friends who felt like family. What it has taught me is that this precious gift of life with all its singing and sliding; endings and new beginnings; contractions and expansions; and spectrum of change that rivals the arch of a turkey’s feathers, isn’t meant to be static. Nor is the gratitude that in stillness settles like morsels of bread that we can cultivate to become a feast to share with others.
After all, happy times don’t mean much if we aren’t thankful for them. Without gratitude, they are just moments that feel good. They pass; they are forgotten and finite. Gratitude elevates and extends all that is good. Its lacquer seals the best virtues of life so that no matter what you are going through you are never devoid of the merits of faith, hope, and love.
Gratitude is a grace that illuminates dark periods while inspiring us to keep seeking the light. It’s the awareness of simple mercies when everything is going wrong. It reminds us of the hammock of God’s love and the way it cradles our fall. Gratitude isn’t a measure of what we have but an opportunity to offer thanks for the improbability of all we have to give.
Impermanence may be a constant that eventually ruffles the feathers of even the longest traditions, but gratitude can be like the “Ten Little Indians” song, an everyday encounter we count, sing, and share with others. It’s an invitation to pause and realize that amidst all the change and all the memories, love remains. And, for that, I’ll always be thankful.
Hi friends~ My niece made the turkey gingerbread for Thanksgiving when she was little. I came across it when I was looking for a Thanksgiving picture and thought it was perfectly imperfect. It’s a little lopsided, drippy, and messy and who can’t relate to that during the holidays (or any given Monday for that matter?) But it’s also a sweet reminder that love put into anything or anyone is always a welcome treat. May you and yours share love in abundance this Thanksgiving and be thankful to live in such an imperfectly perfect world.