What a Thanksgiving it was! Meg is home from college, and Andrew and Anna had half the week off too. There were comings and goings: appointments, lunch with friends,
movies, shopping. On the Big Day itself, fifteen cousins, aunts,
uncles, and a grandmother gathered around the table. In the door came
squash and pies and wild rice and fresh baked rolls, cranberry sauce
cooked on a woodstove, salad, creamed spinach – and outside a
turkey turned on a spit over the grill in the driveway.
Afterwards we played charades in the living room. As they finally
rolled out the door saying goodnight, we made more plans for the next
day.
In the morning light, wine glasses
remained by the sink unwashed as ten pairs of bread lined the counter
and became turkey sandwiches. Two hours later, ten people and four
dogs began an ascent of Pleasant Mountain. The lakes and foothills
of Maine's western mountains rolled out to the horizon under a blue
sky so clear it crackled. We spent the day taking pictures, crossing
the ridgeline, eating nuts and clementines and sandwiches, telling
stories in pairs on the trail, and even as the sun set on our
descent, we gripped each other and the glorious day, unwilling to let
go. And we didn't. We came home and piled on the couch to eat pizza
and watch a movie, eager to keep the connection going.
At what point does the hunger for
indulging in family and the stream of our activity become gluttony?
Sometimes I feel like the Gross Domestic Product, mindlessly pursuing
more, more, more.
But wait: suddenly here I am on the
couch; the dog is asleep by the woodstove; there is nothing to
prepare for or clean up from; and it is in this moment of quiet, of
no family and no activity, that gratitude walks in. It's like
sliding out of the current and into an eddy: when you're out of the
flow, there is the space to turn around and see the current for what
it is.
It is important to stop. To be
alone, with the dog, the woodstove, the night sky, or a mug of tea at
the kitchen table before dawn. Don't read the paper or make a list
or fill the moment with a screen. Instead, find out if the quiet is
full or empty, or if it's soft. Is it the color of cinnamon? Are
you in the quiet, or is it in you?
Outside now, I hear the wind rising;
snow and sleet will come tonight. The dog breathes evenly. The
refrigerator chuffles off its cooling cycle and the room settles even
more to quiet. Soon enough the family will be home again, and I will
happily hear their stories burble and cascade through this space.
But for now I am grateful for the abundance of quiet circling around
me like a blanket, a place of calm from which to finally see clearly
the joy of our Thanksgiving.
