I used to wait until the day after Thanksgiving to begin decorating for Christmas. Of course it’s not a French holiday, but I still feel it, these precious days. And in a moment of good news, of special thanks, I began stringing lights.
Even when I take the time to put away the decorations, they seem to have the capacity to knot themselves into a frenzy — into tangles that no Johnson’s baby shampoo could tackle.
I smile, remembering how golden that bottle was, just like the lights in my hand. What care my mother took with my long blonde locks. Stroke by stroke, she brushed each strand, staying true to the “No tears,” just as the bottle claimed. But somehow I always knew, it wasn’t the shampoo that kept the promise, but the gentle touch of my mother’s hands.
And isn’t this what illuminates me still? Isn’t this what sets my table? So I make a new promise, to her, and all the loves that surround me now, to ever be gentle, never careless, with these precious days.
I always rationed out my Halloween Candy. Counting each day. Indulging in a piece or two. Doing the math. The goal was to make it last until Thanksgiving. I imagined that each piece was a link in the joy chain. Even on the days when I limped along with my least favorite candy, like a circus peanut or a Jolly Rancher, I was keeping the sweetness alive.
Most of you celebrated your Thanksgiving yesterday. Here in France, of course, it is not a holiday. No days off. So the tradition that I dragged along with me won’t be celebrated until Saturday. As I read the posts of you already walking off your gratitude, I could let it get me down, but I choose to think of it as the luxury of keeping my chain alive. I give thanks again, and check the turkey parts thawing in the refrigerator.
I suppose it’s what I’m doing with everything, trying to keep the chain alive, with a painting of a niece, a grandma, a brother-in-law, a cousin. What if somehow we could all connect? In this most unlikely of scenarios, (and aren’t they all) we could come together and find the joy.
Of course I have my days, my moments, limping through the “circus peanuts” of life. But even the worst days connect me to a chance of something better. So I give thanks. And wait. Today is going to be delicious.
It was Mrs. Erickson who began to give us the language that matched our feelings. Up until then it had been mostly function. But here in the third grade classroom of Washington Elementary, every day new territories were explored. New emotions. She took us from fear to empathy without ever leaving our chairs. We sailed into the Bermuda Triangle, without getting wet. What a journey we had begun!
I suppose it was this new knowledge that gave me the courage to further explore our neighborhood’s own “Bermuda Triangle” — the elusive and alluring North End of Van Dyke Road.
To prove I went there, into this great unknown, I would gather sticks or blades of grass. Certainly they were not different from what was growing 200 yards away, but I brought them back as proof of my journey, never to be questioned. A coveted score would be a fluffing cattail, or an abandoned feather — treasures of the braved passage — proof to any curious neighbor kid that I was in fact not only living, but alive! And most importantly, it did the same for my heart.
I suppose I’m still doing it — nesting. I have “north-ended” my way across many countries. Sometimes trudging. Sometimes skipping. Alone, or hand in hand. Welcomed into hearts and neighborhoods that I could have never imagined. So I paint and I write. These are now the sticks that I gather. Each memory twigged and placed gently into my heart’s nest. My way of giving thanks. Today and every day.
Thank you, for being a part of my journey. Happy Thanksgiving!
Yesterday we began the search for turkey parts and red berries. Of course France does not celebrate Thanksgiving. The grocery store took down the one orange end cap, their small attempt at Halloween, and jumped straight into Christmas. There are no napkins of thanks (not even a merci). No aisles of stuffing and cranberries. Not even a turkey leg in the freezer section. It is still a day that I try to piece together a semblance of an old tradition while creating a new one with my French family. Because it matters, this giving thanks. I suppose that’s what my mother taught me, not to have Thanksgiving, but to be thankful.
My mom called me to announce her big decision to make a turkey. This was worthy of an announcement indeed, after spending years together eating bagels, Chinese food, or something from the coffee shop — the only stores open on pre-Black Friday. I was definitely surprised, but perfectly willing to join in the celebration. She said she took the heavy, big brown sack out the freezer and it was defrosting on the cupboard. A few hours later she called with an update. “There won’t be a turkey dinner,” she said. “Isn’t it already defrosting?” I asked. “It turned out to be just a big bag of ice,” she said. We both laughed. “Do you remember buying a turkey?” I asked. “I don’t remember buying the bag of ice…” she said. We laughed about it for years. Mostly over coffee on the Thursday before the biggest shopping day of the year. I will be ever grateful for the endless laughter we shared. It is my favorite Thanksgiving memory.
So we will push my empty cart through the grocery store in the south of France and keep searching — but not for gratitude — this I already have. Then and now. Always.
We were all assigned to read Lord of the Flies, and yet, once a week, we managed to reenact the pages on the gymnasium floor.
Once a week, we (the 10th grade girls) were teamed up with the Senior boys’ gym class, apparently for lessons in humility. The games changed names but most inevitably involved rubber balls and a mat. Each started the same with team selection. Two captains — the two largest boys — chests out as if displaying their earned varsity letters. They quickly manned their teams, easily making their way through the list of boys. Each one jogging over quickly to their respective side, amid slaps and cheers. Then they moved somewhat reluctantly to the girls. I was lucky. I was usually taken in the first round of “I guess I’ll take”s. That’s the way they “chose” us — needing to let us know that it was, at best, a sacrifice. “I guess I’ll take…” and then they just pointed, not bothering to learn our names. The last chosen were all the same. And not even chosen really…the gym teacher usually spared them the long pause and just paired off the two remaining.
Of all the things we got right in the Alexandria Public School system — and the list is long — I’m not sure this was our best work. But I suppose that’s true with every school around the world. Then again, maybe it showed us the importance, the luxury, the beauty, of making our own decisions.
Because there are choices to be made daily. And along with the help of my mother — my best teacher of all — I made one that has changed everything. Never to wait around to be chosen. Even beyond the “I guess I’ll takes”. Because that isn’t good enough. And on this day, this Thanksgiving day, I can’t think of a better time, nor a better choice than to choose to be happy. Sure, there are tables we won’t get invited to. Places we won’t be allowed in. Meals that won’t make the Hallmark list, nor the Rockwell painting, but we get to choose our own teams, our own places. And it’s right here that I choose to be happy. To give thanks. Never as a sacrifice, but as a celebration.
You are the captain of your table. Stand tall. Choose wisely. Give thanks.
This past Labor Day, we visited Washington, D.C. It was a warm day — just enough heat to let down your defenses and let you feel at one with nature. No difference between your body temperature and the air surrounding you. We walked freely and easily to each monument. The stairs to Lincoln were long and high, and worth each sweaty step. I couldn’t help but notice each of us wore a warm and glistening glow, from the sun sure, the labor of the steps, but mostly, I think, from the hope and promise that sat before us.
With the Thanksgiving holiday upon us, it is good to remember how Lincoln transformed this holiday for us all. There is much controversy with the holiday beginnings, as there should be, I suppose, but Lincoln took the holiday and turned it into a day of thanks, for all to celebrate. It was Sarah Josepha Hale, the editor of the popular magazine Godey’s Lady’s Book, who began using her columns to push for nationalizing Thanksgiving and celebrating it on the last Thursday in November. (A good woman behind every man as they say – and this time – out in front). She wrote a letter to Lincoln, stressing the urgency of making Thanksgiving “a National and fixed Union Festival” that would offer healing to a torn nation.
After receiving her letter, Lincoln declared the last Thursday of November as a day when we would give thanks “as with one heart and one voice by the whole American People,” including “my fellow citizens in every part of the United States, and also those who are at sea and those who are sojourning in foreign lands.”
This “sojourner” wants to give thanks, every day. I understand how blessed, I am, we are, to stand in the labor, the hope that each day brings.
