Thanksgiving, Love, and the Thermos of Death

I struggled with the Thanksgiving holiday this year. The gluttonous hypocrisy of the day seemed more vivid and uncomfortable than previous celebrations. It could be because I’ve been moving through the grief of heartbreak, feeling like a wound that won’t allow itself to scab over. Or perhaps it’s just because I’m older and more contemplative. No doubt the constant excrement-canon shots to the face, aka the 24-hr media bombardment, played a role in creating my less than sunny disposition. One would think the vitriolic stream would eventually achieve banality, but I guess we are all too short sighted and hungry for feeling. History, instead, seems to be inane. Maybe, on this holiday, we simply choose to selfishly suspend disbelief in order to indulge. We casually forget that the origin of the holiday is rooted in violent colonialism, so we can gorge ourselves on birds and pie. We prostrate ourselves in front of football games ignoring that many are observing a National Day of Mourning. 

So, yeah, as you can see, I was struggling to find joviality. 

Like so many things, the day snuck up on me, and by the time I realized I should be volunteering, I was setting the oven to 450 and slathering chunks of sweet potatoes with butter and cinnamon. I felt guilty for mindlessly stepping into the tradition and guilty for feeling that guilt because in some way it meant I wasn’t appreciative of friends, family, home, and all the other stuff. I suppose, traditions, considered from one perspective, are fueled by such guilt: if we don’t do this, we are wrong.

However, prior to the baking, while still buried under the covers that morning, I had forced myself to focus on gratitude. I listed all I was thankful for, and eventually I felt lighter, even happy. I got up and cleaned and cooked and told my son he was number one on my list. I prepared myself for the family gathering, reviewing how to be mindful, assured, and loving. I imagined possible conversations and planned my best reactions. 

The event came and went. We ate, drank, and sought merriment. As with large family gatherings there were some times of discomfort and also spurts of raucous laughter. Kids fought and played. My son welcomed his little cousin to his side during a Battleship game. He let her place the boats on the board, praised her and asked for high fives. He didn’t worry when she stole all of the pegs. I was so proud. Yet, throughout the evening, that sad feeling occasionally gnawed at my heart. I couldn’t forget all the offensiveness and sorrow happening in the world, and I felt bad for celebrating. Even so, I drank wine and tried to smile and remember what I was thankful for.

Back at home that night, my 10-year-old son came up behind me while I was standing at the kitchen sink scrubbing the sweet potato pan. He wrapped his arms around me, and I laughed because I thought he was trying to squeeze the stuffing out of me. But then I heard him sniffle. “What’s wrong? Are you crying?” I asked. He answered in a whine “I’m so thankful for you too.” I turned and held him tight. He cried even more. “Why are you crying?” I asked again. “I had a real bad day dream” he answered. I didn’t need to press him on what it was about; I knew it was his fear of losing me. 

I recognized, in that moment, under it all, we only have each other and the life we are given. Scrape away our labels and divergent experience, and only our hearts and humanity are left. We can choose to live in bitterness, anger, fear, and anxiety, or we can seek out our connectedness and love. And gratitude is fuel for love—not the rom-com, rainbows, teddy bear love— the love that connects us all, some kind of lightness of being. Some sense it more than others but everyone needs to be reminded of it no matter their station. Loving sure as hell isn’t easy—it is far easier to fall into contempt and hate than it is to remain steadfast in love (I believe this is true for loving ourselves as well as others). So using gratitude to increase our awareness of love is extremely beneficial—maybe it’s that gratitude that’s worth celebrating. When feeling wronged, saddened, or angry, love can be the toughest thing to find let alone extend. But, if at my core, I stand for kindness and compassion, I must treat others, friends and “enemies,” with kindness and compassion. What’s the alternative? 

We can stand firm in our convictions without being hateful. We can fervently expose wrongdoing and work vigilantly for a better world while recognizing that wrongdoing cannot really be remedied by more wrongdoing. Tantruming and yelling like bullies on the playground just creates maddening static and a negative existence.  And where does that get us during the little time we have here?  I don’t want to spend my time that way. Love does not equal approval, and accountability need not be procured via violence or ego-driven punishment. Sometimes all the love we can manage is a smile or a nod. Sometimes we show it by not giving up, and sometimes we convey it by conceding. Sometimes it means sobbing and allowing oneself to binge watch The Closer because for some odd reason Kyra Sedgwick’s voice is one of the only things that can bring peace of mind (that could just be me). Sometimes it’s shown by actively listening before speaking--or not speaking at all. Sometimes it’s an extra long scalp massage, like the one my stylist gave me the other day when she knew I was struggling. That simple, kind act meant so much. 

So in attempting to inspire more love to feel and to give, I resolved to focus on the holiday’s emphasis on gratitude, while remaining very mindful of it’s indulgence and violent history. And as I continue to try and fight off anger, fear, and sadness, I’ll keep adding to my gratitude list. I’m thankful for the help I’ve received so far on my journey. I am thankful for the friends who encourage me to see my way out of sorrow. I am thankful for the air I breathe and my ability to love. I am thankful for making it through so many difficult times and even for those times themselves. I am thankful for finding warmth in a sunrise and delight in a sunset. I am even thankful for my broken heart, because it could have never been broken in such a way without having been abundantly full in the first place. 

Addendum:

Here I had been worrying and engaging in lofty thinking when I should have been mindful of possible death by thermos. Yesterday morning, I narrowly avoided suicide (or murder) by unscrewing a metal thermos containing month-old chocolate milk. I barely touched the lid and it exploded like a firework popper, spraying a rancid mist of rotten milk as it shot out of my hands like a missile. (A blood spatter analyst would have had a heyday.) The aerosol bomb traveled at  least six feet and smoke-like gas puffed out when it finally rested on the floor. I stood in awe with my arms outstretched, my eyes wide, and my chocolate-death-spray covered body in a shocked, "holy crap!" stance. If only my kitchen had video surveillance! 

After scrubbing all surfaces, including my face, I could still smell the putrescence. Where the heck was it? Then I realized some of the spray had actually shot up my nose--no limit to the glamour here. After taking care of that and scrubbing some more, my son, the chocolate milk drinker, came in and yelled “Ew, what’s that smell?! Can’t you clean it?” 

I forced myself to think “I love you” and to be grateful for having the ability to find the humor in this utterly ridiculous life. (Then, I handed him a dish towel.)

Sending forth tiny ripples of love and hope.

“Few will have the greatness to bend history itself, but each of us can work to change a small portion of events. It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring those ripples build a current which can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance.”~Robert F. Kennedy