Thanksgiving comes with an extraordinary amount of luggage for a holiday that is supposedly about gratitude.
There’s the turkey, obviously.
Then there are the family traditions, the invitations, the travel, the children coming home, the people who aren’t coming home, the people we wish had invited us, and occasionally the people we rather wish hadn’t.
And underneath all of it is an idea of what Thanksgiving is supposed to look like.
A table.
Family.
Friends.
Food.
Laughter.
Connection.
Preferably everyone behaving themselves until dessert.
Yet Thanksgiving arrives at an interesting time of year.
The days are getting shorter. The light is changing. The natural world is beginning to turn inward, and many of our bodies seem inclined to follow.
We want warmth. Rest. Home. Perhaps a little less noise.
And suddenly we’re expected to produce a fourteen-pound turkey and meaningful family connection by Thursday afternoon.
There’s something rather wonderful — and slightly ridiculous — about that.
I see the expectations of this season in people around me.
Some are waiting and hoping for an invitation.
Others are trying to work out how to fit an enormous family around a table designed for six.
Children come home from college. Adult children arrive with partners. Families blend. Old traditions meet new ones.
And sometimes the people we love most simply aren’t there.
This year, I won’t be spending Thanksgiving with my family on the East Coast.
I love them. I will think about them. I’ll probably talk to them.
And I will also be here.
There was a time when I might have looked at that sentence and immediately added a story to it.
You should be with your family.
That’s what holidays are for, isn’t it?
Except perhaps that’s another one of those thoughts worth examining.
Because the body doesn’t experience the Thanksgiving we think we should be having.
It experiences the one we’re actually in.
It knows whether we’re rushing.
Whether our belly is tight.
Whether we’re trying desperately to make everyone happy.
Whether we’re sitting at a table full of people and still feeling lonely.
And it also knows when something feels easy.
A familiar voice.
A hand on our shoulder.
A good meal.
A quiet room.
A moment when nobody needs anything from us.
Perhaps gratitude doesn’t require us to pretend that everything is wonderful.
Maybe gratitude can sit beside longing.
Love can sit beside absence.
A crowded table can contain loneliness, and a small table can contain enormous connection.
We seem to think we have to choose.
Happy or sad.
Grateful or disappointed.
Connected or alone.
But bodies are quite capable of holding more than one truth at a time.
Perhaps Thanksgiving is not about creating the perfect table.
Perhaps it is about arriving at the table we actually have.
And noticing what is there.
The people.
The food.
The memories.
The empty chair.
The laughter.
The quiet.
The love.
All of it.
This year, I’m going to try not to ask whether my Thanksgiving looks the way it should.
I think I’ll ask something else.
Can I be fully here for the Thanksgiving that is mine?
And if there happens to be pizza instead of turkey, I’m not reporting it to the authorities.
With Love,
Bobbie xo
[email protected]
www.bobbiejonas.com
Be First to Comment