Although Thanksgiving thoughts usually turn to, well… the giving of thanks and feelings of gratitude, I found myself on this particular Thanksgiving day thinking about its meaning in a different light.
Now this is not to suggest that gratitude isn’t important – every Saturday and Sunday I go for a run on the grounds of a local college. During these runs I often meet a lot of dogs; I have come to know them pretty well, so much so that I bring dog treats with me every time I run. Surely there is no better teacher of gratitude than a dog who is about to receive an unexpected treat from a stranger, particularly if said dog has even one molecule of retriever in him. The complete wholehearted appreciation of those dogs is a profound lesson in gratitude.
My joyful dog encounters and the beauty of running in the woods has lead me to always end my runs in this fashion; standing the middle of the playing fields, I look out at the surrounding trees and sky, I draw deeply of everything around me, absorbing the subtle shades of color, the play of light, the feel of sun or wind or rain or snow; I impress all this upon my heart – and then, with all of my being I say to the world around me; ‘thank-you’. Who or what I am thanking I am not always sure, but of my thankfulness I am certain.
Now today, on this glorious morning I once again went for my run, and, true to form, at the end of the run I stood on the playing field for my moment of giving thanks. Because it was Thanksgiving I was keenly aware of a sense of gratitude; the beautiful day, the meal ahead, my well being, a place to live and people around me. Yet, even as I said my prayer of thanks my thoughts wandered a bit from a wholehearted jubilance. Despite the beautiful day, despite my deep appreciation, there remained a tug in my heart because this Thanksgiving is the first one that I will not celebrate with my daughter. She’s up in Evanston and her winter break begins in 2.5 weeks. After some hand wrenching over the exorbitant airfares we decided that it just didn’t make economic sense to come back for three days when she would be home again so soon after.
Thinking about how much I missed her presence I realized that for me, this day – both literally and metaphorically stood not only for thankfulness but equally it meant homecoming. Homecoming; a slightly old fashioned word that seems more suited for soldiers and prodigal sons than for that American phenomena known as Thanksgiving. But the idea of coming home is a powerful one; it is a return to where we belong, where we are safe, where we are known to our tribe.
Surely it is this lure of homecoming that makes Thanksgiving the most traveled holiday of the year. And certainly the magnet of homecoming insures that even the most curmudgeonly ‘I hate holidays’ sort will trek to some distant locale in order to break bread with kith and kin. And it is homecoming that encourages us to do this even when those very same folks have the known capacity to drive us to a frenzy with their never changing habits and quirks, even when we can list a dozen other things we’d rather do then spend hours with them. Yet, despite all these pitfalls and hesitations, Thanksgiving has its way and a-homecoming we go.
Lately I have been reading of Odysseus and Aeneas; and no doubt the tales of their long journeys and their efforts at homecoming have been on my mind. Although Odysseus and Aeneas were driven by the hands of the gods perhaps those gods merely represent the longing that we all share; a longing that compels us to schlep over great distances and invest of ourselves so that we might be once again in the place we call home, gather together with those that know us and share in that most elemental of needs, the eating of a meal. Of course in the end homecoming isn't really about a place, nor do all homecomings require travel. Ultimately homecomings are about heart; the journey we take, whether by car, airplane or simply in our thoughts, is always about finding the place and the people our heart calls home.
This pull of homecoming, the urge to return to our clan and celebrate with them informed my second thought about Thanksgiving; it is about community. In its very origins, the story of the day is rooted in the coming together of Pilgrim and Native American; to share the feast of their respective harvest and, in doing so, begin the creation of a community. A harvest is no simple matter, to plant a garden alone is possible but to feed a community, to bring together the necessary variety and components for the well being of all; that requires the union of many hands. A community thus engaged speaks to collaboration, to cooperation; so that each member can take part in what is produced, so that each member feels a sense of belonging. Thanksgiving is deeply rooted in this; the work of the group permits us to reap food, to make a meal and most of all to support one and other in the art of survival. Great is the need to belong to a community, and great is the value in belonging.
I belong to a few communities; both virtual and in the flesh. Each in its own way, like a Thanksgiving meal, provides me with some form of sustenance and nourishment. They embrace me, they succor me; there is an abiding connection that shapes me. Though the word community is often used to describe a grouping of any kind a community is not designated; it is formed. The place where my mother lives is one of those 55 plus enclaves of homes; if you buy a house there you are, on paper, part of the community. But what really makes this a community is what her neighbors do for each other. The more able bodied take on the physical chores, the more elderly carefully watch others homes. They check on each other, listen to each other and especially, they forgive each other. When my father was alive he took great pride in his small, and somewhat secret, contribution; on garbage day he would bring his nearby neighbor's garbage to the street and their empty pails back to their garage. They didn’t ask him for this; he simply took it upon himself since he tended to rise at dawn. It seems like a small and even insignificant act but imagine the delight of knowing that on a cold and windy morning you don't have to bring out your garbage or worry that your pails will blow away; all because there is someone nearby who thinks of you. Like a neighborhood tom cat my father staked out as his turf and endeared himself to his community.
It is the very value of community and its importance in our lives that led me to my final Thanksgiving day thought; a thought that is perhaps surprisingly significant and yet one that I fear is losing ground. A community is not static, there are moments of weakness, moments when people become divided or fail to engage – yet one of the most powerful forces that can maintain the community in its times of struggle is tradition. Tradition, simply defined as the established habits of a group, provides comfort, reassurance and even beauty. To know what comes next, to partake in ceremony, to feel the ease and surety of the familiar; these help fortify us. Sometimes the simple act of stepping through a process can help reignite a fading heart, or the ability to rest upon the framework of constancy can keep one moving through darkness. Tradition is not a trifle, it acts as a guidepost, a reminder, a grounding, a glue. Though traditions can morph and circumstances can change ,the having of them matters.
There are traditions in various parts of my life; I delight in them, they bring comfort, they are the secret password into this or that community. Every Saturday at the beginning and the end of my yoga class we recite a chant and say ‘om’ as a group. I love to listen to the combined voices as they do this, there something uplifting in the blended harmony of voices, my heart rises with the ethereal sound. This tradition brings me to attention, it unites me with this room of strangers; it insures that gently and respectfully we come together even as each persons efforts in the class are individual and alone.
The rituals of Thanksgiving are similar; we go to this one’s house, we have this turkey, this stuffing and these pies. We say these prayers or play cards or watch football or fall asleep on the couch. Like many folks I have the memory of when I was young and all of the children in the family had to sit at their own table. Back then we all dressed up fancy for the dinner. Now we are grown up and sit together at one table - yet, while jeans may be acceptable now, my mother and I still put on ‘nice’ clothes, the tradition just feels right to us.
It may also be true that, if we reframed the habits of others, particularly the ones that are most irksome, and we saw these not as crosses to bear but rather as part and parcel of tradition they might be more tolerable, even endearing. You know what I mean; every Thanksgiving my father would whistle this squeaky whistle while he cooked, like chalk on a board, and every dinner my mother would mushily cry over our being together, I would always be late, and my brother would always say a provocative political statement. It simply wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without those things. We all have such traditions; the sister who comments slyly on our weight, the uncle who boast endlessly (and boringly about his success, the grandpa who snores at the table and dribbles his soup. But I have been to enough funerals now to know that it is often these very things that we miss the most, that shape our remembrances.
So it is that though my family is a very small community, our partaking in these traditions, all of these traditions, even the roughshod habits, sustains us, gives us community, as much – and sometimes more – than our shared DNA.
Homecoming, community, tradition. Actually they aren’t just for Thanksgiving.
Lately I have taken to going more frequently to Unitarian services on Sunday. Certainly it is a community, and a welcoming one at that. But the going, and the order of service are also traditions; ones that I have come to adopt and find solace in. And oddly the service also provides me with a most profound sort of homecoming; the grace I find in the song and silence permits me to return to the community of myself, to pause and stop and just be at peace. And for this too I give thanks.
Today, as I drove to my mothers house, even as I was missing my daughter, I thought of Thanksgiving, I thought of homecomings, community and traditions and a single line to a song came to me;
‘and I thank the Lord for the people I have found’.
Indeed.
Happy Thanksgiving to all.
