That thing?  That <:)B thing?  It’s supposed to be a turkey.  Yeah.  I’m really good at this keyboard art biz – .  Home, on the couch, nursing a felty throat.

In answer  to and in solidarity with a few other hearty, determined souls, I am writing about Thanksgiving.  (I already know you won’t follow the links.  Only about two of you ever do – bless the two curious and adventuresome souls of you.)

the curious mix of celebrations on my table

Prelude:

I don’t mind buying Christmas presents early – and I did it for years when the children were little, starting in the summer, on our vacations—vacuuming up little souvenirs to remind us later of the year’s delights.  I’m the kind of person who loves to see a mound of brightly colored paper wrapped boxes under the tree – not because of the things in them, but because I love the feeling and the look of it.  So I used to buy packages of underwear and wrap each piece separately.

Now that the kids are older (and buy their own underwear – it happens, it really does -), I don’t buy anything early because the gift giving has become something more serious: no more little toys. I want to give my children something that will surprise and delight them, and that will be meaningful and soul relieving, as the gift of Christ is to me.  And immediacy of need or desire factors into the hunt.

Fading autumn.  Glorious golden light at end of day.

On Christmas morning, and all through that brave season, we talk of Christ, we talk about his birth, his sacrifice – and Santa plays only the part of someone trying to make the world better for children in need.  The children were only allowed to submit “lists” for someone else, never for themselves.  And when we opened things on Christmas morning, it was one at a time, with everyone else watching and exclaiming – and we opened things and played with them.  So it was all day around the tree, playing and talking and being together.  No phones. No business. Just us.

What I’m saying is, Christmas does factor into my thinking all  year, though not as early now as once was.

And that’s what I have to say about that.

The sad thing is that Thanksgiving is just as festive – if not more so: a gathering of family, great food, a shiny table groaning with color and opulence AND football.  And certainly, the celebration is meaningful – without all the political brou-ha-ha that comes with what should be a totally religious celebration of Christmas.  But the turkey-and-dressing fete ends up being swept under the rug because the nature of the holiday doesn’t give the merchant a heck of a lot of scope for making his bottom line.  If the gift-makers had just pushed Thanksgiving as a time for exchanging gifts, we’d be hearing gobbler music in the mall in early September, and people dressed in turkey suits would be dropping out of helicopters into mall parking lots all over the country.

Yeah.  When I put it that way, I’m almost glad that Thanksgiving flies under the radar.

The truth is, Thanksgiving is one of the most important holidays the US has.  Just as my friend Dawn says in her blog, gratitude is one of the deepest, most essential elements of a deep and resounding life.  Without it, we are nothing but little origami creatures, folded by circumstance and hollow of heart – quick to be consumed, easily ash.  When we can see that our lives are indeed a gift, that so much of our ease and our access to beauty is an unlikely and largely unearned (by ourselves) luxury, then perhaps we can be more likely to look around and see what needs to be done, to fill holes in other lives.

And it might never occur to us that the word, “deserve” might belong to us.

Hallowe’en: the morning after.

Halloween and our tradition of Christmas can too easily teach children mostly about “getting” –  and root in the kids the beginnings of that feeling of entitlement – expecting treats and safety from want in the way of people-fed bears.   This is one of the essential character cancers that has been so damaging to the US culture.

And that’s a shame, because what Christmas is really all about  is surprise—and rescue and relief and praise and glory and gratitude for UNEARNED gifts given to us at great cost to someone else.  And about our power to sacrifice and give in our own small spheres.

I am not in love with the pilgrims.  They were a grim and determined lot who would, I think, be very surprised that we ascribe to them attributes of religious tolerance.  They were in no way tolerant.  They had rejected the traditional and political religious tenor of their times and replaced it with a no-nonesense brand of their own.  They’d have thrown all of us in the fire by now if we’d paraded our present concept of “tolerance”  in front of them.

But they, at least, felt it was important to live your faith – not to compromise about things that would destroy the strength and effectiveness of their little colonies – that would end up weakening families and character and leading to the dissolution of culture.  But kindness, color, music and joy are largely absent in our tales of these people.  I wonder what they were really like?

Certainly, we celebrate their wisdom: they stopped in the middle of the harvest, invited uncomfortable friends to the table, counted their blessings – and saw them as blessings, not as their due.  And they gave thanks.  Too many times these days, we are far more like all those lepers Christ healed who, in their sudden health, rejoiced and ran away into new lives without even turning around to say thanks.  The pilgrims, in this act of Thanksgiving, were turning around.

You don’t even have to be Christian to turn around.  All you have to do is thank somebody.  Look around and see what you owe for the quality of your everyday life.   Even if you are beaten and neglected, unsatisfied and worn down – the very fact that water goes down a toilet, and that you don’t have to live with mounds of the material it carries away, festering in your backyard – that’s a miracle few in the world enjoy.  And who is responsible for that miracle?  Or for the lights that go on, magically, at the flip of a switch? Or the clean water that comes surging out of every faucet in your weather-tight house?

Certainly, we don’t make these things happen for ourselves

But I tend to think of less earthy miracles – and thank the God who gave me these two cameras, set in my face, that allow me to experience color and depth and the faces of love.  Whatever God we recognize, do we not owe that personage (those personages?) a moment’s thought?  A bit of amazed contemplation about a being who not only gives us life, and designs beauty as a great part of it – but who offers us love?  And meaning?  And a table upon which we can offer those  life-sustaining gifts we are allowed to coax out of the ground?

Or even just a thank you to the garbage guy?  Or the person who gave you a job?  Or to the person who just cleaned out the dishwasher?  Or gave you a prescription for antibiotics?  Or inoculated your dog against rabies?  Or is teaching your kids how to add numbers?  Or who loves you even though you are NOT that easy to live with?

There is great scope for silence here.  For amazement.  For sharing.  Maybe for shame – of our I-don’t-have-enough and I-don’t-wanna-share knee-jerk lives?

Thanksgiving quilt. c. 199 – I don’t remember.  The funny blue shape is our house.  The turkeys came out of a book called Little Quilts.  Can’t remember the author.  I’ll look it up if you like.  The rest of the designs – applique and piecing  – are mine.

So yeah.  I guess what I’m saying is, before we start plopping our kids in the lap of he-who-cares-if-you-want-a-train, maybe it would be very wise to stop.  And think.  A space of quiet.  Of prayer – or its equivalent in less religious contexts.  A consideration of the fact that there can be no greater gift than life, and no more appropriate response than turning around to look back.  And no more fitting thanks than to offer what we can to others.

I’m just sayin’.