And that, to me, is the meaning of Thanksgiving...Nothing lasts; everything changes. People die, and marriages dissolve, and friendships fade, and families fall apart, whether or not we appreciate them; whether or not we give thanks every waking moment or one night of the year. For the act of returning to the same table, to the same people and the same dishes - to the same traditions - can blind you to life's transience. It can lull you into believing that some things, at least, stay the same. And if that's what you want to believe, then what have you got to be grateful for? None of our Thanksgivings are ever coming back; we've lost them. They're gone. And so this year...give thanks - not for everything we have, but for everything, instead, that we have lost.
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Michael Chabon
bon appetit
I read this in the November issue the other day and it has stayed with me...weighed heavy on my mind and heart. No, I won't be traveling to some mystical hunting lodge to feast next week as Chabon did, I'll be going over the river and through the woods to sit at the same table I take my place at most years, but what and whom I have lost is evident and ever present. Because what I eat, drink and do on this day is very much the same from year to year, doesn't mean that I don't see clearly and feel profoundly life's transience. Quite the opposite actually. Impermanence shadows me every day. I know the depth of precariousness and terseness of what we have here now. I will give thanks both for what I have and for what I have lost next Thursday as I do every day I am here to breathe and feel. The traditions - Nanny's zucchini, Grandpa's sausage corn chowder, Grandma J's sweet potatoes, Rosie's cranberry fluff, round the table toasts and family games - are what tie me to them even though many of them are no longer taking their place at this table.
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