Thanksgiving is becoming an afterthought in our quest to rush through the holidays. The fact that it’s slinking in the backdoor of November this year doesn’t help. My husband and I caught the tail end of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer on primetime TV last night and wondered, Since when did they start running this stop-motion harbinger of Christmas toy commercials before the Thanksgiving bird is even stuffed?
Sure, there is lip service done to the practice of gratitude over a gluttonous meal on a particular November Thursday, but I can’t seem to block out the noisy fights over stores opening early to beat the Black Friday rush, or the mistreatment committed on poultry farms, or the ever-popular fears about blowing our restrictive diets.
In a few hours I will pull down the lid to my laptop of turmoil and shut off the world’s woes for a journey of reflection. Winter’s sharp tongue causes me to pull inward, to sit by the home fires and whisper encouraging words to myself as encompassing darkness approaches.
My tasks are laid out like soft flannel for the long night. I have a new body to get to know, a pile of worries and baggage to knit up into something useful, and a half-century of traditions and habits that need to be sorted and tossed into the flames. There is a waiting host of wondrous dreams that have existed only in my imagination. Their frail constitutions need warming in the glow of possibility.
My wish is simple. May you be able, in this spinning holiday dervish of a dance, to find a quiet corner, to stand stock still until the ripples fade from your over-scheduled lives. And clearly see who you are.