Thanksgiving Day gratitude

A salute is an arm extended or a rigid military snap to the forehead.

A pledge of allegiance is the right hand over the heart.

An oath is the hand placed on a religious text
.
A prayer, however, whether one is kneeling, standing, sitting, prostrate or lying on one’s back in the water, is one palm against the other and gently touching the lips.

Hands closed in prayer. Such a universally accepted symbol of peace and gratitude.

A fur seal last Sunday reminds me that today, Thursday, millions of families in America will be doing just this as thanks is given for the rich and bountiful harvest present at their Thanksgiving Day tables.

Let me also give thanks.

And, by way of creating a framework to hang my reason for giving thanks, I offer first this poem from Robert Hayden:

Those Winter Sundays

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?

Robert Hayden

Second, an excerpt from an email sent by my friend, Clare, after spending the weekend here with her daughters, Brook and Kate, and partner, Jeff:

“A few months ago Brook shared with me her deep fears for the world, for what the future would hold, would there be clean water, would bird flu kill us, if she was expected to be a decision maker of the future, what chance did she have if so much was destroyed.  As a mother I would love to make the world safe and nourishing for my children.  I am trying to seek out positive news, to show Brook people doing good work, to nurture hope and a feeling of safety and to do so I feel I need help from other adults who believe in goodness. Thank you for being who you are, doing what you do, and being willing to have pesky visitors like us.”

The above poem and email might exhibit some disparity, but what I’m trying to explain is that any goodness coming from me is only because of the nurturing—and lack of it—surrounding my childhood.

Bless my parents. Both held down full time jobs to support a family of five children. Leaving early, coming home late, could there ever have been enough time for them to cuddle and soothe the fears of the crying child, the lonely child? Could there ever have been enough?

Whatever portion of my adult self still harbours a sense of abandonment, this same self is also capable of, yearns for and is skilled enough to create a place of refuge that offers up to today’s children a working reality of positiveness and caring.

I as “wounded healer” is too one sided an argument because, although not always felt or appreciated at the time, there was an abundant measure of love dished out by my parents.

On this Thanksgiving Day, I am deeply grateful for the whole chaotic, touching, delicious mess that was my childhood. It has led me unwaveringly to the bounty that is today. For this, with palms touching and pressed against my lips, I thank my parents, Paul and Etheleen, for their struggles in juggling the lot of us.

Let me also give thanks to the young family of Clare, Jeff, Brook and Kate for cheerfully fixing up the garden domes this past weekend so that there will be wholesome veggies on the Windgrove table to share with all.