Greens, champagne, the smell of the turkey cooking, chopping things, assembling things, texts flying back and forth, a long drink on the front porch with a love, listening to Patty in concert while I cook, the discomfort of the elastic behind my ear from the mask I have to wear as I cook because of the Covid exposure last weekend, the idea of last times playing in my mind constantly, the scritch of present worries that natter incessantly, the reality that this is not the Thanksgiving that I wanted, the reality that holidays are heavy boots of loss, the wish for joy, the joy of my kids, the brush up against D leaving for school next year, the idea of things (time, feelings) being stretched like a Stretch Armstrong forward and back the tug and pull and tug and pull. What is it to live in joy? The gratitude of nine years of health, the gratitude of friends who text to say hello, the weird guilt when I forget. The reality that sometimes digging around in your psyche renders things that take awhile to hurdle. And then there are those times when you think you've scaled a pretty significant mountain only to slide back down. It's in the practice, in the work, the application. You never know if it's going to work until you make it operational and have to stay in, stay in. I miss my people, I miss having people in that way. There is a heaviness when someone you love deeply (your child) is angry with you. Listening to Patty sing Forgiveness and I think there is no more true or perfect song. Stream of consciousness writing, sometimes it's the only way it's coming these days. I miss writing. The compass foot set. John Donne back from the days. Oy. 47 minutes to go on the turkey, I miss those strange sounds of football announcers calling that feel startling and calming at the same time. Too warm for a fire tonight, the rain has been all day. My heart is heavy with the missing but also with the love. And that's a thanksgiving all it's own. Gratitude not written on a # or cup. Traversing, coming back, ending where I've begun.
