"This is our Thanksgiving ritual" We start each Thanksgiving meal with that statement, followed by each of us around the table sharing the things we are thankful for this year. I've been giving a lot of thought to it this year, and I was very ready to say "nothing. This is a horrible year. This is the year of the pandemic. This is the year of shortages. This is the year of hunger, of fear, of pain, of ill health.
And this is the year Ellen died."
Oh, I used to talk to the kids about being thankful for clean air to breathe, and the sunshine, and the rain that makes the plants grow in the yard. For friends, for our pets, for the color of wildflowers in the spring, for the cool crisp of autumn.
It all seems pretty empty. Platitudes. Words without any depth, without anchor in our souls.
And yet "nothing" is also wrong. Because in all the pain, all the fear, all the illness, all the poverty, all the uncertainty, there is some grain of hope. We may not always feel it, but we know it's there because we're still alive. If we were truly without hope, we wouldn't be. There would be no reason to be.
And yet hope itself is more than a reason, it's something that has reason. We are not people of blind faith, hope has to have a foundation, it has to be propped up, it has to have substance.
The foundation of our hopes then, are the things we really have to be thankful for.
We have supported each other. We have kept food on our tables, roofs over our heads. We've held each other when we cried, and cheered each success we have had, even if they were baby steps toward happiness, they still were moving us forward.
It's been hard, but we've been able to lean on each other. We've had what we needed, although not what we wanted, in terms of survival. And when faced with that horrible loss, we have responded with love and support, and been responded to in kind.
So maybe this year it is too trite to be grateful for the sunrise when a loved one has died. Maybe it's too difficult to feel thankful for the dog being good when feeling intense physical pain. Maybe it's too difficult to conjure up a feeling of joy for the flowers that will surely come in spring when so many risks face us in the pandemic before that day. But we do have our strength, our hope, and each other, and for that, I'm truly grateful.
Be especially grateful for people to lean on - and I mean that physically. My husband died just at the beginning of the Covid lockdowns. I had been living with him in his isolated hospital room in Gainesville for three months. When I came home, it was at the time that no one knew how this virus was spread, and everyone was panicked. So I grieved alone. I did not even see another human being for two weeks; after that I returned to my volunteer job but we all kept away from each other. I have had a few quick hugs in the intervening months but never been held while I cried. The only physical contact I've had that lasted more than a few seconds is when I came to see Los and we held onto each other for a long time. I don't blame anyone and in an odd way it's made me stronger because the only person I could lean on was myself. But do cherish every hand holding or hug that you can get.
ReplyDeleteYes. I have Los here, and I had Cailin for a couple weeks since this happened. But it's been, except for Los, since February since I've been hugged, and my other kids are spread across the country. We, like many others have had a Zoom Thanksgiving. What community I have, I have at a distance, online.
DeleteI would have given almost anything to be with my kids this Thanksgiving, but between the pandemic and my planned surgery Monday, I can't see anyone but Los (since he's my driver/aide right now) in person anyway.
As it turned out, we did not end up Zooming our gratitude ritual. This Thanksgiving turned out pretty chaotic. But we did make some contact online, and that's something.
This is the year I made a new friend and I am grateful to have her in my life.
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