We Give Thanks

Gratitude. It’s everywhere—or not. Often it’s hidden deep inside. I would have said “too often” but that’s a value judgment, and I’m trying to outgrow my judging phase, which has taken decades to hone its current fineness. Gratitude. Thanksgiving. Recently while volunteering in the visitor center of the Audubon here in Santa Fe, I exchanged pleasantries with a visitor from Vancouver, and I wished her “Happy Thanksgiving” as she left the gift shop, camera in hand, for one of her many repeat visits to Santa Fe and to our 135-acre sanctuary at the top of Upper Canyon Road. “Thank you,” she smiled. “We celebrated ours in October.” I smiled in acknowledgement of a different tradition. And I smile again, acknowledging the truth of all the rich traditions that color our world. “Thanksgiving in October, hmmm, I hadn’t even thought about it.”

Last week, I wished “Happy Thanksgiving” to my massage therapist, a native of the Czech Republic who came to the United States four years ago, as I recall from an earlier conversation. A bright, articulate young guy who came here speaking little English, I had assumed early on that he had studied English in school, growing up in an Eastern Europe that has seen much turmoil and change in my lifetime and certainly in his. Not the case, which causes me to marvel even more. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving,” I asked him. “I guess what I do on any other day,” he replied, smiling. He isn’t fretting that he will be alone on this American holiday. He’s a vegetarian. No visions of roasted, aromatic turkey dance through his head. I smile at my own innocence when I think of the Pilgrim Fathers and Mothers in black garb, punctuated by white collars.

What I really love about Thanksgiving, and what I have always cherished, is family time. Lots of good food, east Texas style, familiar faces, and maybe best of all, the only gift expected is the familiarity of our company. I took that comfort for granted. I’m older, and wiser, now. Now I know the lack and loss of Thanksgiving changed. Mother and Daddy are no longer physically present at the table, and for three years, on this favorite holiday I have chosen to be away from my family of birth. But I take great comfort knowing that my older sisters and the family will be together at table. They’ll be taking this for granted—at least a little—because they’ve never known anything different.

I have heard some people explain that their families are ones they have chosen, and they say that they like having this choice. In a way, that’s a tough concept for me. I grew into old age taking for granted that familiar faces, no matter how few, would always smile at me across our Thanksgiving table. I welcome the love of friends, and I give thanks for the friends who open their arms to me, especially at this most tender time of the year. Each year is yet another Thanksgiving first, regardless of the familiarity. I smile at the reassurance from friends over the last few days. I am loved, I am welcomed, and yes, I am home. Why am I amazed? How could I ever doubt? Someone said to me over coffee several months ago, “home is where you are”. And so it is.

We Give Thanks—Santa Fe, New Mexico (November 23, 2009)
R. Harold Hollis