Thanksgiving has come and gone in the blink of an eye and the extra crispy turkey I roasted for the day is still feeding my family. The Wedgewood china has been stored away, the Waterford nestled back in the cabinet. We toasted one another with the heavy stems of those sparkling glasses between our fingers. The simple joy of being able to break bread with less worry and fear in our hearts did not go unnoticed. I don’t know about you but I have wanted for very little this year; a pandemic is all it took to make me boil down to what is worthy of my time and energies. I insisted on simple this Thanksgiving and Mom, for the most part, listened. Sure, she went to BJs on her own while I was away and nearly gave herself a hernia carrying in the goods but, as you may already know, “The Tank” cannot be contained. The greatest travesty of the day was that she forgot to cook the pearl onions, her personal favorite touch for a Thanksgiving meal. When we sisters realized they were forgotten we told everyone to not say a thing…then Mom gasped two bites into the meal and we all knew she realized her foible “Oh well.” we said.
Keeping things simple this holiday was a conscious decision. Over the years and through all that has happened, I have learned that knowing and then flaunting my limitations is best. In a world where sacrifice of self and overdoing things is idealized, it isn’t easy to turn away from the pressure to do more than your body and/or mind should handle. As a single parent living in a multigenerational home with multitiered “issues”, my limitations smacked me silly a very long time ago and I could no longer even pretend to have things together. The morning that J.D. badly broke his wrist at the very same time I needed to take Snip out to pee was the exact moment that I had to reckon with said limitations. I ran around, Snip’s scraggly little body between my hands while I cried “what do I do? WHAT do I DO?” over and over again. That was three years ago. Now aware that I am neither capable nor interested in being supermom or super anything for that matter, I readily accept help, side dishes, desserts, and wine. This holiday, no one fell or swallowed anything peculiar. We didn’t even break a dish. I’ll call that a win.
“There will be joy.” I told Mom last month after an emotional discussion about all the imperfections of life while we planned our holiday meal. “How can we not have joy with Isaac in this house predicting the future every night at dinner using your head as a crystal ball?” Isaac, forever the entertainer, walked around with a Waterford wine glass in his hand on Thanksgiving, slowly sipping sparkling cider and secretly hoping someone would think he was drinking champagne. He tells us he likes to be “elegante.” Yes, joy here looks like a beautiful mosaic of colorful broken pieces held together through stories that have evolved and dispersed over everything like spilled molasses. My writing allows me to pause and reframe each week, pushes me to carefully gestate and birth whatever joys I have encountered. Some weeks, I admit that the process is harder than others. If growing grey has taught me anything, however, it is that pain is an inherent part of being human and no matter what lengths we go to avoid feeling it, it will find its way to us. It is in those moments that our mettle is truly tested and joy will try to hide. Through quiet morning walks and loud night gameshows, the flames of joy will seek your gaze. Do not look away. That joy in the world is meant for you; come closer and feel its warmth.