Thanksgiving

On Thanksgiving Day the sun rose but was hidden by clouds that shed a misty rain.  We took a walk and disrupted a meeting among crows, apparently of some importance from the sound of it, then surprised a dozen deer which chose to bolt rather than remain perfectly hidden in plain sight.  On a day we recognize as a holiday there was no indication the deer were celebrating anything, but who am I to say?  But there was something going on with the crows, a high level meeting perhaps, or a spontaneous chorus from an old hymn that only crows know.   There is no good evidence that animals lack a spiritual connection.  

The day is all about gratitude. For people in the US, it conjures up images of native Americans and European immigrants gathered for a great feast.  No doubt the new arrivals were thankful for safe passage to a land full of promise, but were the natives necessarily grateful for the company?  We know some were hospitable and welcoming, at least until their lands were taken, their numbers decimated, treaties broken.  

A few years ago one of our sons lived and worked on a community farm in the great state of California.  We were visiting, and before every dinner they held a gratitude circle where everyone would find something in the day to be thankful for.  It was a therapeutic routine with the smallest of things appreciated and was always uplifting, sometimes powerful.

A nice ash tree south of the house was killed a few years ago by the emerald ash borer. We were not happy with this development and had enjoyed the tree and its shade since transplanting it decades before.  It had grown to be a strapping specimen but now was dead, needing removal. It held a disproportionate weight on its north side so would need encouragement to fall south and not smash the house.  It took more than two years to garner the courage for the task and during that time the tree shot up a sucker from its base which stood about four feet tall. I thought it’d be great to fell the tree and save the sprout, knowing it would be supported by a massive root system and make phenomenal growth. After a thorough review of tree felling techniques I took the tree down, successfully sparing the house and the sprout, and in the following season it more than doubled in height and girth. 

I was just admiring the young ash a couple days ago, then got up this morning to see a beaver had chewed it off right at the ground. I felt no gratitude towards the beaver, especially given it had sauntered past dozens of prime shrub dogwoods and willows growing wild in the muck before reaching the young ash.  We recognize the value of beavers in the landscape and have made many accommodations on their behalf over the years, and here was one more. 

Gratitude is often one sided.  In sports, politics, wars, with beavers invited to your backyard, there are always winners and losers, and the probability of being thankful generally depends on which side you’re on.  My old buddy, John, once observed that he cusses when he’s mad but cusses equally when happy.  That’s how gratitude should be, practiced in every scenario, but it’s a tough pill for parents of kids killed in school shootings, or the wrongfully imprisoned, or those forced into homelessness.   

Sometimes hope has to open the door for gratitude.  I’m not thankful for the one percent, for greedy corporations, disinformation, antivaxxers, corrupt leaders, or any action that threatens the health of our beautiful planet, but I can hope and then be grateful for opportunities that allow things to get better one step at a time.

And so went Thanksgiving Day, 2021: a brisk walk, a meeting of crows, a flushing of deer, a scowl aimed at a local beaver, and a dose of gratitude found in hope.  Thich Nhat Hanh, a Vietnamese monk, said “Walk as if you are kissing the earth with your feet.”  Try to do it without being grateful.  You can’t.  Good days lie ahead.