Thanksgiving comes with an extraordinary amount of luggage for a holiday that is supposedly about gratitude.
There’s the turkey, obviously.
Then there are the family traditions, the invitations, the travel, the children coming home, the people who aren’t coming home, the people we wish had invited us, and occasionally the people we rather wish hadn’t.
And underneath all of it is an idea of what Thanksgiving is supposed to look like.
A table.
Family.
Friends.
Food.
Laughter.
Connection.
Preferably everyone behaving themselves until dessert.
Yet Thanksgiving arrives at an interesting time of year.
The days are getting shorter. The light is changing. The natural world is beginning to turn inward, and many of our bodies seem inclined to follow.
We want warmth. Rest. Home. Perhaps a little less noise.
And suddenly we’re expected to produce a fourteen-pound turkey and meaningful family connection by Thursday afternoon.
There’s something rather wonderful — and slightly ridiculous — about that.
I see the expectations of this season in people around me.
Some are waiting and hoping for an invitation.
Others are trying to work out how to fit an enormous family around a table designed for six....