Thanksgiving is my favorite week of the year. I like the crisp golden mid-Atlantic sun. I like how time seemingly slows to a creep and aromas of comfort seep into the air. I like how both my boys are home and friends abound and the dogs are undone by yet another jingle of the leash for yet another walk through the crunchy leaves on the almost frozen ground. Give thanks.
I am thankful for a mid-morning latte at a bougie coffee shop with a friend from deep in my past who I don’t see nearly often enough, but whenever I do, am overwhelmed by how well she understands me. Inside-out, outside-in, everyone needs friends who see you like this. I am so glad you haven’t had to call me from a bathroom stall in over 15 years.
I am thankful for my favorite local band playing at a a down-the-street borderline dive bar brewery with two of the best people I know, who always keep my company, who always come out, always say yes, and always find (or make) the fun things to do. I like the new companionship of a last minute text who stays until closing and walks me to my car. What’s wrong with a little Hank?
I am thankful for a 10K turkey trot, run far too competitively, on Thanksgiving morning and cutting splits I never thought were possible, grabbing a banana, wandering back out on the course to cheer on fellow frunners, and posting up with the real Iron Men. You guys inspire me every single day (even if I did run that 10K faster than you did). Get those gains.
I am thankful for my signature snack plates and fancy drinks, refreshed all day for my young adult sons during endless football games and a late night movie. I am thankful for a traditional meal served on heirloom china even though we don’t even like turkey dinner, but where else are you going to put the gravy?
I am thankful for “feels like 14 degrees” temperatures and windy valleys from which to watch vineyards light up with the spirit of the season over flatbread and charcuterie and icy cabernet, huddled under blankets and starry skies. Are our faces still frozen?
I am thankful for hilltop Christmas markets, small-town oyster houses, and the company of a pal with whom I have wandered the last decade from little league baseball benches to our eventual exit from northern Virginia. The pilgrimage has gained momentum.
I am thankful for antibiotics to clear up this brutal MRSA infection, for a week with no laptop on top of my lap, for the Christmas wreath my mom sent, for the dishwasher that didn’t break, for the piles of laundry that mean my older son still needs me, for coming home before curfew to find my younger son and his friends laughing on my living room floor, for Saturday morning long slow runs, for Sunday morning PWR cycle with Dawn, for side braids, for that southern Virginia accent that always makes me smile, and for the simplicity of words that make giving thanks possible.
Rumi said it best. “Gratitude is wine for the soul. Go ahead, get drunk.”