Looking for Meaning on Thanksgiving

 

I don’t know what

Thanksgiving is, really.

It’s a Holiday.

For Americans.

Immigrants really.

 

Who came the New World,

to alter their lives and

the lives of everyone they

encountered.

Regardless of consequence.

 

Which I think we do,

still, to this day, all over the world,

in judgmental pogroms of

tribalism and collectivism,

each to our own detriment.

 

Home and abroad,

we push our ideals and beliefs

onto those that may not share them,

or even want to be a part of them,

yet we are relentless in our Manifest Destinies.

 

We push the borders of civility,

of moralism, of squeaky wheel sensitivity,

and badgering bullyish behavior,

wherever we seem to place our

Puritan buckled hat.   

 

I know Thanksgiving is about family,

a gathering of blood and non-blood relations,

to share a meal together and marvel in

our good fortunes individually and collectively;

and to make each other laugh.

 

Maybe conversations will be fiery,

hotter than the Turkey, saltier than

the beans, and tinged with enough

alcohol to illicit declarative statements

we’ll regret privately but never admit.

 

Maybe the true meaning of Thanksgiving

will reveal itself around a full table of laughter,

of love, in the quiet moments of peaceful collectivity,

in admiration of each other, without jealousy or

contempt, but with compassion and acceptance.

 

Thanksgiving might be about

the contemplation of each of the people

in our lives that have shown us the lessons

of peace and love that after all is said and done,

is the only consequence to be thankful for.