As I sit in bed, spilled Maxwell House all over me, good to the last drop, a phrase Teddy Roosevelt coined by the way, I’m thinking about Thanksgiving waiting patiently in the wings.
It’s the day gratitude is the guest of honor at one’s table, or at least should be.
Giving and receiving, sharing what you have, big or small, rate high on this fine day.
I finally told a friend, who loves to give but can’t receive, it’s high time she made an adjustment.
When you don’t allow someone to give to you, you’re denying them the privilege of doing so.
Like in the St. Francis’s Prayer for Peace...for it is in giving, that we receive, but you need to have the grace to say yes to someone else’s thoughtfulness when it rears its lovely head.
Not easy for my friend who turns scarlet anytime you do anything for her.
But back to gratitude. I’ve made my annual list that bulges with an array of blessings, boons, benefits and gifts…those daily benedictions…strokes of good luck ranging from…sun, shelter, sustenance and that pair’a shoes on sale at Saks.
The fact I’m still running, writing, reading and writhing in good cheer poised where my feet are, armed with grace even though I’m alone and turkey-less, this turkey deserves a round of applause.
Of course, I have pulp guests at my table who show up every year…Huck Finn, the Darcys, Kurt Vonnegut, Anne Lamott and Nora Ephron, all responsible for my eternal desire to write.
Diane Vreeland once told Jackie Kennedy, elegance is refusal.
So, I’ll cut and paste that into my attitude, refusing to be anything but grateful on Thanksgiving Day, even donning my pearls in tribute to all the muses in my life…
Nora, Anne, Jackie, Jane, Audrey, Mr. Vonnegut, Mr. Twain and Carmela the Basset Hound.
Oh yeah, and God, can’t forget him.