This year, Thanksgiving will looks lot like any other Thursday night in our household. We'll all sit around the kitchen table to eat a meal that mostly I prepared.
We are following the science-based advice to limit our gathering to our immediate household only, and to not travel. But we will make our version of the traditional foods, and hopefully have plenty of leftovers. We will also discuss our gratitude, and make a land acknowledgement to the native peoples who own the land we live on (thank you, Potawatomie, Ojibwa and Odawa peoples), as well as donating to their present day organizations.
But in many other aspects, we will just gather for a meal at our kitchen table, like we do any other night. We've had family meals every night at that table since the time there was only the two founding members. The table is in some ways the modern-day hearth of our family. We've always had the type where you can pop in a leaf to accommodate more guests at any time, or scale back to a cozy foursome. It's there we've revealed big news, discussed our wins, worried over our losses, and attempted to solve problems. It's where we work and where we play (now more literally than ever).
Mealtime shows how much our children have grown, as our oldest now lingers for a few minutes after the meal is over, to talk more with his parents. Someday perhaps all four of us will be able to stretch out the night with a cup of tea after dinner and prolonged conversation.
My dear friend recently shared a poem by Joy Harbro, a member of the Muscogee nation and poet laureate:
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.
Our table is so much more than just a place to eat. It is a place where we live and recount our lives to each other. And for that I am thankful.
