This year, though, Thanksgiving at the farm felt like home. Home is not where I live, but where people understand me. On my last post, I committed to being more mindful and choosing my thoughts starting with the simple act of eating. At the farm, over the long weekend, curled up in a warm cabin in the woods surrounded by people who make me feel like home, being mindful was doable, not easy, but doable.
My family was in the military so we do not have any long standing family traditions. Every holiday is a come what may sort of event. It works for me. A couple years ago, I wanted to start a tradition so I forced Stefan’s family to play the “What are you thankful game?” around the table. It was not a huge hit. Answers consisted mostly of groans mixed with people saying “stuffing” or “cranberry sauce”. Every year, I force it and every year, we say the same things.
This year, my home (AKA—people who get me) was sitting around the picnic tables on the deck eating turkey, cranberry sauce and stuffing. I had prepped them. They knew it was coming. And, so, it began. We paused, and went for it. Beautiful things happened. Shoulders relaxed. Silence ensued. Stress melted away. As we went around the table, I heard things like “I am thankful that my wife gets to stay home and be with our child, I am thankful for our health after watching a dear friend who is sick, that I got to be fun employed “ and then, we went for a second round. Only this time, we had to share what we were thankful “butt spell”
Even if it was just for a moment, I experienced mindfulness and I liked it.