Happy Thanksgiving.
Wherever you are right now, in a busy kitchen or a quiet room,
I'm glad you stopped for a minute.
The oven can wait.
The table can wait.
Six minutes, and then you can go back to all of it.
Find a chair, or lean against the counter if that's all you've got.
Let your eyes close, or let them rest on something still.
Maybe today is full and loud.
Maybe it's quieter than you'd like.
Either way, you're welcome here.
Before the meal, one breath.
A real one.
Breathe in through your nose...
slow, and a little deeper than you have all morning.
And let it out through your mouth, like steam off a warm plate.
Once more.
In...
smelling whatever's in the air.
Bread, or coffee, or cold leaves.
And out...
shoulders dropping.
Think about one thing that will be on your plate today.
Just one.
Potatoes, maybe.
Or a slice of pie.
Go back a little.
Somewhere, there was a field.
Soil and rain and a long season of sun.
Someone planted it.
Someone picked it, with their own two hands, probably on a cold morning.
Someone drove it on a truck.
Someone put it on a shelf.
And someone, maybe you, carried it home and cooked it.
That's a lot of people for one bite.
You'll never meet most of them.
You can still thank them, quietly, right now.
And the land itself.
The ground that held it all winter and gave it back.
Thank you for that, too.
Take a slow breath in, and let it out with that still sitting warm
in your chest.
Now picture the table.
Whoever's going to be there, whoever you wish could be.
Let one face come to mind.
Look at them for a moment.
The way they laugh.
The way they reach for the salt.
Say to them, in your head...
thank you for being here.
Let another face come.
Maybe it's someone far away this year.
Or someone who's gone.
Thank you for what you gave me.
If a harder face shows up, the relative you're dreading, you don't have to
thank them everything.
for
Maybe just for showing up.
That can be enough.
And if your mind drifts to the gravy or the timer, that's fine.
It happens.
Just come back to the faces.
There's one more person at the table.
You.
You made it through this year.
Some of it was easy.
Some of it you'd rather not repeat.
You kept going through the parts nobody saw.
The early alarms.
The nights you couldn't sleep and got up anyway.
Honestly, that took more than you give yourself credit for.
Put a hand on your chest if you like, and say it quietly.
Thank you for getting me here.
Thank you for trying, even on the tired days.
I'm allowed to be on my own list.
Stay here a little.
Warm and full,
before you've even Nothing eaten.
to fix.
Nothing to prepare.
Just the fire, the wind outside, and your own slow breath.
Okay.
Let's head back in.
Wiggle your fingers.
Roll your neck slowly, one way and then the other.
Pick one thank-you from these few minutes to take with you.
Something small you could actually say out loud.
At the table, find the right moment and say it.
To the cook.
Or just whoever passes you the potatoes.
It doesn't need to be a speech.
Gratitude doesn't have to be big to count.
A small, honest thank-you is plenty.
When you're ready, open your eyes.
Take in the room.
Then go find your people, and your plate.