Last night, I dreamed of undulating vees of geese, wending their way through the inky night sky. It was a listening and looking kind of dream, one in which my eyes were drawn to the eerie honks and glowing underbellies of these night fliers as they poked holes through the constellations of an Autumn night.
When I awoke, I was sure I had been there, witnessing their long overnight trek to warmer climes.
It was a vivid and peaceful dream, centered wholly on the here and now. Which is why I, too, have decided to center myself wholly on the here and now this Thanksgiving day.
Unlike most Thanksgivings, in which I reflect and imagine, I will spend today looking and listening. This Thanksgiving, I leave history to the historians and the future to the fortune tellers, focusing, instead, on the rustling of the Pin Oak leaves, clinging stubbornly to their stems. On the Blue Jays harassing the Sharp-Shinned Hawk who, in turn, is harassing the nervous Chickadees at the feeder.
Today, I give thanks for two slumbering children--young adults, really--whose soft, steady breathing somehow makes its way down the dusty wood stairs and lands gently upon me.
I give thanks for the bracing breeze that greets us in the fields of Woods Park, where other bundled-up couples have let loose their bounding dogs, free at last, free at last.
Today, I take in great mouthfuls of musty, crisp air, marveling at its restorative powers, growing ever more alert with each intake. And I gladly let Hobbes dawdle along, discovering the new smells of a different path than the one we took yesterday.
I think that maybe this is the best way to spend Thanksgiving, in the moment, and I wonder why it has taken me nearly a half century to realize that. But I don't wonder long, because wondering is about the past and the future, more than it is about right now.
And today, this Thanksgiving, I plan to relish only the "right now."
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