I spent most of Thanksgiving last year alone, in my new reality as a divorced person, my notion of family in shambles. This year, I spent Thanksgiving with Maria’s family. It was very warm, lovely, really, and I appreciated it. It was also strange, a new idea of family, new experiences with shared history. Then back to the farm to help clean up Frieda and bring her inside. The farm always makes itself know, makes its presence felt. It is not like a house you live in, it is more of a living thing with a mind of its own.
It is very difficult to mark time in our culture. The air is filled with economic stats and portents, people are insecure, nervous.
An important time to take stock, seek meaning beyond the curiously named new national holiday called Black Friday and, I suppose, to give thanks.
I have much to be grateful for, and when I add it up, I am nearly overwhelmed. I am clear on some of my goals for next year. To strengthen my ideas of family, from my daughter outwards, to continue to be true to my ideals of friendship, to be creative. To tell my stories, take my photos, be a good partner to Maria, and a better man and human being.
I am thinking a lot about the farm, and whether to leave it, trying especially to sort out what role fear may play in my decisions. It is a special place, and it is in my heart and soul. I am not at all sure that I am ready to leave, or that it makes a whole lot of sense to stay. Fortunately, I have the time and inclination to sort through that. In the meantime, I am grateful for it, and the memories and stories it has provided me and continues to provide. No writer could ask for more.