Yesterday was, in many ways, my first Thanksgiving. Not really, not technically, but in many ways. Thanksgiving was always a difficult holiday for me, family issues, a sense of estrangement, troubles as a kid. Lots of guilt, pressure, conflict. I never cooked a turkey before yesterday, never did Thanksgiving with anyone, never made stuffing. I was always outside of the process, outside of the kitchen, like many men. We struggle with the processes of family and emotion, and recuse ourselves walking dogs, hunting, watching football, reading our books off in our chairs.

Thanksgiving can be distancing for us, even lonely amidst our families, our friends. We are sometimes there, sometimes not. Yesterday it was different. I cooked the turkey with Maria. Made the stuffing with her. Stayed in the kitchen. Was at the center of Thanksgiving, not the edges. And today, waking up on a day I call Bright Friday, heading off to Battenkill Books to sell copies of “Going Home” and other books with Connie Brooks (call me. 518 677-2515) with Maria (she sold out of her potholders this morning), I realized that yesterday was my First Thanksgiving. I was at the center of the process with a full and open heart, not at the edges, where so many find themselves. And it was beautiful all day, in every way. And I told myself that one ought never to give up on life, at any point, at any age, because you can always find life if your mind is open and your heart is full and you understand that love is the point, love is the process, love is the reason.