Gratitude for the Rest of Us, Again
In case thankfulness is not flowing like gravy
Hello friends—If you’ve been around for a year, you’ll recognize the title of this piece. As I was mulling on a perky “Death and Thanksgiving” follow-up to my last post, I re-read this story and was surprised by how much I still stand by it. That’s the funny thing about writing—once it is out there, it stays stagnant while we change, and sometimes we disagree with our past selves.
But I found myself nodding along because, during this week, it is easy to feel guilty when we aren’t brimming over with gratitude. While I believe the practice of gratitude is good for our souls, I don’t think guilt or willpower are the best ways in. May I humbly suggest the practice of curiosity, of pausing to consider why an attitude of gratitude feels hard? I’ve found that a little gentleness with ourselves gets us much further than cranking out a smile.
And so, Gratitude for the Rest of Us, Again. Maybe I’ll leave the death piece for a holly jolly Christmas post ;)
If you aren’t in a sad place this year, I guarantee someone in your life is. You can use the button at the bottom to share it with anyone having a difficult time this holiday season.
If you haven’t heard, the holidays are upon us, which feels pretty strange to me. However, this is a different kind of strange than last year’s when I found myself in England for Thanksgiving. I ended up helping my friend have a baby at home before any medically trained humans arrived, the entire spectacle well beyond my pay grade. That’s a story for another day, although may I suggest celebrating Thanksgiving in England? The grocery stores and traffic situation are a dream!
This year’s strangeness has something to do with how much we’re all holding. The world feels heavy, my people’s lives feel heavy, my own grief feels heavy. All this heaviness makes commencing a month of merriment feel weird. A few days ago, I clicked between ideas for a giant graze board I’m prepping and an article about how the bread has run out in Gaza.
Maybe you’re better at sitting with the paradox, but I’m finding it a lot for my little heart to hold.
And now we’re at the week where everyone talks about being thankful.
I’m thankful, right? How could I not be?
Look at all of this.
How could I not be?
All right: ready, set, BE THANKFUL! I spin my internal Rolodex of spiritual practices until it lands on gratitude, and a slip of paper spits out instructions: Compile Thee a Comprehensive and Lengthy List of Gratitudes.
Oh yes, the ol’ gratitude list. Easy-peasy. I open my journal and attempt a list but end up blanking out and staring into space until a scoop of gelato made from water buffalo milk comes to mind. Wow, Jac, could you be any more obnoxious? I hate myself a little. Also, you cannot believe the perfection that is this gelato.
Three more entries get scribbled down: brilliant red maple leaves, good news about an aunt’s cancer, and kids laughing at a dumb unicorn joke in my new book. Maybe there’s more, but this whole endeavor is making me tired. I’m sorry to report I’m not bubbling over with gratitude.
I stare at the list, disappointed in myself. Four? I only have four things I’m grateful for, and one of them is gelato. Really deep here, Jac. How do I not have enough to fill notebook after notebook with a thousand good gifts? What is wrong with me? The voice is familiar and mean, my life-long companion, criticizing my every move.
Much of my work in the last few years has been paying attention to when it shows up and listening instead for a much kinder voice. Eventually, somewhere through the self-loathing comes a gentler tone. How about a little curiosity? A little compassion for yourself? Maybe you are tired because you are sad. Maybe you could make a list of sorrows instead. And if that doesn’t turn out to be a good idea, we’ll try something else.
I exhale. A list of sorrows? Feels risky. I’m usually up for any experimental self-reflective exercise, but isn’t this going to make me depressed? Before I can contemplate further, the list begins writing itself. It pours out as I consider what I’ve been carrying, the sadness that’s filled my pockets in the last months, the last year. It grows as I imagine the faces of people I love and their pockets full of grief, the people I don’t know, and their grief too.
I exhale again, this time with relief. I’m surprised at the solace it brings to name the sadness, to make space for it, and not force the positivity as I often do. The piles of grief sit silently in front of me, heaps upon heaps. I’m not sure what to do with them. All I manage is piling the heaps in God’s hands and muttering, “Help, please.”
Somewhere in the quiet, I hear myself laughing.
A memory from a last-minute trip home to Illinois popped into my head. I wasn’t expecting the trip to include much laughter because the purpose was to be with family who’d been evacuated from Jerusalem because of the war in the region. However, I underestimated the healing power of the Midwest during harvest. And I underestimated my 90-year-old grandma. Gram has more life in her pinky than most of us do in our entire bodies, and she was determined to join in the fun and ride in the combine to watch her corn roll in. For you city slickers, a combine is a giant tractor with a steep staircase.
The combine is a hearty climb, and we weren’t sure Gram would make it up the stairs. Not to be easily deterred, my uncles and cousins hatched a plan to bustle her into the front scoop of another tractor and hoist her up if needed. I remember standing in the field, corn stalks swirling around, dogs and kids scampering about, all of us doubled over with laughter at the thought of Gram being scooped up and lifted high into the heavens, legs kicking over the side of the tractor like a happy baby.
The laughter cut through the sadness then, and it cuts through the sadness now.
I’m not sure I would have gotten there if I hadn’t started with grief.
Maybe that’s the way to gratitude this year.
Maybe it’s the time to start the Thanksgiving dinner conversation with, “What’s been hard for you lately?” before we move on to all the thankful business. And maybe I’ll be the only one sobbing in my mashed potatoes, but I have a sneaky suspicion that if we allowed a little more room on the table for sorrow, delight might show up and surprise us too.
Happy Sad Thanksgiving, my friends.
Love, Jackie
We shake with joy, we shake with grief, what a time they have, these two housed as they are in the same body. - Mary Oliver
I’d love to hear your thoughts.
Or connect with me on Instagram: @jackieknapp_
This is why I want to read everything you write, Jackie. I am not better at sitting with the paradox. I am better for sitting with you.
Just catching up on my reads this week and loved hearing about paradoxes and your amazing Grandma!