Overtures to Thanksgiving

Greetings Gentle Readers,

I feel compelled to share the magnificence of the moon last night. The moon was a perfect half; the night air so sharp and crisp the outline of it was almost tangible. I want to say the moon was glowing, that it was shiny, or that it was luminous but no:  The moon was the perfect combination of abalone, precious Mother of Pearl, and crystal; a direct and intense light nearly brittle in its beauty. And this was not just any crystal, like the kind from a ball room chandelier or from the fringe of a flapper’s dress; this was a crystal of a hardness and entrancement that you had just dug for hours in the red and ocher soil then realized what a perfectly rare creation of the Earth you were holding in your palm.

And what draws one to the Night with such an intensity that prudence and forethought are mere wisps to the mind? Why does the night inspire such energy and dramatic desires?  I suppose the greatest question is why insomnia is such a stultifying experience when it would be more of a relief to be able to flitter about in the dark hours than staring at the carpet in a stupor. Then when the sun just starts to climb, regardless of having gamboled through the night, slept like the innocent, or sat counting bricks in the wall, all the body wants to do is tether the starting sunbeam around oneself and sleep curled in warmth and soothing light.  We can all simply claim, of course,  imagination and subconscious cultural cues but for a simple moment give credit to the sweet siren song of the Night and let us long to sleep in the sun.

And so we come to the days before Thanksgiving and the rush for the Holidays starts.  The past four days have been a soggy and pallid time.  The sky has been grey, the sun has been grey, and the majority of the icy snow has melted into a wet mess of cold puddles and dead leaves.  It is just cold enough to need shoes for long walks but not to need scarves and wool socks, yet regardless of the rather dreary landscape there is a lovely hustle and bustle starting.  I went to The Goshen Market Butchers shop today and I am pleased to say that while I had no idea where I was I didn’t get lost going to the market.  For those that know my ability to get lost in my own house, take this as a sign of a Seasonal Miracle.  The butchers had a stream of people coming in and out picking up pre-orders yet still finding time to open doors for each other and to talk amiably.  Sure, the merits of old time cola and gooseberries for cooking are not earth shatteringly important but the congenial human contact is welcome on grey days and during the Thanksgiving season.  There are those folks , deservedly or not, that have no close family, are ostracized from cousins, or simply alone in their own skin: I truly send you my love and sympathy:  If you are able then perhaps you can gather the Earth and Sky about you and create a pocket of comfort and love;  may there be some human warmth from a local dinner or the open doors of a church if the esoteric is not your frame of mind;  those brilliantly rare people who take solitude as comfort may the rhythm of your own heart beat be a sweet sound.  For my dearest Mother, who will not even know this blog exists, I send out to you “Happy Thanksgiving”; we are staying home so enjoy your dinner at the cafe ’cause you don’t have to cook.

Glad tidings for those that do struggle or have struggled with small business: I had two sales from my Etsy site within nine days of each other!! I am not exactly the best self promoter in the world so to have this happen is exciting.   I sell a creative variety of items, trying to appeal to the odd artist and the vintage jewelry enthusiast while keeping prices reasonable enough.  The chase for a bargain and the thrill of the discovery drives me, truly, and then I have all this jewelry and odd finds slowly taking over my cabochon machine.  I hear stories about treasures found at yard sales and even know a dear friend we can call LH that found a ring with a metal detector when all the rest of us found were pop top tabs.  A bead stringing professional I know, JB, a friend I miss working stones and gem shows with, found a malachite necklace for one dollar at the Goodwill.  And once I found a vintage dress from 1940’s Japan for four dollars at a yard sale.  With a wry chuckle I am still waiting to find a lost Monet or forgotten Faberge.

Tonight is comfortably above thirty degrees and our sweet rescue dog Sorcha is sleeping on her pad.  She snores.  Tonight she snores with little huffy wheezes and at other times we can hear her rumbling while we are in the kitchen. My husband just sighs, and I must admit I am glad I am not the only one that snores in this house.  In our past apartment in Chicago we had, to politely put it, upstair neighbors that were immature:  There were times that my semi-truck-lumberjack snoring was my best revenge on them, unfortunately the Hubby had to listen to me also.  You know it is true love when ya’ offer to sleep on the couch and your Darling says “but I can’t sleep if you’re uncomfortable.”  It is also a true sign when your lover still kisses you first thing in the morning and you could swear a chipmunk died in your mouth.

Below is our attention mongering, fur shedding, bacon stealing, absolute lovey of a dog.  And yes I said shedding.

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(I must explain that we are in the middle of reorganizing our books and I normally do not allow my modest collection of Greek and Roman classics to be so disorganized.  Organizing books is a serious activity in this household and thanks to Ikea we finally have more shelving than books.)

Tonight is Thanksgiving Night and here it has finally dried out somewhat into a lovely, clear, forty-five degree night.  The Moon is full and as lovely and crystalline as it was when it was in half. We had our lamb and sweet potatoes and the dog is the happiest of us because she will get lamb drippings on her kibble and asparagus tonight.  I am thankful that tonight I was able to go barefoot again across the outside ground and have the Earth under my feet, if only for a half hour or so.  For all those far away and having any hollow thoughts:  We are under the same Moon.

Thank You, Gentle Readers,

Be Well

 

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