Thankful Survivors

At the Pilgrims museum in Plymouth last year (yup, a real place, and real trunk.) Ali, in happier times, with mannequins modeling the T-giving look.

​Tuesday afternoon, Ali rages across the field next to our house, tears streaming down her face as she yells words lost to the wind. 
 
The day before, New Mexico (like much of the country) went on lockdown again, effectively shutting down all non-essential gatherings, like Ali’s hip hop class.  This was to be 8-year old Ali’s first hip hop class, and she’s frustrated because she can’t keep up with the moves on zoom.  This was actually to be Ali’s first boots-on-the-ground activity with peers since March.
 
Tired of living in virtual isolation, Ali laments that her entire 9th year on the planet has been dealing with COVID and its restrictions.  
 
There’s something liberating about her full-blown tantrum; catharsis most of us don’t rationally allow ourselves, but probably should.
 
“And Thanksgiving won’t be as fun as last year,” she sobs.
 
Thanksgiving last year was a blast, as we spent the week in Vegas with family friends the Rogers, taking in the Hoover Dam, Cirque de Soleil, shopping, then joining together in a big Thanksgiving meal back in Los Angeles, where neither of us live anymore.
 
Our table will be smaller this Thursday, as will most.  Travel bans are in effect. 
 
But on a deeper level, there are 252 THOUSAND (252,000) empty chairs at American Thanksgiving tables this year due to COVID in the United States alone…among the empty place settings, my friend Andy’s father, Alain’s aunt, Christina’s mother, Kathy’s father.
 
Then, there are those who lost family this year not from COVID: Andrew whose dad died in July, Jill whose husband passed away last month (leaving her and their three children under the age of 10),  Ragon’s dad this past Monday, and of course dear Anna, whose daughter would be in 6th grade had she not tragically and unexpectedly died in December. 
 
This, I realize, is the price of growing older, of living life: to carry the loss of those we love. We survive, carrying the best of them, sometimes buoyed by their spirit, sometimes crushed by their absence. COVID has heightened our losses, while further isolating us from those we still have with us.
 
History shows us we are not alone, or even unique. 399 years ago, by the time the 50 surviving Pilgrims met with the Wampanoag tribe to celebrate what we call “the First Thanksgiving”, a staggering 51 Pilgrims had already perished in the New World.  Even with their sense of fatalism, were the Pilgrims inwardly grieving half their tribe as they gave thanks? Were they burdened by the price of their survival?
 
Nevertheless, they were carrying on with traditions as best they could, because in 17th century England, every yearly harvest was greeted with a festival of gratitude.
 
Gratitude: most important when we may least feel it. 
 
Nobel Peace Prize winner Albert Schweitzer said it better: 
“At times, our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us.”
 
This year, who has been a spark to you:  a friend, cousin, neighbor, teacher, student, colleague, client, family?  Call. Email. Text. Zoom. Thank those who keep us going. 
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And let’s remember those odd and unexpected silver linings of COVID: a chance we never would have otherwise taken, an opportunity we created out of lack, a statement we made despite restrictions. 
 
Here are my top 2020 COVID silver linings:
 
1) Carving out a new life in New Mexico in a beautiful new home, complete with this new blog. 

2) Forming friendships with some Amherst classmates, which have grown out of monthly zoom calls started in March after our reunion was canceled. I am genuinely grateful to get to know these movers and shakers better than I ever did in college. 

3) Watching (via video) my incredible cousin Nicky get married in Maine, and Ali’s amazing teacher Cecily (via zoom) get married in California tomorrow. There’s something inspiring about people who stand up for love in the midst of a pandemic. 

And when I feel the loss of what might have been, I’ll look to Ali’s example, and rage when I must. 
 
We have here, now. So like those famous Plymouth residents 400 years ago, let’s celebrate this harvest as the survivors we are.