All I could not say
On Thanksgiving, when it's hard to show up, putting the garden to bed, dahlias, dreaming, gratitude, grief, winter, and the grey Ohio sky. (6-min. read)
Once upon a time, I stopped celebrating Thanksgiving. It was after A. died, when the thought of gathering around a table with his absence was unbearable. No games of Scrabble, where his sly, silent takeovers would have me cursing and both of us laughing. No chats over pours of wine. No watching him nap on the couch while the woodstove roared away.
I felt, during those years, that I couldn’t show up. It felt too painful, too scary to face the finality of that unknown.
So I turned to work in those years, volunteering to work Thanksgiving, opting to be in community with my fellow colleagues in the newsroom, even if they’d drawn the short straw to be there. We’d work quietly. I found the chirp and beep of the police scanners comforting. Then, we’d gather in the large conference room for the food — usually a Thanksgiving spread from Bob Evans, ordered by the directors for the holiday skeleton crew.
Being able to say “I have to work” was the most tidy, uncomplicated reason to avoid gatherings of all kinds. No one asked questions, or lingered too long at that reason. No one tried to make me feel better, and no one made me feel awkward.
After all, I could not say: “I don’t want to be around anyone else’s family, happy or squabbling or otherwise, because I am not with mine, because mine has been irrevocably blown up and I cannot stomach the reality that nothing, nothing is as it was.”
I could not say, “The center cannot hold.”
I could not say, “Your happiness is a reminder of all I have lost.”
I could not say, “We are specks of dust floating on space rock, with all this space between us and around us, and I cannot eat mashed potatoes and think about this at the same time.”
I could not say, “I am grieving, and I don’t know that my tender, broken heart can handle it.”
I could not say, “I love you, but I don’t know how to show up right now.”
I could not say it, any of it. Sometimes I still can’t. But I guess that’s what the writing is for: the unsayable thing.
The mild November we’ve had tricked me into inaction. This past weekend, after putting it off for weeks, I cut back the dahlia and peony stalks. I cut back the strawflowers, salvaging a handful of unspent heads to hang in the kitchen to dry out. I cut back calendula, daisies, and coneflowers. I layered the dahlia and peony stalks, along with dried grasses and leaves, over the dahlia bed.
Taking a tip from a local flower farmer, I’m attempting to perennialize 14 dahlia plants I have in the ground by covering them with natural compost material (about 10”+ inches), then covering it with tarp. The goal is to insulate them enough from the cold (hence the thick layer of compost), and keep them from getting too saturated with moisture (hence the tarps). Dahlias hate wet feet. They want to be warm and dry.
Putting the garden to bed has always elicited weird emotions for me. It’s the end of a cycle, the end of a season. Everything dies back, goes dormant. Ohio transforms into one big grey sky. But over the past two years, I’ve started leaning into winter. The body will mirror the changing seasons whether we like it or not. What would happen if, instead of fighting it, I gave in to it?
This has made all the difference. It means more quiet time, more alone time in winter. It means cozy weekends with candles burning and books to read and writing time. It means less socialization. It means more time spent with my inner thoughts. It has required a SAD lamp (thank goodness for whoever conceptualized light therapy) and enough sleep, but thanks to those things, winter is often my most productive writing time of the year.
It also becomes a perfect time to dream about garden things. I love spending time planning what vegetables and flowers to grow, and plotting where everything will go. I make lists of the things I’ve bought: seeds, bulbs, tubers, and bareroot plants. I sketch outlines of my garden beds, make spreadsheets, and plan my list of late-winter and early-spring tasks. I find that winter doesn’t feel like it lasts that long, when I’m dreaming, planning, and writing. I appreciate the time for what it is: a reprieve, an opening of space, a necessary clearing.
Somewhere along the way, after a few years of avoiding Thanksgiving, things changed. Little by little, I have opened back up, grateful for the opportunity to bustle around and then slow down.
This weekend, as I found myself double and triple-checking my to-do list and getting antsy about all the things I need to do before heading to the farm, I remembered what it was like when I couldn’t show up at all. I remembered that the bustle — the flurry of activity that leads up to planning and executing the main event — is not worth being a source of stress. We are, all of us, trying our best, I think — looking for ways to show up. And if we can’t show up for others right now, figuring out how to show up for ourselves.
I have found that over time, things do mend. There is nothing that can replace such irrevocable losses — the people who once gathered around our table who have gone on to some other plane, for instance. But just like broken bones knit themselves back together and wounds close over time, I have found new ways of being, new ways of showing up for my family. There are scars and bumps, sure. But time is fleeting and precious, and it’s a finite gift that always runs out. I want to be able to show up, however imperfectly. I’m grateful I’ve made it to a place where I can.
Yesterday, I came across an article by poet and journalist Natalie Eilbert, who writes for the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel. It’s about the science behind gratitude, and how gratitude actually makes us feel better.
Here’s an excerpt:
“Gratitude can come to us at unexpected moments, especially following chaos, the way a storm sometimes breaks for a spectacular sunset. It can serve as a reminder that the world is still capable of offering something at once powerful and grounding, despite wreckage. Gratitude can strengthen and fortify us every day, but so often, it assumes itself as the act of taking stock after loss.”
“Gratitude goes far beyond giving thanks once a year before a cornucopia of Thanksgiving splendors and family. Expressed with intention, gratitude has a profound effect on the brain, one that plays a critical role in how we understand and take care of ourselves and others, from loved ones to strangers.”
— “If you think gratitude and thankfulness make you feel better, you’re right. And science backs it up,” Natalie Eilbert, Milwaukee Journal Sentinel.
What would happen if we opted to make intentional gratitude a permanent practice? What if we started this week? I don’t know the answers to any of these questions, but I feel like I have a duty to try. The world needs it.
Finally, thank you, reader, for being on this writing journey with me. I’m grateful for being invited into your inboxes, for the comments and emails from you, and the connections we’ve made. Writing this has inspired me to keep going, and I appreciate your support of my creative journey.
Wishing you all a happy Thanksgiving. May you show up however you need to.
Love watching you settle into your joy and cotentedness, friend. Grateful for all these years of knowing and learning from you. ♡
Happy Thanksgiving, Ashley❤️ Another beautiful piece of writing that tugged at my heart and made me think of how I , too, wanted to drop out of the holidays! I still feel that way, my parents passed 5 months apart 26 years ago and it really did kick me in the gut. Our son is 16 years in the Marine corps and he has had several deployments , to scary places , over the years. He is currently on a ship, somewhere, with no communication to his mom and dad , and it really makes for a tough holiday. But, thanks to your words this morning, I ,too, will show up. Thank you for showing me the way!