It’s 85 degrees out today. Hard to get into the holiday spirit, though I did truck off to Trader Joes and Whole Foods to get pumpkin pies, whipped cream, yams, butter and pecans for my portion of our community potluck. I’ve been focusing on eliminating some of the richer foods in my diet so I’m not particularly excited about facing the four table spread that awaits on Thursday. I’d like to steer away from the food part of Thanksgiving and really, the historical piece of it doesn’t particularly enthrall me, although the reality that the settlers actually sat down with Native Americans and had a peaceful meal together must be saluted considering what ensued in the following two hundred years. I don’t particularly feel like counting my blessings or walking about in a delirium of gratitude (although I am blessed with a terrific life and am most, most thankful for all the love and support and prosperity).

What is it I’d really like to do this weekend? Just carry on, really, not do anything overly special. A movie would be nice—haven’t seen a new release at a theater in a few months. A walk on the beach with my husband, maybe drive south to Long Beach and take the dogs to the dog beach there—a family outing. I love to play games with friends, but not sure that’s going to happen this time as my good friend, who usually hosts the game night, is recuperating from surgery.

I’d like to write. I’ve been organizing my files, putting poems and essays into specific folders so I’ll know what stage of the process they’re in: Ready to Submit for Publication or Revisions in Progress or the sad Uncertain Fate. I’d like to get a couple of submissions out in the mail by Monday, have my essays all printed, 3-hole punched and snapped into the binder marked “Manuscript” that sits on the shelf to the right of me. Reading, yes, that’s a must, at least catch up on a couple of journals I want to leaf through, articles I’ve downloaded on publishing your manuscript, a novel that I’m two chapters into and a half-dozen other books that give me the come-over-here-and-pick-me-up eye every time I pass by them. If the weather turns and a chill should hit the air, a few clouds blow in or (hardly likely) rain should actually fall, then DVD’s, popcorn, a fire in the fireplace, leftovers warmed in the microwave, the Twilight Zone marathon or The Wizard of Oz, and hanging out on the couch at home sounds fabulous.

In truth, this holiday I’m doing a new thing. I’m going with the flow. I’m not fighting it or immersing myself in it. I’m showing up where I need to, where I want to and where the days lead me. It just feels right to do it that way. All around, I’m sure I’ll come out a lot more relaxed and more thankful when Monday rolls around. That’s the theory, anyway. I hope you have the Thanksgiving you most want and that giving and thanking swirl around you and in you, as well as every one you love.

Mushrooms

Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding.

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot’s in the door.

Sylvia Plath

How Happy is the Little Stone

How happy is the little Stone
That rambles in the Road alone,
And doesn’t care about Careers
And Exigencies never fears—
Whose Coat of elemental Brown
A passing Universe put on,
And independent as the Sun
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute Decree
In casual simplicity—

Emily Dickinson