Today is a day of mourning for Native Americans. It has been so for fifty years. As our country awakens again to the tragedies that have dogged us at every stage of our history, it’s difficult to find a holiday that can be celebrated without mixed feelings.

Truthfully, what holiday was ever free of baggage? These days were already burdened with the small and large issues we have with them, wrapped up in financial woes, boundaries with family members, or our own dark personal struggles.

If you go back to my very first blog post, I talked about the pressure of trying to make all the holiday magic by myself. In the couple of years since then, I’ve realized that I don’t have to do it alone.

A week before the holiday, I met with the Chaplain and each of my three older kids and asked them which dishes were most important to them for the Thanksgiving spread. We divided up the work and made a shopping list. The Chaplain and our oldest son, a newly licensed driver, took care of the grocery shopping.

Our table was influenced by “traditional” Thanksgiving foods that we’ve come to expect at the table, blended in with Pennsylvania Dutch, Southern, and Caribbean influences – Uncle Dave’s Coffee-Infused Sweet Potatoes, Grandma’s Mashed Potatoes and Chocolate Pudding Pie, Georgia Fried Okra, Cousin Faye’s Stewed Pigeon Peas, Grandma’s Coleslaw, Bubbleloaf, Corn, Green Beans, Ham, Roast Turkey and fixings, and Pumpkin Pie.

I was only responsible for a few dishes. Like pros, my kids and husband planned when they needed to be in and out of the kitchen, with shifts starting yesterday. We coordinated oven temperatures and cooking times. We rearranged the fridge. We rearranged the oven racks. We filled the house with amazing smells.

The dining room table was cleared, cleaned, and set without my saying a word. When we finally sat down for The Meal together, we had a sense of satisfaction about what each of us had contributed to the table.

My oldest son, in a long-held family tradition, criticized his offerings even though they tasted great. Also a family tradition, there were subtle (and not so subtle) solicitations for compliments on our contributions. My oldest daughter shared with us a bit about mindful eating she’d read in a magazine recently. We enjoyed the good food and the company.

A little part of me wishes every family dinner could be this collaborative and well attended. Another part of me wondered if I’d done enough to acknowledge the Indigenous People whose lives and cultures were dashed on the rocks when the settlers landed 400 years – pilgrims who weren’t my people, although they were my color. I feel responsible for them sometimes.

This Thanksgiving, I took a walk by myself. I took a nap after lunch that was so deep I was dreaming. I had help with the dishes and clean up, and I didn’t have to ask for it. Everyone was content and it was wonderful. We made the memories together. After most of the kids were in bed, the Chaplain and I took a walk together, a treat we haven’t had for many months.

I go to bed many nights feeling like I should have saved a shred of energy to write in a gratitude journal. I know that whatever small mercies I don’t document will be gone by morning, and yet every night, I fall asleep without writing them down. This post, on an ambivalent American holiday, is my attempt at getting those words of gratitude into print.

I’m thankful for a quiet day at home with family, the damp, mild weather, and the thousand drops of water that hung from every branch of every bush and tree on my morning walk today, each containing a tiny world.