Here I am, with a puff of air for this wee blog for today...
More like a wheeze, really...
. 
We celebrated Thanksgiving 2020 this past week. In my geriatric state, I'm growing less and less fond of celebrating the white-folks' mostly violent, aggressive, and selfish takeover of land that wasn't theirs. What I am is increasingly more aware of small things, focusing on my tiny tribe, and realizing that my space either creates nostalgia and peace, or chaos and discord.
I'm also trying to wrangle some of the noise to keep it inside, rather than flashing it around like Joseph's loud, multi-hued jacket that seemed to mostly piss other people off.
Synesthesia. I've talked about it before- it's like an amalgamation of the senses- all of them, some of them, two of them... cacophony of smells; bright noises; loud, extra-flavored sights; chaotic tastes; hearing the rainbow... it's like swimming in "can't turn it down" or drowning in color.
The other day- Thanksgiving- was like that. Well, to be honest, this whole week has been a little on the edge of swimmy, but last night when I went to bed, I wasn't sure if I was wrapped in sound or hearing smell or seeing taste. (*I blame a lot of crap on my stroke, but - as I've said before- I have no idea what's stroke, what's "tired," what's "old," and what's stress. Or what's ALL of the above or any combo. And all I can articulate is "I'm tired," or "I feel weird," because I have yet to find the words appropriate enough to genuinely explain everything happening in my brain, heart, and soul.)
So Thanksgiving...
I've had a lot of "my first... so and so's..." and this past week was full of them- baby Sprout, our first Thanksgiving in our home, being #gromparents, etc... but for some reason, Thursday felt weighty with FIRST. Like, even typing the word "first" just now, I felt like it should be huge and bold and laden with the heft it deserves.
Holidays always remind me of the important people and of the memory-food with which I've been surrounded in my life- grandparents, casseroles, smells, soft wrinkled elbows and liver-spots on aged knuckles... for years I've said "this tastes like my grandmother," which makes perfect sense to me, but then I also know that to other people it sounds like I'm the Gormagon they searched for in several "Bones" episodes, or that annoying, bejeweled crab in Moana... NO, I didn't EAT my grandmother... it's just that certain TASTES instantly whisk me back to her SMELL.....
The giver or person responsible for holiday nostalgia, though, to me, has always been reserved for my grandparents, parents, aunt, or "the grownups" in my life. Only those folks. So, the biggest FIRST I experienced Thursday was the fact that this year, in 2020, I held the nostalgia baton for the first time. I have spent 46 years racing, running, panting, grasping... and in 2020- the most bizarre, oddly juxtaposed synesthetic year of all years ever- I had the solid, 5-hour-turkey, clove-stuffed, deviled-egg, can-of-gelatinous cranberry, punch-bowl, where-are-we-going-to-sit, shape of that stick in my reach- heavy with memories, white-corn green beans and yeast rolls. My fingers wrapped around the baton, so I held on in this wonky terrified proud. I was the grownup. THAT grownup. Swimming in all the senses of it, racing forward, I served. I didn't get to change clothes, but I smiled for the day of it anyway. I rolled my eyes at the inevitable annoyances, watched my husband carve the bird, played Scribblio with the virtuals, held my beautiful grandbaby, listened to the laughter, wished it were quiet, and prayed gratitude that it wasn't. Clinging to the baton passed to me by those wrinkled, spotted fingers.
And I missed my aunt, Millicent. Horribly. Thanksgiving and Christmas, for my entire life- save a couple of selfish years- were spent with her. Always with her. And they still will be, in a way... she has solidified and deep-burned a brand into that part of my soul reserved for "yaces," doll trunks and brownie mix, watching The Who's "Boris the Spider" concert video, and listening for reindeer paws on the roof while John Denver sings with Miss Piggie... sigh, the memories of that woman. I hold onto them tighter than that baton I mentioned earlier, but the grip for each is so close... I can hear Emmett Otter and I'm oh-so-longing for his jugband Christmas...
I race on, holding that heart-stick in one hand, and my grandma's "after Thanksgiving turkey sandwich" (Dukes mayo, salt/ pepper, iceberg lettuce ONLY, thank you very much) in the other. Wheezing- I mentioned that earlier, didn't I? Wheezing, racing, steadily pounding footstep memories into scrapbook blogs... I'll hold the stick until God says it's time for me to pass it on...
"...let us run with endurance the race God has set before us 2. by keeping our eyes on Jesus, the champion who initiates and perfects our faith..."
Hebrews 12:1b-2
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