November’s reminder: Live fully
When the pumpkins were plump and glorious a couple of weeks ago, and the trees ripened in crimson, flame orange and bright yellow, I soaked in all that fleeting beauty. And I felt November coming.
Do you have a month that reminds you of seismic life events, both joyful and sad? Maybe the month when your first child was born, or you started a business — or even suffered the loss of a loved one.
To live is to pile up these milestone moments year-by-year. Sometimes they cluster in a single, loaded month. For me, that’s November.
Light & Darkness
November’s light is wise and clarifying. It reveals what should stay and what should go, shines upon gratitude, gathering and family. This month reminds me I’m living a full, good life, worth appreciating — even the painful parts.
I spent much of November in 2009 at Akron General Hospital, in my dad’s intensive care room during visiting hours. When I could not visit, I did my work in the cafeteria. As he slept deeply in a medical coma, I held his hand and clung to him with every ounce of my energy, telling him stories and talking to him about strength and the healing pinks and oranges of the sunrise.
In a tug-of-war with death, in my mind’s eye, I dug my heels into thick, splattering mud, my blistering hands and those of my sister and dad’s girlfriend pulling the rope. No. Not now. Not yet. Pulling. Pulling. Praying.
He recovered, and was out of the woods by Thanksgiving — one richer and sweeter than ever. We promised him a special turkey dinner when he was fully recovered. Three months later, our Thanksgiving in February tradition began.
I’m obsessed with telling that story, as some of you may know. Short version: Dad’s longtime girlfriend and daughters and ex-wives all pulled together into a functional family unit when he was sick. We all celebrated together in February with a big turkey dinner. Here’s the blog it inspired.
Family Gatherings
But — one kind of funny part is that no one ever mentioned that we did not typically all spend Thanksgiving together, anyway. It didn’t seem to matter.
Of course I spent a few childhood Thanksgivings with my dad. I just don’t seem to remember them.
What I most remember is my maternal grandmother’s hallmark pear salad, assembled on the small plate atop the stack at each place set for my family: My mom and grandfather, my uncles, aunts and cousins, as we crowd and take our seats around an oval dining table.
During the blessing, half a canned pear, with a dollop of cream cheese and a bright red maraschino cherry atop a single leaf of lettuce, sits perfectly untouched. Then, we sit and start to pick at the pears as the roll toss begins.
“Hey, pass me a roll!” one of my uncles asks his brother, who sails a dinner roll Hail Mary-style per tradition from one end of the table to another — or, as our family grew, into a second table in the next room. For decades, when I could no longer be there, I craved this family gathering.
Instead of making a long trip home, I celebrated “Friendsgiving” in Boston with my college friends. In my 30s, Thanksgiving was a road trip and long weekend in Philadelphia, the home of the fun-loving family of my then-boyfriend and later ex-husband. In the afternoon, I’d duck out for a long, quiet walk through downtown Philly.
November’s New Growth
A year after dad’s illness, I let go of that dying marriage. Done. Let’s free each other of this albatross that led us to the new places we needed to go, before we drown. I was numb through that holiday, a deer in the headlights.
But it had not been the kind of love that carries you past old age.
That love arrived, almost exactly a year later. His kind, handsome face lit up when we talked at a Halloween party about his boys playing baseball. I was hooked. Twice that November we’d sat talking in restaurants until the staff was vacuuming around us.
My mind still goes swimmy and butterflies zip around my belly when I re-live falling in love with my husband. In-between the dishes and the taking out the trash last night, I remind him, as November reminds me: Eight years ago, by the way, you’d finally e-mailed me, and I answered. We were talking about your brother’s wedding, and the fall chores like raking leaves and stacking wood.
November is the joy of gaining a new family — as I was losing a huge part of my family. (A little more about our first Thanksgiving.)
November’s Losses
Thanksgiving the next year was my dad’s last. In a snapshot from that day, our tangled, grafted family stands around him on the front steps of his house. He’s a shadow of himself, skinny and ashen, wearing a stained green t-shirt and grey sweatpants — not at all his typical holiday attire of a crisply ironed shirt, sweater vest and leather jacket.
A bittersweet moment. An exquisitely beautiful and painful image. We are all together and smiling. Functional. We know the time is waning. Is it the chemo or the cancer giving him the most trouble? It’s hard to say. My dad and his longtime girlfriend, my mom (his first ex-wife) and stepdad, my stepmother (dad’s second ex-wife), and my sister (we share a dad and have different moms), plus my dad’s brother and his wife. Together for now.
Live Fully & Deliciously
Soon, my husband and I started hosting the big family meals. Dad is gone and that family has scattered. My mom and stepdad join us in central Pennsylvania. This time last year.
During one of the first meals we hosted, I explained how my family does this traditional roll toss.
“Lisa,” my oldest stepson, then 17, said and corrected. “We’re your family.” It meant the acceptance that was so important to me, not replacement of anyone.
My heart melted like butter. Before I could cry — he sailed a dinner roll down the table to his younger brother. Now our family meals begin that way, too. In the course of a single year, I’d lost my dad — and gained a family of my own.
Our Purpose?
November’s days leading to Thanksgiving are constant, rich reminders of all these joyful, painful family moments. As I pull the linens and polish the silver, and find a special place for the crystal punch bowl that belonged to my husband’s grandmother, this film reel will play in my mind.
You may have one of your own, and maybe it’s full of people you miss, too. That’s OK. November reminds us to keep loving, no matter what comes our way.
A local, talented graphic artist, Sean McCauley, recently showed his brightly colored, images of flowers and rainbows — that also included dark, sad parts like green clouds and tears below the rainbow and dark, hairy spiders under a smiling daisy. His artwork is his response, his antidote to the cultural pressure to show the world we’re happy all the time.
Rich Reminders of Light & Darkness
We’re not happy all the time — and that’s OK. Those spiders are lovely to me, too. We need them and lots of cool critters as part of healthy soil that grows beautiful food and flowers. Rainbows are all the more beautiful after the dark storm.
I’m with Sean on this. We can feel the full spectrum of life’s colors and still move forward — actually, it’s HOW we move forward.
The purpose is to live fully — sadness, grief, joy, bliss, satisfaction — all of it. To be kind, and joyful, love and be loved, appreciate, and to figure out our purpose.
November reminds us of life in all its rich glory, light, falling darkness — and gratitude for the full experience of it all. I wish you a full life, and a delicious November.