Many moons came and went since 1621: the year the pilgrims celebrated their harvest meal feeling gratitude for, well, being alive.
Approaching 400 years later, I sat down to carry on the worthwhile tradition of that thankful first harvest. "Friendsgiving" was more like it in 2014 because the meal I shared was mostly between friends, not family. It also wasn't the first time I sat around a dinner table where each guest said a few words about something for which they were thankful.
Sheepishly is how these things start, with bashful red cheeks and corny lines. It's like we were swimmers standing on the pool deck gazing at the water and just not wanting to jump in. Someone has to, though, and so does everyone else. It sometimes takes a while but the remarkable does show up: awkwardness and procrastination and disinterest are stretched out and everyone starts to warm up and take pleasure in the practice, in the routine, in the tradition. Glad to be who we are, where we are, alive and kicking.