21 November 2023

Ah, the quick vacillating moods of the holiday season!  After a pleasingly productive day yesterday, when I ticked through my to-do list with efficient aplomb, I woke this morning thinking of last night’s Netflix movie, Nyad, a film about 64-year-old Diana Nyad’s finally successful swim 111 miles across the Florida Straits from Havana to Key West.  The film should have been inspirational, and certainly was graced with the world-class acting of Annette Bening and Jodie Foster.  But the glancing subplot of Nyad’s pedophiliac swim coach’s assault left its disheartening stain, so much so that instead of getting out of bed at an appropriate time, I went back to sleep for another sleep cycle, which dispelled my Nyad-induced misanthropy but left me feeling guilty about wasting the morning and filled with the generalized dread that too often clouds my first waking moments

I settled at my desk rehearsing the four tenets of Stoicism I’ve been trying to practice since acquiring my copy of The Daily Stoic:

1. Accept only what is true.
2. Work for the common good.
3. Match needs and desires with what is in your control.
4. Embrace what nature has in store.

That’s when my sister Jane called to talk about her latest cancer meds, loss of appetite, and happy/sad recollections of Thanksgivings past that of course made both of us struggle with loss and, yes, more dread of what lies ahead.  We did our best to keep from sinking into the slough of despond.  But just after her call, I found a NYT “Best of Late Night” email directing me to Colbert’s welcoming David Letterman back to the Ed Sullivan Theatre.  That sent me to You Tube to watch the whole interview:  a time-wasting no no, that:  day watching.  When seeing Dave reclaim his Late Show desk made me cry, I knew it was time for action:  oatmeal followed by a brisk walk up and down Hayes Road.

And, indeed, the dependable endorphins kicked in, despite the challenge of every experience prompting comparison with the past:  a Piper Warrior turning gas into noise overhead recalling our adventurous flying days, the stone wall to the west reminding me of videoing David pulling down the “For Sale” sign on the property we’d just bought.  And then, so many significantly wonderful Thanksgivings came to mind:  my mother’s milk glass on the table when I first returned home from college with my typewriter in my suitcase because I had a paper to finish; entertaining all the Americans abroad in London after marching across Regents Park to fetch some oysters in the shell; forming a “bucket brigade” line from the dumb waiter to our big library table the year we had 16 over for a dinner of everything except the two farm-fresh turkeys I’d bought because the ice storm brought the power lines down and the oven was out of commission.

Of course, recent days have brought pleasures great and small.  Marianne and Otto, dear friends of 30+ years, came to visit from Munich; we had a lovely time at the Portland Symphony, catching up on a familiar stroll ‘round Wagon Hill, and sharing the great pleasure of putting old and newer friends together over cocktails.

Strangers, too, seemed to embrace a holiday kindness—at the E-Z Pass service center, of all places, no one complained of the wait and folks in line smiled at each other; a couple even started a conversation and discovered mutual acquaintances.  When I bumped into and spilled a bowl of Market Basket chocolate chip cookies, a fellow Thanksgiving-scrum shopper immediately helped me pick them up—and even offered my embarrassed self absolution:  “Everyone makes mistakes!”  And a couple of days back, my blowing leaves into our woods led to my recovering the bird feeder a bear had absconded with early last summer, unbroken save for a missing perch.  When I told the Wild Birds shop owner of my happy discovery, he gave me the very part I needed to replace free of charge.  And I got a lovely message from my long-time friend Ann now teaching in Toyko.  Email from abroad still strikes me as delightfully rare and strange, a happy techno miracle.

So.  I’ll overlook the theft of my recycle garbage can last Friday; guess that gives new meaning to recycling.  I’ll try my best to comfort my sister.  And I’ll remember that the presidential election is still a year away and endeavor to ignore the polls that put that unspeakable candidate ahead of birthday boy Biden.  There is cranberry chutney to make for Thanksgiving dinner at my wonderful neighbors’ home come Thursday, Christmas cards to begin addressing, and much to be thankful for, past and present.  A scroll through the past year’s photos on my phone provides tonic ocular proof.

“Dreadnought,” I find, can be a battleship (after the 1906 HMS Dreadnought), an acoustic guitar body, a warm coat, and a fearless person.  But it’s also good advice:  Dread naught, Dear Readers, and seize the day of giving thanks.