Home Thoughts From Abroad, Part II: Doing Nothing

Today, I have been thinking about the fine art of doing nothing...

I used to come to this place in large part because it afforded me a chance to "do nothing." In fact, I have come to this peaceful house by myself several times... and have stayed here for two weeks (or longer) without choosing see (or call) a single soul-- beyond a weekly trip to the grocery, and perhaps a few trips to the bakery.

In this modern and hectic world, it seems that most people have forgotten how to "do nothing." Or, our perceptions of what constitutes "nothing" have changed to the point where "nothing" looks a lot more like "something," at least to me. Maybe we're simply misidentifying things we WANT to do as "nothing," and things we DON'T want to do as "something."

I am not sure how this all came to happen, although I will lay some of the blame of the door of our tendency to fear that we are-- somehow-- living an inferior life unless every single moment of our existences is filled with "some activity." If we choose to simply sit still and stare into space, we label it as "wasting time" or "laziness," and start worrying that we are "missing" something.

But is time really something we can "waste?"

And what are we so fearful of?

I mean, consider this: Even when we DO take time to sit still, we almost obsessively label it as "meditation," or "relaxation." That way, we can take nothing-- and our (Secret? Hidden?) desires to do nothing-- and somehow name them as "something," thereby putting an acceptably busy face on them.

It was in this place I first learned to do nothing.

My Aunt Ulla and I would eat lunch-- sometimes dinner-- and afterwards she would come out on the brick patio in front of the house... and sit.

I would come along.
I was maybe six or seven.

She called it "sitting and seeing."

We would simply sit in our chairs, not talking, and look at the world (nature) around us. Leaves moving in the wind, butterflies on the lavender blossoms, birds in the trees, clouds passing by; perhaps listen to the distant sounds of cows, birds and an airplane. Just quiet time; just being alive. In some ways, this was like meditation... but at the same time, there was no "objective" and no "time limit." Sometimes we'd sit for less than ten minutes, sometimes for over an hour.

And yes (for you skeptics out there), as a seven-year old I was capable of sitting still and doing nothing for an hour. In fact, I enjoyed it immensely, coming from a home where I was expected to "make myself useful" during every waking moment.

"Sitting and seeing" has remained a part of my life ever since Ulla first spoke the words and showed me what they meant. She was the first person I knew... and possibly the only person I have known... who truly embraced and lived the idea that "doing nothing" was not some form of laziness and, moreover, was good for people. I haste to add that she was a very active person... but she lived a very balanced life that included daily naps and time to simply watch the grass grow, as well as a rigorous work ethic.

I am now in my 50th year, and back in this place where I learned to "sit and see;" to basically "do nothing." As I look back on the 40-some years between then and now... it saddens me slightly that the three most common responses to my recommendation that we all take regular retreats into "doing nothing-ness" have revolved around assertions of my "being lazy," or "being in denial of reality" and even outright fear. Fear (and skepticism), I suppose, of the notion that someone can truly have "absolutely nothing" going on inside their head. I wonder, sometimes, if Ulla faced those same responses.

I know she and my father would occasionally have heated debates about him always being "so busy" and needing to slow down, and he would assert (as I recall) that she was "out of touch" (with reality). She, in turn, would counter his protestations by telling him that we all have choices, and that he didn't "have to" do so much, he "chose to" do so much.

The bottom line, for me, is that even though we may at times feel like we "have to" do a bunch of things in our lives... we ultimately choose to do those things. Sometimes our reasons are good, sometimes they are not, and sometimes we "stay busy" out of habit, rather than need... or out of some kind of fear that (part of?) our reality will somehow collapse if we choose to not-do something. But to say that we "have to" and there is "no choice" is-- in 95% of cases-- a form of self-deception... most likely we are making an unconscious (or conscious) choice to not do something unpopular, even if it's what we most want to do.

And so, I am going to sit and see, for a while...

Home Thoughts From Abroad, Part I

When English poet Robert Browning penned "Home Thoughts from Abroad," he'd become an ex-pat living in Italy, longing for many simple things of his native England.

I'm no Browning, and my longing for "home" has somewhat passed-- but the title of his famous poem seems like an appropriate metaphor to describe a few ramblings from Denmark, where we will be spending the next three weeks.

As we drove from the airport to this house-- which my grandfather had built in 1939-- Sarah remarked as to how much Denmark "looks like Washington" where we now live. Indeed, this is quite true... western Washington is much like "Denmark with mountains;" water... islands... frequent rains... a myriad shades of green... a certain "softness" to everything.

"Home."

I used to think of going to Denmark as "going home." But what is "home," really? Is it the place you were born, or the place where you settle and find your sense of connectedness to what's around you? Or is it some of both? Perhaps in our youth, home is more of a physical place... but as we age, it becomes more of a feeling; a state of mind. Home ceases to simply exist, and becomes something we create.

This house-- 71 years young-- started as a family retreat, and then became my Aunt Ulla's summer home. Although 14 years my father's senior, she was his youngest sister. As siblings go, they were good friends... connected by an interesting dynamic that often bridged sibling/parental roles. She was one of the few who could tell my father to "calm the f&%# down!" with any measure of success. As I ponder the two of them, I sometimes think the radical differences in their approaches to life-- he: tense, angry, demanding, short tempered, type A; she: calm, patient, philosophical, relaxed-- directly explains why she outlived him by a good 20 years.

The house was named "Tofte" and-- aside from serving as Ulla's favorite place to live-- served as a family retreat of sorts. Set on originally 24 (now 12) acres of wooded land, it became a landing place for people to find peace, young and old alike. Over the years, a steady stream of family members, friends, artists and others would come here for anywhere from a few hours to a few weeks to get away and somehow leave behind whatever ailed them... even if just for a short while.

Although there is now wireless Internet and a flat screen TV in the house, time has pretty much stood still here, since 1939. Time here is... slow. The noisiest thing is the "din" of birdsong... which (at least in summer) starts up around 4:00am and keeps going till 10:30 at night. In the high north, it stays light a long time, in summer...

The presence of Aunt Ulla was central to the healing nature of being here: She was willing to listen sympathetically to anyone's story and woes... after which she'd gently insist that people forget their drama and trauma, perhaps with a suggestion like "Well, I think you should have a beer and go sit in the sun and read a book." It wasn't that she didn't honor that people had difficulties... it was merely that she didn't tolerate anyone wallowing in their troubles. Her particular brand of healing took the form of an invitation to step outside one's troubles... on more than one occasion I can recall her saying things "Well... that'll still be there when you get home, but you can't do anything about it while you're here, and worrying will not help."

"Tofte" is a deeply introspective place. It invites you to look inwards and to "sit in your truth" even if it's rather nasty and unpleasant... the same energy that makes time stand still here also provides a neutral and embracing backdrop against which nothing "new" is piled on top of a person's existing troubles. Which-- of course-- also makes it a deeply healing place, for most people. A few-- and they are very few-- have found the lack of "distractions" and the fact that there is really "nothing to do" here distressing enough that they just want to leave.

I spent a lot of time here, as a child and as an adult. When I was little, we'd come here for family gatherings, and just for weekends. Sometimes-- when my parents were traveling abroad-- I would come and stay here for extended periods of time, becoming part of the place while Ulla looked after me. I would observe the ebb and flow of people, and how they would change as a result of their visits; somehow becoming "lighter" or happier or more balanced. In my late teens and as a young adult, I would spend entire summers here.

I often write, when I am here. Somehow, I seem better able to focus, in these surroundings. In days gone by, other writers... and painters, and artists... found the same to be true, for them. In that spirit, I find myself writing these words.

The seven years that have passed since my last visit is probably the longest I have been away from this place.

End of an Era, Redux...

Sotogrande, Spain, January 19th, 2011

I went back to my past, today. At least... I tried.

My stepfather died, in mid-December, approximately 16 months after my mother passed. A few weeks ago, I wrote in my journal that it was “the end of an era.” I am not entirely sure what that means… but when I went back to look for the house where we lived when I was a teenager, I was not only trying to recover something “lost,” I was also leaving something no longer needed behind.

I lived my teenage years in the south of Spain, growing up in a huge enclave where retired Europeans would come to live out their lives with sun, sea and golf. No, it was not exactly a "normal" teenagehood. In some ways, it was the death of my chance to be a "normal" teenager.

Moving to Spain, back then, was the end of something. The end of my hope for having some semblance of a "normal" closure to my childhood. We had already done the "global nomad" thing when I was younger, but when my parents separated (when I was about 10) my mom and I started living a somewhat normal life, in a normal neighborhood, with normal kids as my friends while I went to a normal school. I felt a sense of... hope... that I might still experience the life it seemed to me most other kids were experiencing.

Moving to Spain killed that. I remember sitting in my window, in March, watching the snow melt... in suppose, in tune with my dreams of "normalcy" melting. I remember watching the last things getting loaded onto the moving truck in June... with an inner sigh at the sense that my 12-year old soul would never have a resting place.

When I look back on those moments with the benefit of almost 40 years of hindsight, I see now that I "stopped caring" about life at the tender age of 12. Nothing seemed to have meaning, anymore. Some part of me had resigned itself to the idea that life never turns out the way you want, so I started simply "marking time" till my death. Maybe that sounds overly dramatic... but it was really just a reflection of my belief that if anything good comes your way, it will just be taken away from you, so the only "reasonable" approach to life is "not caring." About people, places, activities, interests and whatever.

So a few days ago, Sarah and I drove up the old main road from Sotogrande to Nueva Andalucia—a stretch of some 40 miles along the Spanish Mediterranean coast, near Gibraltar. We traveled what used to be the main highway; these days it largely serves as a “local access” road for various coastal towns now bypassed by a major freeway.

As we went, I looked for signs. Signs of anything familiar; anything that would remind me of times of old… of times that might offer me a sense that—once upon a time—this was “home,” in a way. Part of me wanted to be able to say “Yes, I belonged here…” perhaps to somehow validate the 7+ years I spent in this foreign land where I "lost" my childhood. But almost nothing looked familiar.

A small stretch of beach, in a cove. I recognized it as a place I'd sometimes go fishing, although it is now ringed by endless rows of largely empty condominiums. Like the condos, the beach was empty. A row of tattered flags suggested... neglect; something forgotten.

Empty.

When I lived here, I felt empty.

35-odd years later, this place feels empty.

The economic crisis and the real estate decline has hit this part of Spain very hard. The unemployment rate hovers around the 20% mark… if you’re under 30, it’s closer to 40%. If you want to put a frame of reference around that, during the depths of the Great Depression, unemployment reached 25%.

Everywhere you look, there are blocks and blocks of condominiums; thousands of houses… and most of them stand empty. Either, they were never sold in the first place, are currently for sale, or they are owned by someone who only uses them only for a month a year. It leaves you with the impression that you are driving through a ghost town; a cemetery; necropolis.

As we drive along, I recognize so little. Where there once were views of the Mediterranean, there are now views of yet more developments. But there are no people there…

I point to a mountain, off to our left.

“I used to hike up there, from time to time,” I say, “It was as if the air up there was not as thick and oppressive.”

The air here does feel thick and oppressive… these days, it is laden with the scent of desperation and depression. Those who work are grateful they have a job. Luis-- the security guard at my parents' apartment complex-- has been the security guard there for 35 years. He shrugs and tells me that there used to be four of them, now there are only two, then adds "That's life." But there is something else about the air here… it just feels “heavy,” and it makes me feel slow. It did, back then, too.

As we enter the outskirts of the town of Estepona, I point to a hillock I barely recognize… “For a while we went to school here, in some apartments that weren’t being used.” I realize that I only know where I am because I am visualizing the curves in the road, without the buildings...

School was an odd experience, in this “Bubble Land.”

Although we were living in Spain, we really didn’t live IN Spain. A small group of some 100-odd non-Spanish kids gathered from the swank developments built for retired foreigners and were taught under the English school system. Sure, we learned Spanish, but we had little contact with Spain.

As we pass, the site that once was The English School in Estepona, I wonder at the way you no longer can see the sea. More empty apartment buildings. More luxury hotels that show the marks of decline; peeling stucco walls and tattered flags flying out front. And a mostly empty parking lot. Maybe seven guests are staying in the three hundred rooms.

The contours of the mountains look right. Or, at least, familiar.

The bus at a bus stop still has the word "Portillo" on the side... the same company that ran the public bus system, 35 years ago.

“That used to be a really good restaurant;” I point to a building at the side of the highway, trying to remember the rich flavor of their leg of lamb… but I can’t. I also can’t remember the name of the restaurant—just that the proprietors were a flamboyant Belgian chef and his French-Moroccan wife. I played golf with him, from time to time. Now the building is a sales office for yet another development.

It’s only because I am looking for it that I remember the familiar left-right bend in the road—the surroundings are so vastly different from how they looked, in 1975. The exception is a small stretch where the highway crosses the golf course, and the view to the left is much as it used to be, because the land there had already been fully used. Guadalmina was one of the very first large-scale developments on this part of the coast… and that’s where we lived.

Finding the turnoff presents a challenge—you can turn right, but there is no way to turn left. I find it amusing that they were working on the highway by-pass when I visited my parents more than 20 years ago, and certain parts look like they were just barricaded off, back then, and the project appears more or less left stagnant. The people who now live in our old neighborhood must simply put up with the fact that it’s almost impossible to make a left turn to the “mountain” side of the development… and have been putting up with it, for all these years.

Part of me reflects on the fact that this place is where I learned to "put up with" life. I feel sad at the recognition that "putting up with" reflects my primary philosophy for living since 1973.

Eventually, we manage to find the right series of turns…

As I walked to the school bus in the mornings, I would loop around the 4^th green of the local golf course and be able to see if anyone else was waiting for the bus. Usually, nobody was; on most days, I was the only person to be picked up from our development. As we drive the 4^th green loop 35 years later, all I can see are houses, apartments and a strip mall.

Our house was on the first fairway, facing the golf course. The huge old eucalyptus trees still grow by the first green. I can’t tell where the house is, exactly, but I can see the two palm trees that stood in our back yard. As we drive around towards what was once our driveway, I miss the house, however. It has been painted yellow (instead of the original white), and the current owners have built a tall wall around it. It is not until we back up and I find the number “495” on the wall that I realize where I am. The palm tree that once stood outside my room is now gone.

Nothing is the same. And yet… everything is.

The aging people passing by on the golf course are the same; the sense of quiet heaviness of a place where the houses are only occupied a few months of the year remains as it always was; the black iron burglar bars on the windows of every house remain the same.

This place was “too old” for me when I was 14; it remains “too old” for me, even at 50. For a moment I think to pause and yell at my mother: “What were you THINKING, to bring a teenager to this place to raise???”

We stop. We stand under the eucalyptus trees by the first green. I feel no echoes of the past reaching out to me. There’s a chain link fence at the edge of the golf course, now. A sign reads “Private Golf Club. No Admittance.”

I consider going back to the car to get my camera. To take a picture… but who would I show it to? The people I once knew here were my parents’ age, and they are long gone. So would the photo be for me? For what? What would it show? What would I be trying to record? What would I be trying to "keep," and why? I realize there is nothing here for me… except the chance to say goodbye to a part of my life I don’t have very many fond memories of.

We stand, for a while. I touch the trunk of one of the trees. It was here, when I lived here. But even it doesn’t feel familiar.

And so, we drive away.

35 years ago I had recurring dreams of walking back towards the house, while a group of people would walk away, in the opposite direction. I am not sure who they were—maybe they were my hopes and dreams of having an “ordinary” life, maybe they were merely imaginary friends created by my teenage soul to keep me company in this hauntingly desolate place. But I would always feel a great sense of loss and sadness, as they walked away, leaving me behind.

As we head back towards the highway, I grow aware that I have “retrieved myself,” and in the process left “something” behind that I clung to—for years and years—even though I no longer needed it. The people who "stole" my childhood are dead. The unrealistic possibility that they could somehow "bring it back" to me has gone... forever. The final threads tying me to a way I once believed my life might turn out have been cut.

This time it is finally I who get to walk away, and the “something” that gets to be left behind… and a long unfinished chapter in my personal Book of Life can be closed… and maybe I can find a way to start something new.

End of an Era

Soon, Sarah and I head off to the south of Spain.

Whereas that may sound like a lovely thing to do, here during a dark and damp northern winter... this will be-- sadly-- not a vacation or joy ride.

I lived in Spain, when I was a kid. Well, when I was a teenager. After my parents divorced (in Denmark), I moved with my mom to the small town of San Pedro de Alcantara on Spain's Costa del Sol, where we went to live with the new man in her life. In some ways, I'd have to say that I "grew up there," although my life from the time we left Denmark through age 20 involved quite a lot of moving around.

On December 16th, the man I came to know as my stepfather died, at age 92. In some ways, it was surprising that he outlived my mother (who passed in August 2009), but in other ways it seemed like a fitting tribute to his determination to "do his duty," which included taking care of my mom during her latter years.

He was a quiet and frugal man who-- as much as anything-- just wanted people and the world to just leave him alone. Mostly, I shall remember him sitting in his chair with the newspaper, or reading a book. Or eternally muttering at the orange and white cat he took care of, even while constantly complaining about what a "nuisance" it was, and how much he disliked cats.

In that strange way the Universe works, the (by then) ancient cat died just two days after my stepdad, almost as if it realized that its mission in this lifetime had been completed...

And so... I shall return to this strange place where I spent my formative years, this time not to "visit the parents," but to empty and close down the apartment in a place called Sotogrande, which he and my mother shared since the early 1980's, when they sold their large villa and started dividing their time between Spain and Phoenix, AZ.

Once upon a time, I lived in that same apartment complex... back in 1979, the apartments were "inexpensive housing," far away from everything, and it was my first place to live away from home. Back then, the development was new, and it was a little like living in a ghost town: only about 5-6 of the 100+ units were occupied. Somehow... it suited me; I sought solitude in a world I felt terribly out-of-step with... I could go for days and even weeks without seeing or talking to another person, aside from at the grocery or market.

Although I have been back for visits many times, I almost don't recognize the area, anymore. I can find little "pockets" here and there-- the beach I used to walk; a certain view of the rock of Gibraltar from a hillside; the sun on the mountains whose contours seem familiar-- but on the whole, the world seems to have become an increasingly homogenous cluster of strip malls and supermarkets. Perhaps it serves as a reminder that we can never "go back" in life, only forwards.

I expect it may be the last time I set foot in this part of the world... there is no reason to return, save for a few ghosts from times I'd rather forget. No relatives, no friends, no connections, nothing familiar or comforting. Maybe that sounds a bit "dark," but I have spent far too much of my life clinging to the pain of difficult times gone by. Sometimes we hang onto old things (memories, places, people, events) for no other reason than they are "familiar," and there's a measure of "comfort" to be found in sitting inside an uncomfortable and painful familiarity, rather than facing the uncertainty of walking through a doorway to an uncertain future and truly closing a chapter behind us.

Helen Keller once wrote (although this is sometimes attributed to Alexander Graham Bell):

“When one door closes, another opens; but we often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door that we do not see the one which has opened for us.”

An era has quietly come to a close. In a way, I am going to say my goodbyes to this place I have somehow been "part of." Then I shall quietly walk away and blend back into the crowd... leaving behind whatever ghosts may reside there; it's where they belong...

And if I ever return, it will be as a tourist... not as someone connected to the local scene.

And that's OK.
It's time...

Holes

Random memory:

When I was a kid, my father would occasionally ask me to dig a hole. He was an avid landscape gardener, and he used these holes for yard waste, weeds, leaves and other things he needed to get rid of.

Here's the thing: digging a hole was NOT punishment for me. It was simply something I was expected to do to help.

Here's the thing, parte deux: I liked digging holes.

In the morning, my dad would hand me a spade and a shovel, and we'd set off to some "back" area of the yard (in the belt of trees at the edge of the property) where he'd mark out where he wanted the hole dug. And I'd start digging.

Now, you might be thinking "yeah, but lots of kids dig holes."

True. But these were not just "holes." As a 9-year old, I put the fear of God into adult men who had made a career of ditch digging.

The holes were probably about 3-4 feet wide and 6-7 feet long. If I started on Saturday morning... I'd probably be about 6-7 feet down, by the end of Sunday... one end would be "staired" down in 2-foot increments, so I could get in and out. The big excitement for me was to get deep enough to where I was digging in the compacted golden sand that underlies much of coastal Denmark... and this was also what my dad was looking for, so he could spread it on the lawn to even out the bumps.

I have no idea why this appealed so much to me... conversations with my peers (at the time) and other people (since) points to the fact that most people would interpret spending a weekend (as a kid OR an adult) digging a large hole in the ground as a particularly heinous form of torture. For me, it never really was. There was something comforting about digging a deep hole... and being able to sit in a place where all I could see was the sky and clouds drifting by... no side view, at all. And I didn't mind being "in the Earth." And I felt none of the fear many (including my mother) shared: "Oh, but what if it collapsed in on you?"

The attendant conversations at school on Monday morning were a little bit awkward.... concerning the "what did YOU do this weekend?" issue...

Sven: "Oh, we went to the amusement park, I got a new air rifle and we hunted squirrels!"

Lars: "We went camping, and I caught 13 fish!"

Henrik: "We built a fort in the abandoned junkyard!"

Me: "I dug a hole in the ground!"

[Insert sound of needle scratching across the vinyl of a record]

"You what? What did you DO to get that kind of punishment?"

"No, I wanted to..."

"Dude... you are SO weird..."

Maybe we all have strange things we liked to do as kids... things nobody else "got" about us.

Random rambles about complaining... and growth

I talk to myself.

I have been talking to myself (especially while doing things) since I was a little kid. I suppose what I am really doing is processing thoughts outward, rather than keeping them inside my head. I just find that "thinking things through" in silence is far less conducive to "working them out" and "getting new ideas," than actually having an audible conversation with myself. Thinking inside my head feels like watching a YouTube video with "mute" on. So I talk to myself.

I'm not entirely sure whether this is a sign of insanity. Or, perhaps, a reflection of the fact that I was raised by wolves. Or maybe my honey is right-- I'm just crazy and ADD as fuck. OR... it's just perfectly normal behavior everywhere... but people are embarrassed to admit to it and label it "eccentric" rather than normal.

The point, however, is that I typically have my best ideas for articles and other writing when I am far from the computer. Or even a pen and notebook.

This is the odd paradox. When I am sitting in my office, trying to work, I don't so often talk to myself nor feel inclined to do so. On the other hand, when I am mowing the lawn, or going for a walk, or cooking, or folding laundry, I usually have a lot to say.

Which, I suppose, is just another way of saying that I do my best thinking when my brain is slack.

A while back, as a bold new experiment, I moved the laptop into the kitchen while I cooked... so I could basically write as I talked things through, in the three-minute pauses between flipping pork chops or whatever else was going on. Now, I'm well aware of the risks of grease on the screen and flour in the keyboard, but these are occupational hazards I'm willing to face... and this was-- as I said-- just an experiment.

Since the distinct possibility exists that my life may actually have assumed some semblance of normalcy (i.e. I may spend more days at home than in random motel rooms) in the foreseeable future, I have been toying with the idea of returning to writing. Ergo, I need ideas. As I talked this through with myself, I was considering some things that bug me about life might become good blog fodder, in a Dave Barry-ish sort of way, and even considered a sort of "Gripe of the Week" column.

As I looked at my various ideas, I realized that I am really incredibly intolerant... and I should probably scrap the whole "gripe" idea and just call the articles "Why I Am Not A Nice Person, part-whatever."

1. Why is it STILL a "surprise" to people that they have to pay at the grocery? Otherwise, why on earth would they not start looking for payment until the checker say "That will be $37.95?"

2. That little lever on the side of your steering column? Yeah, that one. It's called a turn signal. Especially handy at 4-way stop signs.

3. Many more, similar to the above.

I'm still considering that possibility...

After considering that my list of "things to write about" were basically a list of gripes... I got to thinking... why do we spend so much time focusing on the negative, while generally glossing over the positive? I mean, it runs the range of human experience, from the personal to the global. "War sells newspapers, peace does not."

Then I thought about what irritates me... and the why of things that irritate me. That was an interesting exercise in observation and self-inquiry.

Overwhelmingly, I get annoyed by situations where other people's lack of awareness and consciousness of their surroundings results in taking my time, and/or require my effort. I realized how this is often a big "trigger" for me, as far as getting annoyed and moody... especially when bad or no planning on someone else's behalf is the catalyst for my time/effort output.

Our irritants are often riddled with paradoxes, too. Going back to the grocery store example, above, I actually have endless patience with grocery store lines... I have little issue with being 47th in line, and if I subsequently realize that I forgot to buy butter, I have little issue with putting the groceries in the car and standing in line behind 41 people to go through a second time, with a single package of butter.

"They" say, of course, that the things that irritate us about other people are the things about ourselves that we really do not like. Indeed, I tend to be hypersensitive to/about wasting other people's time... and tend to overplan almost everything I do, lest my activity could somehow cause another to waste their time.

Most likely, there will NOT be a gripe of the week column...

The Giving of Thanks

I learned about Thanksgiving when I moved to Texas in 1981.

Don't get me wrong, it's not that Europeans aren't thankful. We just don't have an official "Thanks Giving" day.

In the course of the ensuing 30-odd years, I attended a lot of Thankgiving lunches, dinners and days with a variety of people. What I learned-- as much as anything-- was that most people weren't really very thankful, and they often spent the day with people they'd just as well not spend the day with... often doing things they would just as well not have been a part of. If anything, the atmosphere felt rather ThankLESS...

This year-- perhaps for the first time-- I felt truly and deeply thankful for where I was, whom I was with, and what I had. Whether this was merely a change in my own perspective, or a true change in life circumstance I'm not sure about. Maybe it was both.

Either way, it felt to me like giving thanks was in order. And that-- in and of itself-- is something to be thankful for.

Gratitude is important. Not just on Thanksgiving Day, but on every day of the year.