As I write this essay, visible
beyond the window of my working space, 2018s first real wintry weather has
arrived in my little corner of the world. Teardrops of rain frozen to silvery
icicles fringe the edge of my patio roof and dauntless little birds flit in and
out of cubbyholes beneath it, snug and secure crannies in which they are
setting up house for the season. Wily squirrels scamper across the top of the
fence surrounding the enclosure, their cheeks puffy with walnuts from my tree
that they will salt away in secret caches—their wintertime supermarkets.
A
particular squirrel never fails to capture my attention. He is an elder among
his peers, his girth bloated with the years of his sumptuous diet he enjoys
among my vegetation, his coat scraggly, and his magnificent bushy tail of his
primary years nearly hairless now. While his friends make of my fence a speedy
competition as fast as the Indy 500, he sits quietly and unmoving for long
periods on the postern at the entrance of my patio, and he stares at me through
my window, or at least it seems to be the case. I fancy that there exists
something of a kindred nature in our connection, as if like me he endeavors to
acclimate himself to a slower pace of life, to handing over to the younger
generations the major responsibilities of their squirrel way of life.
I
have christened him “Teddy” after our nation’s former president Theodore
“Teddy” Roosevelt, because to my mind, the two of them are similar in ways.
Like Roosevelt, I just bet that Teddy the Squirrel was an alpha male, and that
if I could get close enough to him to run my fingers through his fur, I would
locate battle scars, and feel the beat of an heroic heart enormous with life’s
experiences, and a grand passion for it. But still, I cannot help but wonder if
in some deep region of his being he yearns for his youth, or if indeed he
really is nestled as perfectly as he appears to be in his current station among
his squirrel society?
Winter,
and especially the high-holiday season that is winter’s centerpiece, brings
with it for me an air of nostalgia, a wistfulness for the Thanksgiving days of
old, the days when at the end of a long country lane, the white square
farmhouse of my maternal grandparents came into view, and within the walls of
the place my large family would soon gather around an immense table groaning
with a homegrown Thanksgiving meal. With the elapsing of time, the torch has passed
to their sons and daughters, and then to their grandsons and granddaughters,
and the work of keeping the traditions of our family alive and well, continues
to be handed down to subsequent generations. This year for the first time, my
immediate family will gather at the home of my niece Samantha, even though she
is one of its youngest members.
Despite
my longing for the past, I recognize that my family’s traditions are in good
hands, the strong and capable and creative hands of my niece, my two adult
children, as well as my younger cousins, and I am grateful. I am also relieved,
because like Teddy the Squirrel, I am aware that through God’s grace, I have
been gifted with the time and space required to accommodate myself to the task
of placing my faith in the young people of my family, and to hunker into the winter
of my life, to gather my provisions, as well as to relax into my unbound hours
and make the most of them.
German
intellectual and philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche said that “The essence of all
beautiful art, all great art, is gratitude.” I would add that the essence of
all beautiful life, all great life, is gratitude. American artist Norman
Rockwell’s iconic painting “Freedom from Want,” which holds within it an
intriguing back story dating to World War II, is the enduring visual symbol of
America’s Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays. Not only do I see in Rockwell’s
painting the essence of my childhood high-holiday gatherings, but I also see a
spirit of gratitude in it, one that reminds most people who view it to be
grateful, too—and yes, to be ever mindful of the faces at our tables that shift
over time, and to hold in our hearts the souls whom have departed from them.
Email: lindaleegreene.author.artist@gmail.com
Twitter: @LLGreeneAuthor
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