Giving Thanks

The bird is in the oven, stuffed with sausage, apples, some rosemary, a squeeze of fresh orange, onions, celery, some pepper and salt. The kitchen is clean, Quinn is napping and the Jacksons are likely all to be reading downstairs. I'm here, in my room, my treehouse with a view of mountains near and far, spruce trees heavy with snow, reflecting briefly on all there is…

I'm still coming down from the high of this past weekend: my fortieth birthday, spent with some of my dearest friends at Topnotch Spa. My sister and brother-in-law arrived Friday to take care of Quinn and set me free. Saturday, Sam and I checked into our room by one o'clock. I was in my swimsuit by two. Jerry and Rebecca had arrived. Corey and Kellam had arrived. Kim and Justin were on their way. Some went off for massage appointments. Rebecca took a yoga class. Sam read magazines by the pool, uninterrupted…his particular version of bliss. I found my way to the lap lane, put on my cap and goggles, and started to swim. Heaven.

There are very few full-length pools nearby; if I had access to one, I would swim every day. In the water, I am somehow lithe and strong. My mind wanders at will, until I find my rhythm. Eventually I am counting breaths, stretching out my glide, savoring the sound of water flowing past my ears, the silk of it on my skin, the strength that is still there in my arms. Once the initial tightness is stretched out, I feel as if I can swim forever…5 hours, 20 minutes is my longest go yet.

On Saturday, at Topnotch, with my friends dispersed in steam rooms, and saunas, and hot tubs, and outdoor heated pools, and on lounge chairs, and massage tables, all of them nearby and no one needing anything of me, I could just keep swimming. Every now and then, I'd stop and look at the clock, feeling as if I should do something else, but really there was nothing else I needed to do, and nothing I would have preferred to do; there were no demands on my time. I swam and swam, gliding away from accumulated stresses, mental checklists, and voices…gliding back into my own body, my muscles, my breath.

By late afternoon, we found ourselves all in a row by the pool in our white spa bathrobes. Each of us had achieved a state of relaxation by some means or other. We ordered drinks. We smiled a lot. Eventually we dressed for dinner, had some champagne, drove to the restaurant. By the end of dinner I was losing my voice. The restaurant was loud and I was hoarse from squealing with delight for so many hours.

I had big plans to sleep late the next morning. Instead I called my sister around seven, knowing she'd be up with Quinn. I missed them. Sam stayed in bed to read some more. I returned to the pool to swim some more. Everyone convened at breakfast. We talked and laughed some more. What more could I ask for…friends, rest, peace of mind…nothing was missing.

When my mother and father had their fortieth birthdays, I was fifteen years old. Each one threw a surprise party for the other. There were gag gifts, jokes about being Over The Hill, lots of laughter. I remember it distinctly and feel somewhat strange that my own daughter is so young…but I feel young too. I've realized that I mind the 9's a lot more than the 0's…thirty-nine felt a bit desperate, like I was running out of time. But, forty feels exhilarating: a new beginning.

I keep thinking about what that means.

To start, I've decided to put an end to the era of leaving my wallet on the roof of my car and driving away; I bought myself a "purse," though I'm calling it a satchel for now because I've always hated "purses." And I replaced the weed colored wallet with a bright red one…something I'll more easily be able to find on the roadside, should I have a relapse.

I've also decided that I need to work on staying young…I need to stop prioritizing work over exercise, over rest, over good meals. I need to enjoy the many fruits of my labor from the past decade. When I turned thirty, I was in a van full of stinky teenage boys driving back to Vermont from Utah, after a semester on the road. I had a backpack and a storage unit and a boyfriend named Sam. Now, at forty, I have a house, a daughter, two dogs, six acres, and a husband named Sam. I have muscles that still work. A mind that still works…These are things I'm thankful for.

My primary goal for my forties is to make it past forty-six, the age my mother was when she died. I also aim to get in better shape, so I'll be ready to take Quinn backpacking, and teach her to climb, and show her how to roll her kayak when it's time to do those things. I'm going to swim more. I'm going to love my dogs more. Garden more…I'm going to take more deep breaths between strokes, stretch out, reach further, glide longer. I'm going to count my breaths, with gratitude.

When we sit down for dinner later today, and we make a toast and wish each other a Happy Thanksgiving, I'm going to be thinking of my sister who has two little cousins for Quinn in her "oven" right now. I'm going to be thinking of my dad who is a really good cook and an excellent late night turkey sandwich maker, and I'll be thinking of Louise who loves him and keeps him company. I’m going to be thinking of Char whose presence at my table will be sorely missed.  And, I'll be thinking of my grandmother who died last night at the very same time I went to bed.

I hope my grandmother was right: I hope there really is a heaven. I hope she feels lithe and strong, and beautiful as she once was. I hope she is, at this moment, gliding back into her own body, her muscles, her breath. I hope her mind is working again. And her memory. And I hope she remembers all the fun she and I used to have together, every Sunday when I went to visit her and have tea. And I hope she forgives me for not being capable of visiting her much since then. I hope she knows how thankful I am to have had her in my life while I did.

And I hope in heaven you get to have your teeth back...so she can eat a really big turkey dinner this afternoon. And I sure hope she gets to pass the stuffing to my mom, and make eyes at her handsome boyfriend across the table.

Nana and Bup  -   Lake Winnepesauke  -   Summer of 1982