I almost “died” in my kitchen today puttering around in the quiet of the morning. The turkey had been brining in the fridge for three days. Three days in the grave and then a resurrection into gratitude I’d told friends who were hosting the gathering. [How is it that Glazunov’s The Seasons is just now playing on the radio, a ballet about the changing of the seasons?”] Thank you for that, Holy Father.
Oh well, as I have said: apparently I make the turkey and carve it these days. These years? And I did eat some of it.
So, the near-death occured in the quiet of this morning, early early as I have no desire really to sleep at all. But I did sufficiently although I still woke up at my regular work-day time. I was standing in the kitchen making Mom’s noodles when I looked around and was awash in so much, not the least of which was gratitude. It is all good, I was thinking, all of it and more . . . and my knees faltered for just a bit and I had to steady myself on the butcher block that was covered in these:
So here I was with so much good that since I did not actually die in it, I resolved to live in it. What a way to go though, you know? To die in gratitude sounds splendid, but yes living in it sounds much better for the next few decades or whatever and then having lived in it, to die in it. And then since there is no actual death it just continues into eternal gratitude. That has a really nice ring to it . . .
The first story in a book filled with stories (and causing them too) is the story of creation. It really does not matter what we think about it, whether the facts are there and if it was days or eons, or if it is literal or allegorical and so forth. The truth is that the “One Who Causes to Become” did something and brought it all into being.
AND THEN HE CALLED IT GOOD. All of it. Period. All of the stuff and the birds and the bees and a man and a woman, they were all good. Are good too, still, all of them. They did not go bad just because of a fruit. They remain what they were in the beginning. And whatever it was that came from the eating of that fruit has been renewed and redeemed and reborn anyway by another act of that same Creator, so that it is all good again.
That fruit, you see, was from a certain tree. “Don’t eat that one”, the creator told the man and the woman. Weird, but even the tree was good because the Creator had called everything good, right? But the fruit was from the tree of the knowledge of good and bad. But, you said it was all good God, so what is up with that word “bad” being in the mix? Hmmm, it was the knowledge of good and bad, not a bad fruit that spoiled the whole bunch. It was the knowledge that contained the potential. BTW, the Hebrew word means “bad”, not “evil”, so let us dispense with the rumors of evil running amok in the garden, that gorgeous garden, and talk of a fallen angel and such things. Even the fallen angel dare I say crap, is from another place in the book of stories that has been mishandled to the point that some believe there was a certain angel up or out or in there in heaven who rebelled and was kicked out. Ugh. Some may disagree, fine, but I am moving on from it.
Anyway, that fruit, when it was eaten, tasted a bit like power, the power to make qualitative judgments, to call one thing good (fine, it is good), but something else either bad or better. We ain’t supposed to do that; it is all good. But, we are free—have been from the beginning. That is the Creator’s prerogative, and he did it that way because it has true meaning that way. We are free, even now, to eat a fruit and make qualitative judgments, to buy into that way of thinking. But, caveat emptor. It has not always gone down well since back then.
Yeah, as I stood there making noodles with the smell of roasting turkey wafting in the air, I did not die, but became alive again again again in gratitude. How many times can a guy almost die and be reborn? IHNI and I have stopped counting. It happens, though, and I want to share it all with you.
Here is a lovely pattern that I saw on a chair too, a picture taken on the sly after all of the laughter and the emptying of plates and all of the thank yous for the turkey and the noodles and oh, did I mention I made gravy too? It was really good gravy I admit. “Good gravy”, some relative used to say, because they thought somehow that it sounded nicer than “good grief” (or maybe they were just averse to oxymorons, even during the holidays). Me too. But even morons are good. And the lovely pattern in this chair, so good:
Happy Thanksgiving . . .