Some years back the Unitarian Universalist annual denominational General Assembly took place in Portland, Oregon. After it ended Jan & I took a rental car and drove north through Seattle across the border to Vancouver, then on a ferry west to Vancouver Island and Victoria, back down on another ferry to the US and a revisit to Seattle before finally flying home.
Among the vivid images of that trip maybe the most vivid was when we were in Vancouver. We’d found their Chinatown and were wandering through the shops; apparently there’s some common source for tourist gewgaws, as the shops had much of what you’ll find in San Francisco’s or even Boston’s Chinatown stores. But we kept our eyes open for something a bit different.
And we ended up in a kitchenware shop. We were looking at this and that when I saw a lovely wooden kitchen spoon. Now, I’d wanted a wooden spoon for a while, but just had never gotten around to purchasing it. The spoons were displayed in a large vase like container, maybe nine or ten sticking out like wooden roses in a pot. I peered closely at them and saw one in particular had a bit of discoloration along the grain in the handle. I pulled it out and held it for heft, tried the stirring motion and declared to all who were present, well, Jan, “This is the one!”
“The one what?” asked Jan. “Why the wooden spoon I’ve been seeking for so long,” I replied feeling as if I’d found Excalibur. I gave my spoon, it was now my spoon, a sword like twirl in the air. “Oh,” said Jan.
Apparently nothing else caught either of our imaginations. So we got on line. In front of us were what looked to be a family, two older people and two younger somewhere between the end of High School or a bit beyond. What caused them to stick in my memory was that they all appeared to be speed freaks. That is they all; every blessed one of them appeared to be out of their minds high on some sort of speed drug.
They visibly twitched. They spoke rapidly and disjointedly, and not like I do, I mean really, really over the top. When they got to the register there was of course considerable confusion, not just of language, but also of what they were trying to purchase, its price, and how to close the deal.
In the snap of a finger my mood switched from ecstasy to a deep sadness.
Now, some years later, I still have that spoon. I don’t give it the sword twirl anymore. Well, hardly ever. But when I picked it up to stir some oatmeal yesterday, I had a small flash of memories from our trip, of how much I love Jan, of how sad life can be for some people, and with that and the smell of the oatmeal I found myself drawn back to this moment, the one right now, realizing all those things layered as part of the moment.
And I felt a sense of thanksgiving.
Now, this is the season within our culture when we’re called to remember each other and life itself and how precious it is.
And of course, how fragile.
It is time for gratitude, but open-eyed gratitude. Our American holiday is shadowed by the fact the Native peoples who welcomed the Pilgrims but would soon discover it was a mistake, sadness as well as joy. But this is something important. That bittersweet quality is in my opinion what is so powerful about this season.
This is a Harvest festival we’re about. It is about getting enough food in, hopefully, to withstand the harsh winter ahead. There are versions around the globe somewhere roughly at this time, or its southern hemisphere equivalent six months out. Think of the western Earth centered Lammas. Or those festivals rooted in these ancient traditions such as the German Octoberfest or the Transylvanian Harvest festivals.
And this is very much a kitchen festival, a time for food, a time for friendship, a time to cherish all that which we are fortunate enough to have.
That wooden spoon is sitting with other utensils in a pot in the kitchen. Today it’ll be getting a bit of a workout. And I know as I grab it, and if no one is around, perhaps swirl it in the air just once before getting to work, I’ll think, briefly, just in a heartbeat, of these things.
And I’m pretty sure it’ll be hard not to be grateful.
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