Thanksgiving

As the snow falls outside and wrapping paper carpets our play room, Thanksgiving can already feel remote, long gone. But wait a minute: it was less than two weeks ago, and a few of the guest place cards that Cleo prepared still stand, ready for duty, on our dining room table. And, to be simple about it, we're still just as thankful today for the things that we appreciated then: family, and home and hearth; a beautiful world that is large enough to evince a consistent wonder. So let's pause, on this December 10, and return at least briefly to the song that Cleo and her Redbird friends sang at their Thanksgiving pageant (and which she performed again, and again, to cornered relatives over the long weekend):

The earth is good to me. And I must thank the earth, for giving me the things I need: the sun and the rain and the apple seed. The earth is good to me.

Earth, you're partly covered today, in a soft, bleached blanket. Our car, this morning, bears a deep scar from another that slid into it, on the snow that conceals you; its door will no longer open and its backseat, in turn, is now covered in a rich tapestry of shattered glass. An appraiser is due to visit. But we are all okay. And for that we thank you, earth.