The Family Table

A cold gray day spent in my pajamas. Washing up leftover dishes and dozens of glasses. Cleaning our wooden plank table, washing the old checked table cloth and napkins. Putting up platters and sweeping up crumbs. This is the morning after Thanksgiving, and for all these chores and pleasures I give thanks. I count myself fortunate that our children live nearby and have been in our “bubble” throughout this pandemic. And though life is different, yesterday we all celebrated, ate, decorated our tree and generally acted silly long after the sun had set. We laughed. We gorged. We all contributed to the feast. But mainly, we showed our love and thankfulness by laughing, telling stories, and dancing like drunken fools to Christmas music. We didn’t take our day for granted this year, knowing so many others are unable to gather, or have lost loved ones. And you don’t need to do deep psychological digging to know that our celebration was also a bit more intensely enacted and felt in 2020.

This wistful, bittersweet feeling at this time of year is encapsulated perfectly in this poem by the United States Poet Laureate, Joy Harjo. Here is a short video of her reading her poem, which is also below if you’d like to read with her.

Perhaps the World Ends Here

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

And for our Hero Beethoven’s contribution to today’s thoughts, here is a simply lovely video recording of Anne-Sophie Mutter, Daniel Barenboim, and Yo-Yo Ma performing his Triple Concerto in C Major, Op. 56 No. 2. Beethoven composed this in 1803, and it is his only concerto for multiple soloists. These are artists at the top of their game and it doesn’t get any better than this.

The look of utter transcendence on Ma’s face while he plays his cello…well I am there with him. Soft, condensed emotion that slowly makes its way to joy.

Dear Reader, my wish for you is the same. May you all find reason to celebrate and give thanks, even on the darkest of days. And may you find what brings you joy and transcendence. Until next time we meet, enjoy music, dive into poetry, and thanks for visiting thetonepoet.com.