Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving in Canada is on the second Monday in October, instead of like in the US, where it is on the fourth Thursday in November. It was also only in recent years that Thanksgiving became more popular up there, and is now pushed heavily by retailers and advertising on TV.

Growing up in Canada, Thanksgiving wasn’t a huge holiday for our family, but my mother did sometimes cook a turkey or a roast ham. Some years, coming in from playing outside with friends to the smell of that special meal, would be the thing that reminded my why exactly I had the day off from school!

So, today I am treating the holiday like any other day, not meeting up with friends or family, but relaxing at home after a nice, cool-morning hike filled with views and exercise. As I sit here writing this, I was thinking whether I should write what I am thankful for, but nothing specific came to mind. As you probably know, if you are a regular reader of my posts, I am always only thankful for one thing.

I am thankful for the times when thankfulness comes unannounced and unforced, when it comes from the silence of our souls to dance with us for a few precious seconds — a splinter of time anointed with the essence of our true selves — before disappearing back down to whence it came. I am thankful that thankfulness does not stay around forever, but is just there, barely a scratch away from the surface, so that each time it comes it is a blessing anew.

The Vessel

On Friday I decided to wake up early and hike up to Nordhoff peak. It had been a few months since I made that trek, and the weather now seemed cool enough for such a long hike. I was at the parking lot by 9:30AM and there were already a few cars there.

People were on the lower trails, and as is usual in Ojai, everyone is friendly, nodding or saying hello with a smile. Even the walked dogs are friendly, often coming over for a pat on the head or a playmate for a second or two.

Once I got past the turn-off to Nordhoff, I didn’t see another person for the rest of the hike. I was feeling particularly energetic and, knowing that my fastest time to the peak was about 90 minutes, I tried to best it. I began walking faster and faster, relishing the uphill parts, and soon my attention began dancing with the pounding in my chest and my rapid breathing.

What a marvel of engineering the human body is.

As shade and sun took turns hanging out, and as birds chirped complaints before flying away, I began reminiscing. Like a lottery pick, once you set foot on these magical trails you never know what you will draw; some days it is silence, other days it is precious memories that bubble up.

I remembered how this body was in my teens and twenties. I was a hundred pounds overweight, wore extra-large shirts and pants, and the circumference of my waist was only a few inches shorter than my height. Back then, in any of those years, I would never have been able to climb this hill, let alone do it with such a quickened pace.

A thought flashed through, that I will be 50 in less than a year, and I thanked the body for being healthier now than it ever was. My legs churned, my breathing begged for a wide-open mouth, and yet I craved the sandy, uphill turns that made me gasp even harder. What a marvel of engineering this body is.

When I got to the top I ate a snack and tried another lottery draw. This time silence came, a precious blanket of boundless stillness, as I spun around to take in the view of mountains rippling off to the distance in all directions.

When I looked up at the abandoned fire tower, and its rusty, rickety stairs, I chickened out this time at climbing to the top. Just looking up at its height made my legs unsteady, and instead I thanked this vessel for housing a splinter of me, and thanked the mountain for housing the rest.

Thankfulness

I went for a bike ride this morning, and it was already 86 degrees (30℃) when I set out on the trail. The shade at the start was welcomed, making up for the lack of breeze, while the sunny sections offered a two-faced blanket: a warm one gently wrapping on the way down, and then a stifling one suffocating on the way back.

As I coasted downhill (my favorite part of the trail), feeling the warmth and sunshine on my arms, I thought back to growing up in Montreal. In November, some years it would be a beautiful autumn day, with the leaves colored beyond green and a crispness to the air. Other years it would already be cold, with a layer of snow everywhere.

As memories came, of walking around the town I grew up in, relishing the solitude that colder weather brought — for less people were out and about — I was thankful. I was thankful that I grew up in a place that had seasons, that had beautiful fall colors, and that air was something that tasted differently when cold or warm.

I contrasted those memories to the heat blanketing the bike trail and was thankful for today too. I am thankful to now live in a place without snow and barely any difference between the seasons. I am thankful for downhill sections of the trail, and, sometimes reluctantly, also the uphill sections.

I am thankful that, in one moment, there is someone here to be thankful, and in the next, there is only thankfulness itself riding a bike.