Giving Thanks

I am officially beyond the halfway mark of my seventieth revolution around the sun. This impending milestone birthday has me in a whirlwind of activity. The kind of activity that speaks to a person who lives her life on a trajectory that often feels fated, due in part to the many circumstances beyond anyone’s control, especially mine. And yet, the most cherished aspects of

my life—my story—were indeed, chosen by me.

My birth in 1956 was celebrated by a large extended family—all among the ranks of the working poor. On my mother’s side, I was the second grandchild born into a Catholic practicing tribe. My father’s people were Evangelical Christians. My parents had unwittingly created an interfaith branch of the proverbial family tree. If you don't understand the difference between the religions, trust me, they are as different as black and white. My teenage parents disappointed their hard-working parents, who had hoped for them less challenging lives than the ones they were experiencing. They believed getting a college education was a big first step toward that dream. My dad, who had just received a scholarship to college, was instructed by his parents to put that choice on hold and get a job to support his family. He did that and we all lived in my grandparents’ apartment, where I was raised with an abundance of attention from four doting adults. My two sets of grandparents lived very close to each other, and I was shuffled back and forth between their homes. I don’t think my feet touched the ground before I was a year old. My mom’s two youngest sisters, not yet teens themselves, still lived at home. I was their real-life doll baby.

I was precocious, learning to read before beginning elementary school, making and selling crafts to all my grandparents’ neighbors, singing and dancing with my aunts to American Bandstand’s music, comfortable with adults, and extremely verbal. My confidence was only exceeded by my curiosity. I learned to sew, play the piano (not well), build go-carts, climb trees, ride horses, and cook. My grandparents stressed education. I was an excellent student from the day I entered kindergarten until I graduated with honors from college and went on to graduate school and a robust career. I was motivated to create a different life from those I witnessed among the people I loved and who loved me. My dear grandmother would say, “I'm going to love you all the way to the kingdom.”  

There is so much more to report about how my childhood shaped me, not all of it pretty. The poor carry extra burdens from which others are relieved. And those burdens often lead to less than honorable behaviors among well-intended people. Some of those painful circumstances led me to discover the most cherished parts of myself. They shaped my values. The nagging issues these less than desirable circumstances impressed on my young life didn’t overwhelm the good parts. Thanks to many good caregivers, teachers, mentors, therapists, friends, and lovers I learned to live a life of purpose. And that is what I have discovered is the single most important ingredient to a good life. Purpose.

My life, if based strictly on my birthright’s exigencies, should not have turned out to be as beautiful as it is. When I look at other kids born to poor teenage parents, no matter the era, my life’s trajectory is an outlier. These other poor kids’ lives were filled with tragedy, despair, and struggle, which over time led to poverty of the spirit—the worst kind of poverty. Although I grew up poor, there was a palpable energy in my large family. It was about the future, and I had the responsibility, standing on the shoulders of all these hard-working hopefuls, to reach for the stars—to live the American dream. My parents, aunts and uncles were also striving, while they carried the burdens of their own youth, and had kids who stood on their shoulders, too. Like most of my aunts and uncles, my parents pulled themselves solidly into the middle class by the time I entered high school. But the scars of their struggles weren’t just theirs. Their hardships became, in contemporary therapeutic parlance, generational trauma.

So how did I figure a way out of a seemingly prescribed path? I read voraciously, like it was my job. Everything I could get my hands on. I took my goal of living a different kind of life seriously. I sacrificed play for study, free time for paid work, and was extremely discriminating with whom I shared any part of my life. That characteristic remains with me to this day. I have friends of fifty-years from being purposeful in thought, plan and deed. That is the gift of being known to oneself.

This is a blog, so understanding the nuance of my self-care will be for a future memoir. But for this piece, suffice it to say, I struggled into my purpose. When I became a mother and got the mixed message many women receive about mothering and its essential ingredient of “sacrifice”, it did not resonate with my values. I learned from observing others that sacrifice in the name of others isn’t meaningful unless that sacrifice is a gift you choose to give. My parental sacrifices had and have boundaries. One of the lines I did not want to cross was gender equality. My uterus would not condemn me to a life of sacrifice to the point of eventually not recognizing myself. I chose my parenting partner carefully, because I believed parenting would work best for me as a partnership. We crafted a meaningful collaboration, where our skills were not competitive, but mutually appreciated. Our kids have critiqued our style mercilessly. If this were a Facebook post, I’d add a laughing emoji. Like every aspect of my marriage, our parenting partnership was a negotiation, and it was a hard fought right for both of us. We both desperately wanted children. It was and is the glue between us. Our family of choice is a work in progress, and like all dynamic entities brings us pleasure beyond measure, and its counterpoint, pain. This family of choice that I co-created with my husband was part of living out my purpose, which is to live love creatively. Our family unit is a blend of values, and a modern-day amalgamation of many choices.

I learned years ago that purpose is something you are born with. I'm not sure I believe that entirely. But discovering your purpose winds up being that consistent urge to change things up when you aren't living congruently with your sense of yourself.

My purpose is about loving creatively. That is how I made my way out from among the struggling poor. I learned to love two extremely different families, with different cultures and religions. That was the genesis of learning to love creatively.

My extended family's love was a beacon of light for me in a sometimes-dark world. I can still feel my grandmother’s gentle touch as she brushed my hair at bedtime, telling me stories of how I would grow up to be a teacher, a missionary, or a nurse. I laugh now at her perspective of what my options for work were. But her words and belief in options greater than her own, sent a powerful message. Three of my grandparents lived to see me graduate from college, which was such a thrill for each of them. My grandfather used to introduce me as, “Denise, our college graduate.” I am filled with emotion just remembering how proud he was. He was a learned man who dropped out of college during the Great Depression to support part of the extended family.

As I continued on my life's journey, I achieved financial success in my twenties. I suffered like many who achieve at higher levels from their families of origin with guilt and a huge sense of duty. My mother would always remind me to let go of the guilt but to never forget where I came from. How could I? I never wanted to.

My people, on whose shoulders I stand, are a part of me, just like my amber eyes. They are the foundation on which my love has been able to flourish. They taught me through gentle touch and  fierce fortitude that love is the answer no matter the question. That may sound pollyannaish, but it has been the healing balm of my life. When you leave the doors of your heart open to the possibility of love, all kinds of serendipity, synchronicity, and magic starts to happen. It starts with your heart expanding and your brain questioning growth.

We are programmed from birth to love and attach. But if we are not shown that love consistently in our families of origin, however that family is structured or designed, we carry with us a “fail to thrive” insignia. Yet the corollary to this sad notion is quite hopeful and powerful: if we are blessed by birth to be touched, held, encouraged, and nurtured in word and deed, we grow into self-sufficient, independent adults who are excited to love repeatedly throughout our lives, despite setbacks of loss and temporary suffering. We indeed thrive.

This Thanksgiving, like those of the past five years, I will not be sitting with my children, gobbling what was once a tradition of fried turkey, sausage stuffing, and pumpkin cheesecake with a chocolate crust. They live miles away and are joyfully living their best lives. I'll visit them next week (yippee yahoo). But I will be sharing a meal with my octogenarian folks and my husband, for which I am filled with gratitude.

All kinds of love have entered my heart and stayed. These loves help build my character, strengthening my foundation for stormy times. These loves are my hope for tomorrow because love keeps us peaceful. In its best state, love is peace. The two become one.

We are all one in the Light of Love.

Thank you to my parents, my grandparents, including my great-grandmother (for whom our oldest daughter is named), my large extended family of origin and the family I chose and cocreated, my partner-in-the-possible and love of over four decades, my children, friends, lovers, memorable neighbors, team-playing work partners, dedicated teachers, mentors, and angels among the unknowns who have positively impacted my life. I give thanks joyfully, humbly, and hopefully on this Thanksgiving Eve and every day.

I have loved you all and carry your gift of love with me. Always and through the end of time.

With gratitude.