November 21, 2021
by Linda A. Dove
As you all know, one of the earliest Thanksgiving celebrations was in October 1621 when the Plymouth colonists, together with the Wampanoag people, gave thanks for the harvest. Or perhaps it was earlier in Virginia in 1619, or later in Winthrop’s Massachussets in 1637, or even President Lincoln’s Union victory celebration in 1863. But nowadays, we celebrate the holiday this week, the fourth Thursday in November, thanks to FDR’s official edict in December 1941.
Thanksgiving was new to me when I came to this country. And I had to research its history from scratch. A kind American acquaintance once invited me home to a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. But I learned I would be the only stranger at the table among 17 family members, all of them devout Southern Baptists. So I said thank you, made my apologies, and chickened out. That was a lost opportunity on my part.
As a new and naive immigrant I was puzzled about what I heard about this supposedly giving-of-thanks holiday. It seemed, strangely, that lots of families dreaded the occasion. People worried about chaos at airports and on the roads as they travelled far and wide in snow and storm to join distant relatives and friends! They worried about all the household preparations, having enough beds and, of course, the meal! About abandoning their diets or upsetting their digestion because they faced the prospect of stuffing themselves (sorry) with rich food—turkey, ham, sweet potatoes, green beans, pumpkin pie—and at a very strange time—late afternoon!
And on top of all these worries, I heard people complain about having to stay tight-lipped, as Dee’s hymn mentioned, and as Paul Britner said last week, to avoid big fights or conflict over controversial issues—granddad’s politics, sister’s flirting with anyone in pants, second-cousin-once-removed boasting about cheating on his taxes, Dad getting drunk and kissing everyone.
You’ll remember Tom Hook’s recent message about my story, your story, and our story, Alice Krech’s talk about the good and bad fictions we hold to, and, last week, Paul’s strictures about boundary-setting and standing up for who we are. Today I’m going to follow up with a simple message about storytelling in the context of the Thanksgiving feast.
These stories may be new or ones we’ve heard over and over—so familiar we stop listening and focus instead on a second helping of ice-cream, or so embarrassing that we just roll our eyes. The stories may be reminiscences of fun we used to have together that make us smile; or recent losses that make us sad and shake our heads; or expressions of traumas that still live in our bodies and crave acknowledgement by others who care. If granddad rants on again about how the mayor is forcing everyone to shovel the snow from their sidewalks, some of us may get up to take the poodle outside or clear the dirty dishes. Today, I want to emphasize that the stories around the table are a great opportunity for us to practice our UU active listening—something I failed to try with that generous Southern Baptist family.
As I said, the Thanksgiving table is traditionally where we share stories, memories and, perhaps, our current concerns. Paul asked us to speak appropriately and act to promote community while protecting our own values. Today, I want those of us fortunate enough to share the holiday to consider a different aspect. What if we put our egos aside and really listen to family members’ stories, however familiar, fantastic, or even distasteful? What if we release uncomfortable internal tensions by just listening rather than reacting or responding? What if we deepen our empathy and compassion and even come to appreciate Dad as a person despite his drunken kisses? Perhaps, as UUs, we can promote shared understanding and more solid relationships by really listening with all that in mind.
There’s a lot of research evidence that we each hear different stories in a story. Take the nearly 200-year-old story by Hans Christian Andersen, The Ugly Duckling. Listen.
A mother duck is sitting on ten eggs. One by one they break open. The biggest egg of all is last to crack. Out jumps the last baby. This one is the biggest and the strongest, but grey and ugly.
Next day mother duck takes her ducklings to the river. They all jump in and swim and play together and the ugly duckling swims better than all the others. “Quack, quack, come with me to the farmyard,” says mother duck. The farmyard is noisy and the ugly duckling feels out of place and unhappy—the hens peck him, the rooster flies at him, the dog snaps and barks at him, and the farmer kicks him. So he waddles away and sees a lake with beautiful big birds swimming there. Their feathers are white and their necks are long, their wings graceful and powerful. The ugly duckling longs to stay and watch them and to be beautiful like them. Mother Duck tells him they are swans. Then the dark winter comes and ice covers the pond. When at last the warm spring sun shines again everything turns fresh and green. The ugly duckling sees the swans return and longs to swim with them. But he’s scared of them too and hesitates. He’s so alone and bereft that he feels his life has no meaning and he runs to the bank of the lake to drown himself. Then, he looks into the still, clear water and there, as if in a mirror, he sees a beautiful swan and realizes it is himself! He’s not an ugly duckling after all but a beautiful white swan! So he lifts his long neck with joy and pride and glides over gracefully to join the other swans.
Here, are some questions for you. Just note what comes up for you spontaneously. Don’t think too much.
- How many ducks are there in the story?
- What other wild-life appears?
- What people appear?
Now some questions that need a bit more thought.
- What was the specific element, the hook, that got you into the story?
- What feelings does the story evoke in you?
- What do the swans symbolize for you?
- What’s the overarching theme of the ugly duckling story for you?
- What personal associations, if any, does the story bring up for you?
Even just this brief exercise may show how differently we each hear the same story. (If you like, we can compare notes afterwards in our community dialogue). Of course, what we hear depends a lot on the context—the workplace, in church, around the table, and our personal history and experiences, our current preoccupations and problems, or our biases and views about other people, our human needs—someone to love, someone to blame, to look up to, or someone to compete with.
In 1992, Clarissa Pinkola-Estes wrote in her famous, Women Who Run With the Wolves (and I paraphase slightly):
Stories are medicine . . . They have such power: they do not require that we do or be anything. We need only listen. Stories provide remedies for repair and reclamation. Stories are embedded with instructions which guide us about the complexities of life….Stories about sex, love, money, marriage, birthing and death.
So, at the Thanksgiving table this year, let’s listen to the stories family and friends tell. You all know the script: listen without interrupting, use open, receptive body language, try to discern the speaker’s implicit feelings, and listen intently so that you can accurately reflect back what the storyteller says. Above all, let’s listen in a neutral frame of mind, be eager to appreciate others, and to discern the often obscured layers in their stories that hint at what makes them tick.
Not while listening, but in reflection afterwards, we can also ask ourselves:-
- What feelings did Joe’s story arouse in me? e.g. irritation, pride, love, sympathy.
- Why did I relate to, or brush off, Emma’s story? What was the trigger point for me?
- Great-grandma, cousin Fred, Aunty Jane . . . do their stories help me better appreciate who they really are?
- That story Mary shared with us? Have I too perhaps lived a version of her story?
Furthermore, let’s reflect on the gifts the storytellers may be offering us?
- Is Tom teaching me anything—for example, how to tell a good joke, how not to tell a joke?
- Is Sally helping me heal something bleeding in my own heart—perhaps a secret grudge or a serious sadness or need?
- Is Lucinda showing ways for me to share my own pain, or shame, or longing, or joy or gratitude?
- Do any of the stories prompt me to share my own truths more fully?
So! We’ll have opportunities this Thanksgiving to listen to stories around the table, just as we did with The Ugly Duckling fable. Hopefully, our focused attention and open hearts will transfer positive energy to others so that they don’t feel neglected, disparaged, or excluded—not even grumpy old Uncle Jack—and instead may we feel bonded and cared for.
To end. On a different tack with a telling metaphor. I ask you to remember the precious redwood trees. Incredibly, despite their height, their roots go down only about three to six feet. But the trees remain stable because their roots extend sideways for a hundred feet to intertwine with the roots of other redwoods. Around our Thanksgiving tables next Thursday may we reach out to each other just like the giant redwoods . . . and may a good time be had by all!
Namaste.