Cornish hens were his preference. Was never a fan of turkey, and we’d chuckle over the myth of tryptophan as the cause of exhaustion vs. the mass consumption of potatoes, stuffing, cranberries, and pie, with a side of denial, overwhelm, and fear dipped in avoiding eye contact with the newly introduced guest sitting across the table.
The cornucopia of life.
I’m staying home this year and will feast on a pre-made turkey in a bag of exhaustion. Easier to warm up and feast than actually conjure up, baste, bake, and eat. Holidays this year, feel more a haul -y- daze as we enter into the ninth month of pandemic land and strive to embrace the “most wonderful time of the year”, while repeatedly asking oneself “what day actually is it?”
As a person who celebrates holidays non traditionally, I do believe in giving, positivity, love, and of course food. And as I woke up this morning after consuming my third cup of coffee, and adrenaline skipping around the block with Luna, I came back to my computer, and…
Sobbed.
When I was young I used to be able to cry easily. These days, it seems more difficult. I guess it’s my own way of swallowing feelings, thinking the deeper down, the closer to productivity. And much like the relief from feeling constipated, amidst my face stained by salted tears, I unzipped and took an emotional dump. The pandemic, the unemployment running out, the momentum to keep hustling, how to keep classes going, getting enrollment filled, finding ways to be the “funny” advocate, which is not always easy, being that right now, I am sad. I am sad because of the pain in our world, I am sad by the loss in the world. I am sad because I can’t talk about the cornish hens to my father this year.
Headphones were his portal to unzipping his feelings.
Papa would not just listen to music, but speak music. He would hear the instruments communicate, anticipating a chord’s call and response, a violin’s beckoning, or a flute’s elegant flirtation. I sit with these god awful looking massive headphones on my ears right now, and just keep typing and typing, while Spotify fills the compartment between my ears with classical music, to be closer to him. To enter into his chamber. His music, his intelligence, so profound, despite his seven languages spoken, today I listen, and type, to the language of yearning, sadness, and of love.
As a kid, I’d practice my scales on the piano with the pendulum timer on the piano mantle. Over and over, crossing my hands over to the next scale while trying to keep my nails from clicking onto the keys. And as I would listen to keep the tempo, I would hear “Count, sweetie, count!” from my father atop the first tier of multi-leveled steps. As much as it would instill fear in me, I wanted to make him proud. And now the word count seems to resonate by the days of him gone, days in a global pandemic, and by the numbers of loss escalating to terrifying degrees due to Covid.
So by now, if you are reading this you may be thinking: Wow, this chick is a comedienne, who teaches comedy and is writing a book on the tools for finding the funny? Yes, I am. Have been for years. And will continue to. Because, although I live and breathe all things advocating humor, I don’t think it’s always about being funny. Finding the funny comes from feeling life. Knowing that funny comes from tragedy, from loss, from fear, from anxiety, and all things - not funny. And, I’ve been dealt a hand with that. It’s to advocate being human, and will continue to cheerlead the light from the dark, the lightness from the weight, the up from the down, and the glue to the broken.
So my friends, this Thanksgiving, I send my deepest and most sincerest wishes of health, love, strength and compassion to all. Alone or together, despite all the challenges we face, within miles between cities, or onto other plains, we are one.
And remember if you are alone this Thanksgiving… It’s a shorter distance to passing the potatoes, there’s no shortage of left overs, and life is the zestiest gravy of all.
*World flow accompanied by ugly earphones blasting volume 10 of : Turandot / Act 2: “Nessun Dorma, Puccini, Pavarotti and London Philharmonic ; Bach’s Suite o. 3 in D, MWV 1068; Liebestraum No. # in A-Flat Major, S.541/3; Samuel Barber Adagio for Strings, Berlin Philharmonic