Gratitude, Mourning, and Alice’s Restaurant

Sometimes it’s hard for me to get into Thanksgiving, even though as a Jew, it at least feels more inclusive than the hoopla around Christmas. Yet, the holiday is still problematic, especially as we find ourselves needing to let go of the old elementary school story of the Pilgrims and Indians sitting down at the table together and sharing a big feast–perhaps a moment in our common history, but certainly not where the tragic plot ended.

So, as I attempt to pull off small bits of our family dinner menu (cooking one-handed is not easy), I expect to again be listening to the livestream of the United American Indians of New England National Day of Mourning from Plymouth. Here’s a snippet of a poem I wrote last year on that topic.

….earlier I listened

to indigenous speakers lamenting loss of their land,
made a pastry with cranberries

harvested from the place pilgrims landed,
wondered what truth in bogs,

in magenta juices
spilling onto the oven’s bottom,

refusing to be smothered
by my pale and doughy crust?

And I think this cartoon I saw on Facebook also needs some contemplation as we think about what is happening right now to immigrants in our country, the Governor of Texas going so far as to call for the National Guard to shoot immigrants on site.

But on to gratitude: One of the many things I’m grateful for is  that my ancestors were able to escape pogroms and come to this country to build a new life. That is my wish for those now facing death threats, gang violence, war, climate devastation, and other pressing issues who are now seeking to cross our borders.

Thanksgiving to me is also all about Arlo Guthrie’s, Alice’s Restaurant, which we used to search for on the car radio when we drove from Massachusetts to my parents home in New York City every Thanksgiving morning. Hilarious and uplifting in its snarky sarcasm, the best message I take home from Arlo is that we don’t need to accept that status quo, even as we do feel gratitude. I look forward to sharing this family tradition with my grandchild, Manu who will be spending his first Thanksgiving with us tomorrow.

So, whatever y’all do or don’t do to celebrate this fourth Thursday in November, I hope that as the song comes around again on the guitar, you’ll think about gratitude, and mourning, and hope for those in search of a better world.

 

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What does it mean to be a creative soul in a challenging and often uncreative universe?

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To inspire you on your journey, here are some hopefully helpful snippets and contemplations from my life as a writer, activist, and wannabee musician–the good, the bad, and the ugly, but mostly stuff I’m grateful for!

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One-Handed Piano and West Side Story’s Maria

Last week on the morning before Election Day I fell off a high and unfamiliar bed in Florida and broke my collarbone! There should be something metaphorical about that, though I don’t know what it could be, other than perhaps reaching for dreams that weren’t going to happen (at least in Florida).  Having a fracture has thrown a bit of a crimp in my style. No cardio aerobics, no yoga, and worst of all no piano playing. It’s conjured up some images of my Grandma Jeanne, pictured below with my daughter when when was a baby, who lost her mojo and soon after, her mind, when arthritis prevented her from playing.

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But yesterday, after a week of piano hiatus, I couldn’t stay away, so I sat down at the piano and played Maria from West Side Story with my (healthy) right hand, letting it travel from the melody to the base line and allowing myself to have more fun fooling around since I couldn’t really do that much with only 5 of my 10 fingers. The song had been in my head since I watched part of the Spielberg West Side Story film on the plane. I didn’t like the film that much, though I think that might have been because of the mucky plane sound and the small screen. When I look at the comparative versions of Maria from the 1961 version and the Spielberg 2021 version, the new version is clearly better. And thank goodness–no lip-syncing. The actors are doing the job!

What’s also difficult with a broken collarbone is writing a poem a day in November, part of the fundraising effort I do every year to benefit the Center for New Americans, which provides English classes and advocacy for refugees and immigrants here in Western Massachusetts. But playing Maria prompted the beginnings of a poem called One-Handed Piano. It will continue to morph and develop, as most of my poetic efforts in November do, but here are a few lines I like:

On the damaged arm, fingertips hang
forcing you to listen with curious ears
to find in harmonics the touch

of your inner glowing, as the healthy hand
travels into forbidden territory
a newcomer in the land of lower notes.

 

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