As Thanksgiving approaches, I find a deep melancholy building in my chest like a rising tide. It is the admixture of many things: winter’s gloom is taking its toll and I can’t go see my family this year; but the main source seems to be a book I read, The Sword in the Stone. It is the first book in The Once and Future King; it’s hilarious, strangely nostalgic, and it makes me want to cry. It is inseparable in my mind with a great teacher I had, someone who committed suicide. It was his favorite book.
I believe firmly in these two things, that a man ought to be thankful and that he should face darkness as it comes. As this day of thanksgiving approaches (I write the day before) I find these two truths at odds in me. I fear it an act of ingratitude to meditate upon this loss, but I cannot seem to set it aside and fully embrace this holiday. All I can find in myself is a sort of “broken hallelujah.” I am grateful for home and family and a job and many other countless blessings, but my heart is heavy.
Tale Told 