Sharing a table

In my younger days in Massachusetts, all the smart folks that I knew shared a secret, not well kept, that the best part of a party ended up in the kitchen. The more formal types remained in the living and dining rooms while real people ended up in the kitchen. With more open floor plans, such distinctions are often lost. At tomorrow’s Thanksgiving dinner, the dining and kitchen table are one and the same. That may be an improvement, especially if, as we do, you believe in the truth captured in Joy Harjo’s poem [see below]. Meanwhile, I’m thankful and full of gratitude to the powers that be that I lived long enough to see Native Americans serve as both the United States’ poet laureate (Joy Harjo) and the Minnesota state poet laureate (Gwen Nell Westerman). Their poetry fits well with tomorrow’s celebrations, don’t you think?

before the celebration begins

Photo by J. Harrington

 

Perhaps the World Ends Here By Joy Harjo The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live. The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on. We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it. It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women. At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers. Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table. This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun. Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory. We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here. At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks. Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

Give-Away Song Gwen Westerman This is my give-away— not because I don’t want it anymore, not because it’s out of style or broken or useless since it lost its lid or one of its buttons, not because I don’t understand the “value” of things. This is my give-away— because I have enough to share with you because I have been given so much health love happiness pain sorrow fear to share from the heart in a world where words can be meaningless when they come only from the head. This is my give-way— to touch what is good in you with words your heart can hear like ripples from a pebble dropped in water moving outward growing wider touching others. You are strong. You are kind. You are beautiful. This is my give-away. Wopida ye. Wopida ye. Wopida ye.

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