On Thanksgiving Day 1989, I was on the verge of homelessness living in a basement room near the tracks in Worcester, Ma. Alone. Penniless. Repelling down the steep edge of hope with a loose grip.
It seems like a lifetime ago.
And somehow, only yesterday.
So I’m pretty grateful for everything in my life today. Every day. This isn’t to say that I’m a saint. I forget about gratitude and have to be reminded daily. Forgetting is human. That’s why we need days like Thanksgiving to remind us of how good life is. I’m just lucky because I’ve learned how to spread gratitude out over time rather than try and jam it all into one day.
Thanksgiving has too much pressure on it, anyway.
Happy Thanksgiving, America.