The Goddesses of Thanksgiving
A poem by Emily Dickinson, musings on holiday etymology, a fragment of Sappho, and a family recipe
Welcome and happy Thanksgiving for those who are celebrating! For those of you who have been with me a while, I should stop apologizing for my long delays between posts and just admit that this season of my life is about writing 2-3 times a month instead of my former weekly habit. I have reasons why things slowed down, though. After the election many of the people I love had things to say, whether that was on Substack or in person, and as a good friend I felt the need to hear (or read) them. I also wanted to ask certain people how they were. This is of course an investment of time, but friendships often lapse when they are not tended to, and I am a constant gardener in these matters. Also, a few weeks ago two of my five children were struck with pneumonia, one of whom had to go to the hospital and missed over a week of school, and so I spent my time and energy on my family and trying to make sure no one else got sick. This is on top of my usual obligations at home, work, and church.
However, I haven’t stopped writing. My review of Anna Lewis’s Memory’s Abacus just came out at the young but mighty online publication,
. Of course, I have been writing for my Poetry of Meditation class, taught by Ryan Wilson at the University of St. Thomas MFA Program. For my final project I am working on an experimental-memoir-essay for the class. At the moment it reads like drunk e e cummings after he’s read too much Jacques Maritain, but I am going to try to get it together (read: coherent and with punctuation) before the thing is due on 12/6.I have also unexpectedly found myself preparing almost all of the appetizers, main courses and desserts for Thanksgiving dinner for my family plus two. This is fine, but it is very last minute. I am in charge of an 11 lbs orange-maple glazed turkey, an 11 lbs ham, a large plate of smoked salmon, a casserole of mashed potatoes, some random leafy salad, boxed mac and cheese, veggie/cracker/cheese tray, cornbread (see below!), pumpkin cheesecake from scratch, vanilla ice cream, and an apple pie. My mother is making pancit — not sure what kind of meat, vegetables or noodles she is using, but I am sure it will be good.
Lately my littlest one has been my shadow in the kitchen and in my MFA course. She is often in the room during my MFA class when we are talking about Donne, Herbert, Hopkins, Dickinson, Stevens and Tate. Discussions about Emily Dickinson are interesting with a 9-year-old. Yesterday I read her a Thanksgiving poem by the great Emily, after which my daughter resoundingly said, “I like it!” However, we agreed — we don’t completely understand it. Perhaps you can tell us?
“One day is there of the series”
by Emily Dickson
One day is there of the series Termed "Thanksgiving Day" Celebrated part at table Part in memory — Neither Ancestor nor Urchin I review the Play — Seems it to my Hooded thinking Reflex Holiday Had There been no sharp subtraction From the early Sum — Not an acre or a Caption Where was once a Room Not a mention whose small Pebble Wrinkled any Sea, Unto such, were such Assembly, 'Twere "Thanksgiving day" —
I found this and other Thanksgiving poems at the Academy of American Poets (Poets.org), a great resource for themed lists of poetry and more. I love going to the site for their guides on how to discuss certain poems with children. “One day is there of the series” is quite the puzzle so if you have any thoughts or hints please let us know. I’m usually not quite this stumped!
Despite the busy days I am so grateful for my family and friends. And I am incredibly thankful for all of the readers of this Substack, especially my paid subscribers who will be getting a separate message from me in the next week about certain developments related to my education. My founding members, whose generosity has been truly unfathomable to me, are going to get additional personal messages.
While thinking about what to write to you I started musing on charity and grace — words with the same stem but then branch off into two different flowers. The Greek kharis or charis (χάρις) means "grace, favor, or kindness", which leads clear path to the Latin caritas from where we get the word charity, “the love of another person” and “a grace given freely.” The Latin caritas can be traced to the Greek charis, but it is also known as a synonym for the Greek agape (ἀγάπη). Agape is a distinct form of love that means "the highest form of love, charity" — the foundation of all other Christian virtues, the reciprocal love between God and man.
In Greek myth the Charites were also called the Graces. The poet Sappho wrote about them:
βροδοπάχεες ἄγναι Χάριτες δεῦτε Δίος κόραι
Hither, holy rosy-armed Charites daughters of Zeus.1
The three Charites were the goddesses of grace, beauty, adornment, joy, mirth, festivity, dance and song. The Romans translated Charites into the Latin Gratia or Gratiae, which are also the origins of our both grace and gratitude. Gratia means favor, charm, or thanks. Gratus means pleasing or grateful. As a Catholic, I hear the word gratia in song and prayer, most often in the Ave Maria.
Ave, María, grátia plena,
Dóminus tecum.
Benedicta tu in muliéribus,
et benedíctus fructus ventris
tui, Iesus.
Sancta María, Mater Dei,
ora pro nobis peccatoribus
nunc et in hora mortis nostrae.
Amen.Hail Mary, full of grace,
the Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou among women
and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
pray for us sinners now
and at the hour of our death. Amen.
And today, on Thanksgiving, Grace is the name of prayer that many people will say today before partaking in the big meal. If you are interested I found a number of good prayers here, but the old parochial school standard is as good as anything I could come up with:
Bless us, O Lord,
And these, Thy gifts,
which we are about to receive
through Thy bounty,
through Christ, our Lord.
Amen.
Just as the Muses inspires us in our Arts, I hope the Graces inspire in us profound feelings of thanksgiving and love for one another. Today I feel the gift—the blessing—of your presence as a reader. Today is a day of festival, of celebration, in the classical sense. Today is a day of gratitude for our blessings in a religious sense.
May you go forth today and every day of your life feeling full of grace and experiencing the charity of the world.
Deo Gratias!
The Beauty of Cornbread Recipe
(A.K.A. the Montessori Cornbread recipe)2
Small can of creamed corn
4 eggs, well beaten
1 cup sour cream
2 boxes Jiffy corn bread mix
⅓ cup canola oil
Directions
Preheat oven 400.
Beat eggs very very well till fluffy. Add the wet ingredients. Then dry ingredients. Mix well with paddle.
Put the mixture in 9x9 pan. Bake at 400 for 10 minutes then 350 for 30 minutes.
Sappho, Fragment 53 (trans. Campbell, Vol. Greek Lyric I) (C6th B.C.)
My mother-in-law initially got this recipe from a cookbook put together by my husband’s Montessori school. It looks like a lot of the doctored up Jiffy brand boxed mix recipes, but it is a reliably moist cornbread.
Dear Zina,
I recently found your substack, via Steve Knepper's New Poetry Review.
Thinking of this somewhat mysterious poem by Emily Dickinson, I personally interpret it in a religious fashion: at first she sees Thanksgiving Day as it is now celebrated in the US: as a feast and a memorial.
Then, as she is neither of the past (ancestor) not future (urchin), she will consider the Day from a deeper perspective - that is, as a sacred drama (Play). Hooded thinking: a disguised or concealed identity, like Christ on the way to Emmaus. Dickinson is similarly 'Hooded', and in this mode recognises the celebration has fallen away from its true spiritual significance and is now 'merely' a 'Holiday'.
The 'sharp subtraction' signifies such a falling away from the sacred to the profane.
'Early Sum'; using a mathematical metaphor for the story of human salvation, she reminds readers that once there was a place (acre) and a Gospel narrative (Caption), focused on a Room (ie the Upper Room) where the Last Supper took place.
'whose small Pebble' ie St Peter, senior of the Apostles, whose name, changed from 'Simon' to 'rock' (or stone/pebble) and which, cast into the 'Sea' of humanity, caused many a ripple (or wrinkle).
The Hooded (concealed) authorial voice of the poet concludes: if indeed we moderns were able to envisage that Assembly - the twelve Apostles and their beloved Lord as He institutes the First Mass at His Last Supper - it would indeed be a true Thanksgiving Day: not just for US history in time and place, and human feasting, but thanksgiving for Christ Himself, come to dwell among mankind...
I do not think my interpretation too far-fetched.
Thanks for this post, you busy woman. I somehow ended up with a 20 pound ham, so that's what I'm cooking today, plus sweet potato pie and mashed potatoes. Maybe a salad, if I get to it. My friend Stewart and his 90+ year old father are coming and bringing the rest of the food. I usually don't host at Thanksgiving because of my son's indifference to holidays and my lack of stamina at this age. But I'm trying again. I'm grateful Stewart's dad accepted, since he is blue after the death of his wife. A new agey lady with what she calls her angelic and healing harp has invited herself from the St. Ann Choir, so that will add some frisson to the day. Plus harp music ought to be an interesting entertainment. I got out the nice dishes, polished the brass candlesticks and the silverware. Lots left to do . . .. I don't understand the poem either.