Thanksgiving has New England written all over it.

Trees and forests; browns, oranges, yellows, and the reds, with their scarlet persistence still holding on tight. It is the only time when a chill makes you feel good. Like it is a blessing, baptizing the air for what may be a claustrophobic winter.

If the shop owners only knew how great their sin, to rush us into Christmas - their Christmas of buying frenzy. But of course they are not shop owners, but corporate executives. And who knows, maybe Friday will never come. Maybe the ground hogs will come early and draw a line in the sand, and demand we spend another day at home, with family and friends. Eating and drinking; baking and greeting; remembering and wishing; The joy of being happy and sad at the same time.

To be thankful of heart. To know that a blessing is not a commodity; but more of a reminder of what, if we are lucky, sometimes passes through our veins. What, if not makes us - if we must leave that to the atoms; surely animates us. What we celebrate and as winter presses on, live; in joyful irreverence and fiercely, not only in homey traditions.

In a world where I know so little and understand less, why is it that I know thanksgiving so well?