The Light of Thanksgiving

The Light of Thanksgiving

Eugene O’Neill

I was watching Long Day’s Journey into Night, as M knocked at the door. 

It’s not a good idea to read O’Neill on Thanksgiving Day, I knew; but it seemed to be an effective way to keep myself from sinking beneath some irresistible feeling. 

In fact, I never learnt to deeply appreciate holidays in a Western country; as much westernized as I am, it is during the holidays—when the university is closed and everybody else goes home—that I suddenly realize that I am a foreigner.

O’Neill is dense and gloomy enough to beat away the densest gloom in me.

Nonetheless, I desired to be interrupted.

H. C. Andersen

M’s neighborhood looked gorgeous on Thanksgiving night.  Each house was filled with light—a light that shone to me with a quiet gesture of compassion.

Our car stopped in front of M’s house.  A slender, fairylike girl with big sparkling eyes greeted us eagerly through the window.  It was M’s elder daughter.  Her grace and vigor radiated even in the glittering light of the house.

I passed another couple of windows along the driveway before entering the house.  As I gazed into the rooms, their atmosphere reminded me of the visions of that “little match girl” in Andersen’s tale.  They cannot be warmer and lovelier.

Jade Candles

The dinner was ready.

Apart from the multicolored picturesque dishes I saw a pair of jade candles.  They were solid and tall resembling two noble knights. 

Lamps were turned off, and we began to enjoy our meal in the candle-light.  Like a jade green melody, it lit up the face (and soul) of each one of us at table.

I later knew that the candles were D’s Thanksgiving gift for M.

Swan Lake

M’s wife suggested we go for a walk after dinner.  They promised me a spectacle.  Hence, we put on our thick coats and shoes and dived into the dark chilliness of Thanksgiving Night.

To my surprise, many people came outside.  They seemed to join us on the journey to that expected miracle.

We followed one another circling a petite lake.  The sound of a fountain brought me back to the metaphysical ending of an unforgettable film—The Virgin Spring. 

After a while I caught sight of several ducks in the lake, but M told me there used to be a pair of white swans.  Although we failed to find them, Tchaikovsky immediately replaced Bergman in my thoughts.  I began to ponder on the swan’s exceptional loyalty to their mate. 

From Tchaikovsky’s romance my memory floated to a Spanish tale—A Sad Swansong.  It tinted my world with tenderness and dyed my heart in melancholy when I was seven:  The excessive pride of a handsome prince costs his looks of a human being, and he dies as a swan singing for a paralyzed girl and her desperate mother.

Then I recalled The Dying Swan in Saint-Saëns’ Carnival of the Animals…

My memory could have gone to other childhood moments had the miracle not interrupted it.

The Miracle

At 7:30pm, the entire neighborhood was lit up by the dazzling colorful bulbs around the lake.  For me, it was not less spectacular than the fireworks in Boston Harbor I witnessed last summer.

People exclaimed in joy and hope.  We bumped into friends and colleagues who emitted a warmth of—I would call—Thanksgiving Sunshine. 

The miracle also lit up a corner where several musicians were playing.  Nearby hot chocolate and cider were served.  I tried the latter a little bit; its heat and taste reminded me immediately of my first (and last) Grünwein at the Nuremberg Christmas Market: I took the deceptive beverage for fruit drink and emptied a full cup in a minute.  I did not know what happened afterward until my German friends told me the next morning that I fainted and they took me home where I slept for 12 hours.  Amusing in retrospect.  

The cider was really good.  Not only my stomach, but my cold nose benefited from it as well.  I became a sweating snowman.

What a beautiful night!  I exclaimed silently—in the light of Thanksgiving, in the light of thankfulness.