Thanksgiving Triage

Last week I didn’t change my wool socks for three days. My contributions to the big dinner were not my best: the stuffing was too bland, the apple galette needed more sugar, and I bought the sweet potato casserole. Tuesday night I couldn’t fall asleep until 1:00AM because I was worried about Nurse Jackie’s web of lies in season three and Zola’s separation anxiety and how to spend Phil’s day off. I ate out too much, I didn’t exercise enough, and I spent too much time scrolling through Facebook.


Our culture shouts the anthem: keep it simple, which means make things look sleek and minimal, while scurrying around frantically to hide your mess.


I have a different anthem: triage it. Do what you have to do—deal with the acute asthma attack and the guy losing blood and know you’ll eventually get to the kid who busted his lip and the possible broken wrist. Look back at what you actually did, not what you have left to do. Life will never be as simple as a centerpiece of white candles on crystal candle sticks. We all have a laundry basket of stray toys hidden somewhere. Life is complex, a tangle of what we want accomplish and what we have to do.


Last week I actually did some things. I read half of Big Little Man, I spent a day at the coast with my mom and Ramona and her friend, I found second-hand snow gear for the Littles, and I took the van to be vacuumed. I spent an afternoon and evening relaxing with family. I walked my dogs everyday, even in the rain. I made a bone broth with the turkey carcass.


My mom tells me that my Grandpa Art used to start the day with this prayer, “Dear Lord, these are my priorities, please show me yours.”


My mornings usually start with two girls climbing in bed to rouse me, one chattering in my ear because it's perhaps the only time she’ll have my attention and the other tugging on my arm to rub the mole on the inside of my elbow, dislocating my shoulder. As I stagger to pour their cereal and make my coffee, I hope that I might be able to glance at some headlines on my phone before it is time to make lunches. Usually, I forget to set the simple intention my grandfather apparently muttered each morning.


Next thing I know, I am hostage, trapped in my day, a pinball bouncing from one emergency to the next. I have to stop myself and triage: run through the list that has brought me to the boiling point and turn down the heat. The Thanksgiving blog post can be published the week after, I can say no to my children so that we don’t spin off-kilter, and no one notices my socks. Walking, even in the rain, is essential to get oxygen to my brain. Taking time to write in the midst of a major move is valuable, and whatever I think I need to buy today, can also be bought tomorrow.


So, I triage it.