Some days call for ambition; others call for claiming my spot on the couch and staying there.
Winter Lights and Birthday Traditions
A good friend of mine—also from Alabama, and though younger than me grew up not far from where I did—and I are heading out tonight for Winter Lights at Shelburne Museum. It’s one of those wonderfully over-the-top holiday displays that hits you with the full force of color, sparkle, and pure seasonal joy. The whole campus is transformed with imaginative light installations: buildings glowing in bold colors, gardens wrapped in shimmering displays, and even musical moments tucked throughout.
We’re starting the evening with a nice birthday dinner. Usually, we go to Waterworks in Winooski because they’re the only place that carries a wine we both love, but since alcohol is off the table for me now, we decided on a different kind of celebration. After dinner, we’ll head over to Winter Lights for the full holiday experience. I just need to decide whether I’m in the mood for steak or Italian tonight.
Holiday lights have always been a soft spot for me. I’ve been to a few of these special displays before—there was a similar event at the Montgomery Zoo I used to go to with a former girlfriend, and I’ve been to the lights at Callaway Gardens in Georgia. When I was a kid, Christmas Eve meant going to my mother’s parents’ house, and Pop would take us driving to look at all the decorated homes. It was one of my favorite traditions.
A friend of mine once lived in Thibodaux, Louisiana, and that town always went all out—bright, tacky, gaudy, and absolutely over the top. But it was fun. And on my 40th birthday, a friend took me up to Montreal, where we stayed at a hotel on the edge of the Gay Village overlooking a little park near the Berri-UQAM Metro station. They had a small winter festival happening, and it made for such a beautiful scene.
So tonight feels like a continuation of all those good memories: a nice dinner with a friend, a wander through glowing holiday lights, and maybe a cup of Lake Champlain Chocolates hot cocoa to warm things up. A pretty perfect way to celebrate another year.
A Quiet Table, a Full Heart
This Thanksgiving will be a small one for me, but it will still be a good one. I’ll be making my own little feast: turkey, cornbread dressing, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Truth be told, I’m mostly looking forward to the dressing. It has always been one of my favorite foods of the season—comfort, tradition, and memory all in one dish.
It will just be me and my lovely Isabella at the table this year, and honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. She has truly been a lifesaver for me in more ways than I can count. She has an uncanny way of knowing when I don’t feel well, when I’m anxious, or when I just need quiet company. I am deeply thankful for her sweet, steady presence in my life.
I’m also incredibly thankful for my friendships—especially Susan—and for the people who show up for me again and again with kindness, laughter, and support. And yes, I’m even thankful for my family, even though they do manage to drive me crazy most of the time. Love is complicated, but it is still love.
Most of all today, I want to thank you—my wonderful readers. So many of you are so encouraging in your comments, and over the years I have made real, meaningful friendships through this little corner of the internet. Some of you I still hear from often. Some I haven’t heard from in a long time. And some I know have passed on. Each of you, in your own way, has made an impact on my life, and for that I am truly grateful.
I know some of you rarely comment publicly, but every once in a while I’ll receive a quiet email instead—and I treasure those messages just as much. In fifteen years of writing this blog, I’m grateful to say that negativity has been rare. The overwhelming majority of what I receive from you is warmth, encouragement, and generosity of spirit. That is no small gift.
To my readers in the United States, I wish you a peaceful, joyful Thanksgiving. And to those of you around the world who don’t celebrate this holiday—please know how thankful I am for you being part of my life all the same.
Today, my table may be small, but my gratitude is anything but.
Happy Thanksgiving, my friends. 🦃❤️
A Rough Day, a Better Morning
It’s been a bit of a rough 24 hours. Yesterday started with a migraine and nausea, and the longer I was up, the worse it got. Eventually the vomiting joined the party, and needless to say, I did not work yesterday. Instead, I slept off and on all day with my sweet Isabella curled up beside me. She’s always been good at sensing when I’m not feeling well. Sometimes that means she snuggles close; sometimes she simply stations herself nearby like a little feline guardian. She used to wake me up when my blood sugar dropped too low—thankfully that hasn’t been an issue for quite a while—but she’s still the most empathetic cat I’ve ever known.
I went to bed early last night but woke from a bad dream around 1:30 a.m. I’m not sure I’d call it a nightmare, but it was unpleasant enough to make getting back to sleep difficult. Eventually I drifted off again and slept until 5:15 a.m.—which is quite a bit later than Isabella usually allows. This time, at least, I was having a far more enjoyable dream. Let’s just say it involved meeting two guys at a bar and a rather delightful ménage à trois. Waking up from that was certainly nicer than waking up from yesterday’s misery.
I’m feeling much better today, thankfully. I’ll be at work for my half-day and need to get a few preparations done for the classes coming in next week. Afterward, I have a few errands to run, but I’m hoping it will be a good, calm day.
I hope all of you have a pleasant day as well. May it be migraine-free and maybe even dream-enhanced.
Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving
By James Whitcomb Riley
Let us be thankful—not only because
Since last our universal thanks were told
We have grown greater in the world’s applause,
And fortune’s newer smiles surpass the old—
But thankful for all things that come as alms
From out the open hand of Providence:—
The winter clouds and storms—the summer calms—
The sleepless dread—the drowse of indolence.
Let us be thankful—thankful for the prayers
Whose gracious answers were long, long delayed,
That they might fall upon us unawares,
And bless us, as in greater need we prayed.
Let us be thankful for the loyal hand
That love held out in welcome to our own,
When love and only love could understand
The need of touches we had never known.
Let us be thankful for the longing eyes
That gave their secret to us as they wept,
Yet in return found, with a sweet surprise,
Love’s touch upon their lids, and, smiling, slept.
And let us, too, be thankful that the tears
Of sorrow have not all been drained away,
That through them still, for all the coming years,
We may look on the dead face of To-day.
About the Poem
As we move into Thanksgiving week—a short one for many of us, and hopefully a peaceful one—it feels right to slow down, take a breath, and sit with a poem that understands the holiday not as perfection, but as presence. James Whitcomb Riley’s “Thanksgiving” is simple on its surface, yet gently profound in its reminder that gratitude often lives quietly in the ordinary spaces of our lives.
Riley is sometimes called the “Hoosier Poet,” known for his nostalgic portrayals of Midwestern life. But “Thanksgiving” reaches far beyond its setting. The poem invites us to be grateful not just for success or blessings that shine, but also for the quieter graces—calm days, sufficient bread, moments of peace in a noisy world.
It’s a gentle reminder that gratitude doesn’t only come wrapped in celebration. Sometimes it comes in small mercies: time off before a holiday, a quiet office, or even the chance to sit with memories of those we’ve loved and lost. For many LGBTQ+ people, Thanksgiving can be complicated, but Riley’s poem offers a form of gratitude that doesn’t require perfection—just awareness.
This week, many of us juggle traditions, emotions, travel, absence, and the bittersweet ache of remembering those who won’t sit at the table with us anymore. Gratitude can be tender, even painful. And yet, as Riley writes, we “are richer than we know,” not because everything is easy, but because blessings—large and small—still find their way into our days.
For LGBTQ+ folks especially, finding spaces where we can breathe, belong, or simply rest is a blessing worth naming.
As we enter this holiday week, may we find gratitude in whatever form it takes—joyful, quiet, complicated, or tender. May we honor the memories that still ache, the friends who steady us, the moments of peace that carry us through. And may we remember that grace often hides in the ordinary.
Wishing everyone a gentle and meaningful Thanksgiving week.
About the Poet
James Whitcomb Riley (1849–1916) was one of America’s most beloved popular poets. Sometimes sentimental, often nostalgic, he captured a vision of everyday American life rooted in kindness, simplicity, and warmth. His work was widely read in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, often recited at gatherings and printed in holiday editions of newspapers and magazines. “Thanksgiving” reflects the accessible, heartfelt tone for which he was known.
Monday Morning Musings
After ten days away from the office, I’m heading back in this morning. Luckily, it’s a short week—just today, tomorrow, and half of Wednesday before the long Thanksgiving weekend begins. I’m definitely looking forward to the extra time off.
It should also be a pretty peaceful week at the museum. My boss is out on vacation all week, and my other coworker has her office tucked away elsewhere in the building. So for the most part, I’ll have my little corner of the museum to myself. Honestly, I’m hoping for quiet days and easy work.
You may notice that my posts this week might have a slightly maudlin tone. It’s not because I’m spending Thanksgiving in Vermont or because my birthday is coming up. It’s because this time of year always brings a familiar sadness: a friend of mine won’t be celebrating another birthday. It’s been ten years, and I still miss him. Grief has a way of slipping into the rhythm of the holidays.
Every year, for my birthday, I go out to dinner with a close friend. We always share a bottle of wine at our favorite restaurant—at least, we used to. This year will be different. My liver no longer allows alcohol, but that’s alright. We’ll still have dinner on Friday, and afterward we’re planning to visit a holiday lights festival at a big outdoor museum near Burlington. It should be beautiful, and I think a little beauty will do my heart some good.
People always ask if I’m going home for Thanksgiving, and the answer is always no. I can’t afford two plane trips a month apart, and even if I could, I’m not especially eager to spend my birthday week in Alabama—or worse, fly back to Vermont on my actual birthday. I’d rather spend the day with Isabella, curled up in the quiet warmth of my Vermont home. Yes, home. My parents hate when I say that, but I’ve been here ten years now. Unless something tragic forces me back, Alabama will never be home again. It’s where my family lives, but Vermont is where I live.
Have a wonderful week, everyone. May it be gentle.
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