Thanks Giving

A true story by Erick Sahler

Two photographs shot 50 years apart on a deserted Maryland beach. In each, I am tethered to a Chesapeake Bay retriever, unaware the photos are being taken. They are true, honest, unscripted glimpses into my life.

In the first, the retriever and I are both pups. It is the spring of 1972. My mother captured us with her Polaroid as we played on the 53rd Street beach in Ocean City. The dog grabs the drawstring that tightens my hoodie. He strains back as the sweatshirt cinches across my chest. My left foot lifts so I am slightly unbalanced. The dynamic creates an offseason version of the classic Coppertone illustration in which the puppy tugs at the little girl’s bathing suit.

The second photo has the slight feel of one of those cheesy spiritual cards church folks hand out. Tracy photographed me from behind, wandering Assateague beach under a sunset sky. A full-grown Chessie ambles at my side. We are small in the distance. Footprints mark our journey in the sand. The end of the day draws near.

Taken as symbolic bookends of my life so far, these two photos spurred me to introspection.

Like the two dates carved on a tombstone, the beginning and end are definitive. What is missing is The Big In-Between, that dash connecting birth and death, the place in which all the Important Stuff happens. The dash of life.

Of course, cynical folks may conclude I didn’t travel very far over the past half-century. Ocean City and Assateague are, after all, just an inlet apart.

I rather like to think the boy on the beach started his journey and, like the character Pete in “Almost Maine,” kept going until he had circled the globe, only to end up back where he started after a life of adventure.

I’ve certainly lived my dream — seen the sights, hung with my heroes, left a mark. No regrets. My bucket list is drained. I am satiated, my desires fulfilled.

But with time and experience come wisdom and perspective.

And I think about the Things That Really Matter.

And I realize one thing that matters most is being fully present.

Right here.

Right now.

And with that comes eternal gratitude.

Some years back, I started counting my blessings each night before I drifted off to sleep — a prayer, perhaps, but with a focus not on what I wanted but for which I gave thanks.

Beyond the generic litany — family, health, home, work, community — I focused on the specifics of each day — the little things — for which I was grateful. For in the particular lies the universal. My only rule was to never repeat myself.

It engaged all my senses.

The one thing I saw each day that was memorable.

Or the one thing I heard.

Or smelled or tasted.

Or felt — tactility or emotionally.

In doing so, it raised my awareness. I became present in each moment, stalking and acknowledging the gifts of the universe.

If I awoke to a savory smell drifting up from the kitchen, I noticed and gave thanks.

If a flock of birds created an interesting pattern across the sky, I noticed and gave thanks.

If I was touched by a smile from a stranger, I noticed and gave thanks.

And so it goes …

As my 55th Thanksgiving holiday approaches, I recognize my world has grown smaller. I am content. My hopes and aspirations have given way to my gratitudes.

The voices of my adult children, back from college, will soon fill our home again.

The smell of a good meal will waft through the house.

We’ll laugh and groan as we share memories around the table.

And maybe we’ll go for a walk. On the beach. With the dog.

And for all this, I am grateful.

And for the wisdom of knowing that, simply, is enough.