Rite of Passage

It would be wrong to say that we, in America, have no rites of passage, but I find it challenging to see our lives demarcated by dramatic, cultural, coming-of-age events like they once did, or like they do in other cultures. Sure, we have things like First Communion, marriage and the birth of one's first-born, but these are common to many cultures. They don't seem to be as culturally specific as Dokimasia, which was the process in Athens by which a citizen's eligibility to engage in public rights and duties was ascertained, or the ceremony of Poy Sang Long in Myanmar and Northern Thailand in which boys between 7 and 14 take novice monastic vows and participate in monastery life for a designated period of time.

But I think I've stumbled upon a specifically American rite of passage since I've been married, one I was not expecting: the ability to cook Thanksgiving turkey. Indeed, the first question posed to me after I explained that Thanksgiving would be at my home was "Are you making a turkey?". And then, inevitably, "Is this your first turkey?", as if to count it among the many important firsts in our lives: first words, first day of school, first home. Don't get me wrong--I'm not knocking it! I felt that to successfully prepare Thanksgiving turkey was to be successfully initiated into... something. I'm still not sure what that something is, other than now I know how to cook a turkey (hey, at least it's useful). And I think that's good enough for me.

We had a wonderful weekend with my parents and brother--a weekend of feasting, relaxing, napping, and being showered by my parents' tremendous generosity. I am so fortunate to have parents, both mine and Andrew's, who give us room to grow, to explore, to succeed, to make mistakes, to make our lives our own. With each rite of passage that comes our way, no matter how big or small, they gently encourage us, sometimes by holding on and sometimes by letting go. And on this Thanksgiving, I am truly thankful for them.

(Happy Birthday, Dad!)