Horn of Plenty, Heart of Sacrifice
Autumn pulls closed our windows with the crisp, chilly morning air, rustling leaves the color of fire until they give up their hold, drifting to the ground—waiting to be collected as burnt offerings upon the winds of change that Old Man Winter be gentle to us at the end of this year and into the next. Once the ghosts of our ancestors again return to the graves whence we have buried both their memory and their mandate, it is time here to reflect on the year, and reap that which we have sown—Thanksgiving.
My family—one who kept the fruit of the Old South on the vine until it rotted—insisted on presenting the typical feast, lest they admit to themselves that they were falling behind the times as well as their mortgage. Their table was distinctly American with its ceramic turkey centerpiece, motifs of the Mayflower on the napkins, and only lacking lithograph depictions of giving natives to the settlers who came with Bible, guns, and cannon. I count myself fortunate to see my Deaconed Paw-Paw, who had survived childhood in the Depression, kept a victory garden as means to ensure there was always okra to fry, collard greens to boil, and corn to grill. Along with the stray pecan and apple trees on the property, and the brambles of blackberry, we had enough of the basics to make our cornbread, pies, and sides. And, with the floor freezer always stocked---a silently-observed trauma response from his experience—we never were lacking for mains.
I remember the long, oak table bowing under the weight of too many dishes the family could not hope to eat in a single sitting, the family arranged according to age at the chairs, the set of white Corelle Brown Filigree out alongside the good flatware we only used for Easter Sunday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas dinners. Heated buns, cornbread, fried okra, and collard greens assaulting the nose along with the saccharine scent of a honey baked ham, candied yams, and well-dried turkey. Nothing was touched until Grace was given—thankfulness for the meal—likely the truest prayer Paw-Paw let pass his lips.
As I look back now, I realize the burden it is to be the Cornucopia, and I wonder if my Paw-Paw realized that he played not the role of the exalted Zeus, but that of Amalthea. Normally the first and last arbiter of Law within his house, I’m not sure he realized that he made himself submissive to the family that day. Not the patriarch, but the one who sacrificed his earned bounty for others.
As I’ve journeyed across the world, I’ve seen others like my Paw-Paw. The weight of occupation, the need to constantly pour themselves out, to give, always giving, especially when it hurts. Some find no greater joy in that burden, no greater pleasure than knowing that they can only rise through offering, no other way of connecting with the divine than through sacrifice.
If recognizing one’s place is the first step to achieving true happiness, for some, knowing that they are the horn, cracked open and providing their goddess’ every whim is their best life. They are tied to this purpose as wetness is to water. Without a goddess to honor, they are lost and without purpose. Doubly so when they are prosperous, for giving feeds the soul like a cup of decaf—its smell brings the promise of vitality, but it is vacuous and placebo in its effect.
While many things may be exalted to divinity, few things truly are a goddess. True divinity recognizes the dance between Herself and her supplicant, and her purpose to return sacrifice with attention yet remain just out of reach. To be powerful and foreboding. Exacting her standards and her manner. And, most importantly, She must recognize that while she is the focal point of devotion and sacrifice, the sacrifice is a conduit for purpose. To sacrifice to her is to draw her closer in, and like the kudzu, entwine supplicant and goddess in a divine dance of flow of offerings and obligations.
So, it is with the warmth of the sacrifice we think about this Thanksgiving—that table, the friends and loved ones around, the food, the wine, the stories. And outside that hearth and home setting, the coldness of what comes when giving is neither offered nor accepted. Wonder who it is that you set up your table for, Amalthea, and whether or not this sacrifice is truly honored as a true divine would understand it.
The Cornucopia belonged to Zeus by divine right, his creation and his gift. Your sacrifice is both blessed and cursed by whomever you choose to offer it to. So many fall short of divinity, and therefore, your sacrifice is wasted upon those that will never understand. Instead, choose a Goddess who knows her purpose, just as you know yours. My altar has a place for your offering. Sacrifice upon it with bended knee that you might know your Goddess and have your prayer answered.
