Back
in 2005, when this blog was only a few months old, I wrote a post, "A
Taoist Thanksgiving," which I have returned to over the years. It
places my son, Aidan, who died three and a half years ago, at the center
of my thinking that day. I reproduce the post below both as a reminder
of what we might give thanks for, and as a remembrance of Aidan:
It is a
perfect Thanksgiving morning here in Northwestern Massachusetts: a
light snow, about 2 inches on the ground; a chill air; great conditions
to be inside and cooking and eating all day. Aidan and I are here by
ourselves, however. Maureen and Maggie are down in New York City,
attending the famous parade. So, we will do the whole feast thing
tomorrow. Today will be just about pie baking: I have a couple of
small pumpkins to bake and make into a pie. If I feel ambitious,
perhaps an apple pie will follow. That will make the house warm and
comfortable.
We are supposed to be thankful today, and I
am. But as I give thanks I can't help wondering: for what am I giving
thanks and to whom? As is my want, I fall back on Taoism to help
clarify my thoughts. And, through that exercise, I come to a somewhat
startling realization: I give thanks for Aidan and his profound
disability. I know that sounds a bit bizarre – how could a parent be
thankful for a child's disability? – but, as I think through it, I am
happy to say that I am.
(For other parents thinking about disability, see this recent piece on disability; hap tip: Laura).
First, let's think more
generally about the act of thanksgiving. In the Christian American
context, that means giving thanks to God for all of the good things we
have. (We tend to skip over the bad things today; we focus on the good
in order to balance out the bad). What I like about this idea is the
underlying assumption that we do not really control the course of our
lives and we need to be humbly grateful for the good things that happen
along the way. I think that sentiment is consonant with Taoism.
Of course, a Taoist (at least a philosophic Taoist) would not invoke a
god figure as the ultimate controller of our destinies. Rather, Way
itself (Tao) is the all-inclusive, self-generating, continually
unfolding complex reality that surrounds and shapes our lives. So, a
Taoist would recognize the one's subordination to Tao. But would a
Taoist give "thanks"?
In a way (pun!), yes. Although
Chuang Tzu tells us that fully apprehending the uncontrollable power of
Tao should lead us to let go of virtually all emotions ("joy and sorrow
never touch you" 92), there is still room for gratefulness, even if
gratefulness assumes a happiness for which to be grateful. A Taoist
can be grateful – and, indeed, can be happily enchanted – to witness or
sense some small part of the wondrous richness of Tao. This is not a
function of education or age: even the smallest and weakest infant
simultaneously absorbs and expresses a corner of Tao. Indeed, the
immaturity and naivety of the infant is presented as the best state
from which to experience Tao:
Embody Integrity's abundance
and you're like the vibrant child…
- Tao Te Ching 55
A Taoist, then, would give thanks, in the sense of recognizing and
gratefully subordinating oneself to uncontrollable forces of Tao that
shape our lives and produce the good (as well as the bad) around us.
It is in that spirit that I give thanks. And as I give thanks in
that way (Way), with Aidan silently sitting next to me in his
wheelchair, air rattling in and out of his tracheostomy tube, I am
thankful for him in precisely the way that he is. I do not regret his
disabilities (this is not Regretsgiving Day, after all). Of course, if
I were some omnipotent divinity able to determine the conditions of his
life, I would call a do-over and have him fully abled in all the ways
he is not now. But I am not omnipotent. I am subordinated to Tao, and
Tao moves as it will, with no heed to my desires or expectations.
But can I be positively grateful for his disability? Yes. I can
because I have come to see that his experience of Tao is just as
valuable and worthwhile as any other experience of Tao. He cannot
speak or see or stand; but he can hear and touch and feel the warmth
and love around him. He takes in Tao and adds to Tao in his own,
unique way. I may think my own understanding of the world around me is
greater or more significant than his, but philosophic Taoists would
scoff at such arrogance. It is, after all, the immature and naive
infant who can "embody Integrity's abundance." It is, after all, our
human-created knowledge that can obstruct our view of Tao.
To be perfectly honest (and I have said this elsewhere),
if I had a choice, I would not change places with him. I am too used
to and happy with my abilities to experience Tao that I would be loath
to give them up. But that might just be my own lack of understanding.
Yet, whatever my own hesitations, I can be fully grateful for him, in
precisely the form he is. It is he, as he is, who has fundamentally
challenged my world view and opened up to me the serenity of
philosophic Taoism. It is he, as he is, who has had myriad good
effects on the people around him. It is he, as he is, who is a perfect
expression of the wholeness of Tao in himself.
So, Happy
Thanksgiving. We are happy here. We are thankful. And among that
many things I am grateful for today is Aidan and his profound
disability.
The Useless Tree 
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