Thanksgiving Valley is this plain's name. And it marks the mouth of the Advent Race. A peaceful stream that flows through this fruitful field gathers speed and power as it pours over the precipice at the end of the vale. From there it's down, down, down the mountains in a tumbling, pell-mell fury of thunder and chaos until it finally bursts over Christmas Falls and into the Pool where some drown and others bathe and finally it slips out the other side and the quarry will be gone, never to return. Another Year gone, another Yearling straining at the gates in agonizingly youthful exuberance ready for its hunt. Its chance to run the gauntlet.
But the hunter is still thinking about the last hunt and all the hunts before. How to capture a year? How to hold on to that powerful beast? How to best use every bit of the members he managed to pull down? What did he learn? What worked, what didn't?
For this hunter, this valley, this morning of Thanksgiving has been a good place to slow the critter down. It's the last good grazing spot before it's dash down Christmas Ravine. Here i can walk among the herd, even run my fingers through their wooly manes. It's a sacred spot. A place to count blessings.
- Such as homes given...to us, to Clan Bubba, to the Cats.
- The departing of a Shepherd and a partner, hopefully both to happier hunting grounds.
- The arrival of a new partner and all the adjustments that means.
- For a camping trip, a beach trip, a reunion with my brother's family.
- For seasons of growth in the Ballyhoo.
- For more proof that God will provide, even in recessions, democratic presidencies and swine flu pandemics.
- Reconnecting with family, some i wasn't aware i had.
- For sins forgiven.
- For a few more sign in my larger hunt for joy and contentment.