We will not be celebrating the holiday at the cabin. We can barely navigate around mouse traps, tools and bags of insulation so comfortably celebrating a bountiful feast is out of the question.

The trailer? Well, it is pretty darn cozy. It also leaks a wee bit when it rains, and although the heated mattresses are grand, the dampness still seems to seep into all fabrics especially PJ bottoms. Or maybe Rumi is to blame. Either way, not the best place to break bread and give thanks.

On second thought, maybe it is the perfect setting. Contrast makes gratitude flow.

So grab your woolies and your wellies, a bottle of bubbly, and come celebrate Thanksgiving with us – karma cabin style.

Gratitude is the wine of the soul. Go on. Get drunk.

Rumi

I offer the first toast of thanks to Bert the Outhouse. Nothing has ever made me appreciate my flushable toilet more than Bert. The novelty of pooping in a spidery dwelling quickly wears off but each trip home, when cheeks nestle cozily on a solid seat, is pure ecstasy.

The second toast goes to Stella the Woodstove. Stella, the sweat equity it takes trying to get you fired up makes me appreciate the low-maintenance furnace at home. When gentle heat comes drifting through the registers, I sigh with relief. Namaste, Stubborn Stella. Thank you for making me work hard for every bit of heat you begrudgingly proffer.

Third glass is offered to Dean the Trailer. Dean, you make me appreciate the hallways and doors in our tiny Ottawa home and the privacy and space they provide. It is sweet morning bliss not snapping and snarling at your spouse as you trip over each other (and the dog sprawled on the tiny trailer floor) to get to the coffee maker.

The next toast belongs to every unwanted, 4-legged guest that has enjoyed squatters’ rights in our attic, walls and couch cushions. I now step more lightly and consciously when I invade your forest home. Just to be clear, I do not poop and pee to my heart’s content in your nest, though.

Attention now flows to the feast table. My fifth toast goes to the Empty Seats that surround it. Spirits are an essential inevitability at every celebration. Thank you for reminding me to hug this fleeting illusion I still breathe in and out each day. Each moment with family and friends that remain at the table is savored all the more.

I am noticing a few dirty paw prints that dart around each chair. Rumi, thank you for forcing me to deal with my compulsive need to clean on a daily basis. Your prints remind me is it always better to go forest-walking than floor-scrubbing.

And to the Karma Cabin, you are a lesson-filled teacher that I often do not welcome with a willing heart. You temper my impatience and test my resolve. Anything worth doing is worth doing well, and your transformation will take some time. As much as I secretly want it to be, this is not about the perfect Instagram photo with gleaming wood floors and gently burning fireplace. This is about personal growth which is full of hard realizations and bitter-tasting truths.

My final blurry toast goes to you, reader. Hitting “publish now” on my first post caused me to put my head between my tremblin’ knees. Without you, I would not have had the courage to rip off more than a few painful band-aids and ill-fitting masks. I feel your presence every time I write.

Whatever table you find yourself at this holiday weekend, enjoy every awkward, messy, wonderful moment. The dishes can wait. We will all occupy an Empty Seat one day. In the meantime, another slice of pumpkin pie is calling. Let out the drawstring on the sweatpants and nourish yourself.

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