As I took this photo at the end of my family's Thanksgiving meal yesterday, someone asked me if I had taken a before photo. I said not this year but I had one from last year. My mom said, "It probably looks pretty much the same as this year," like it was something bad. On the contrary, there is a comfort in the familiar. It wouldn't seem like Thanksgiving without the blueberry salad my Grandma always made or the sweet potatoes with the marshmallows.
I love the familiar of my parents' home. It is where they have lived since their wedding night in 1958. They have added on to the house and just this month they put in central heat and air but it hasn't changed much at all in those almost 59 years. It is still full of love and wonderful memories.
The familiarity of this home centers me. I can have a rotten day and can spend an evening there and it sets everything right. Being with people who know me so well is such a comfort. There is no struggle with the familiar. I can be myself and relax.
So I will take a familiar meal any day. As long is it with the people who love me unconditionally and totally. That is the best kind of familiar.