This morning as I handed Eloise a plate of pancakes—because sometimes I actually do have my act together early and pancakes on school days can happen, and actually they were oladushki, which as all y’all from the FSU will know are cooked in oil not butter, which makes them perfect for this month of Chanukah, but none of this is the point—the point is that as I set her breakfast down at 6:45 am, she looked at me and said, “Mommy, did you see the sunrise?”

I had not, because while nice weekday breakfasts do sometimes happen, they involve stumbling around in the dark pretending the day has not truly begun, so no, I hadn’t opened the shades or looked outside yet. Turns out it was a gorgeous pink-sky morning, and I’d missed it.

‘Tis the season, dark at breakfast and at dinner again, too. We feel the creeping darkness in our moods as we inch toward the solstice. But more than that—symbolically—isn’t this right on, the way we constitutionally avoid brightness of many kinds, at all seasons, missing what is beautiful and shimmering just beyond the edges of our awareness as we choose the dark and depressing instead? This is what the Sefat Emet and other rabbis noted about this month of Kislev we are now in, at the end of which—around the solstice—we begin lighting the Chanukkah candles. The darkness this month forces us to look for what is concealed rather than what is obvious, to light extra lights. Time to lift up those blinds and see the hidden glory behind.

Which brings me to Thanksgiving. Our National Mood Disorder has us all exhibiting a variety of symptoms. The list is long and I won’t get into it here. All I’ll say is that it can feel hard to see that there is light here with us, too.

According to the Smithsonian, “festivals of Thanksgiving were observed sporadically on a local level for more than 150 years.” The first Thanksgiving celebrations were summer affairs, giving thanks for rain after a drought and related light-out-of-darkness agricultural moments. In 1789, Elias Boudinot, representing New Jersey in the House of Representatives, moved that a national day of Thanksgiving be held to thank God for giving the American people the opportunity to create a Constitution to preserve their hard-won freedoms. After a Joint Committee approved the motion, President George Washington proclaimed that the people of the United States would observe “a day of public thanksgiving and prayer” on Thursday, November 26. It didn’t catch on, however, for another 150 years, with some (like Thomas Jefferson) objecting on the grounds that it violated separation of church and state. But get this:

“Most of the credit for the establishment of an annual Thanksgiving holiday may be given to Sarah Josepha Hale. Editor of Ladies Magazine and Godey’s Lady’s Book, she began to agitate for such a day in 1827 by printing articles in the magazines. She also published stories and recipes, and wrote scores of letters to governors, senators, and presidents. After 36 years of crusading, she won her battle. On October 3, 1863, buoyed by the Union victory at Gettysburg, President Lincoln proclaimed that November 26, would be a national Thanksgiving Day, to be observed every year on the fourth Thursday of November.”

Note that wonderful 36, double chai, tucked in there. Sometimes beautiful traditions are hidden and take a long time to see the light. And maybe that’s part of the wisdom of this week’s parasha, too, because the Joseph story we begin reading now is as much about what is concealed as what is revealed. Joseph enters the world in this week’s parashah, and from the start nothing about him is straightforward. His dreams will be misunderstood, his identity buried again and again, his gifts and God’s hand invisible until they are brought to light.

Thanksgiving gives us a national moment that mirrors this spiritual lesson. Giving thanks is the practice of noticing what we otherwise overlook, taking stock not only of the things that shine brightly but of the extraordinary that live concealed by the everyday. In a season of darkness—literal and metaphorical—Thanksgiving offers us a chance to pause and try to name the small goodnesses that would otherwise go unnoticed. In that way, it aligns with Kislev’s invitation: Lift the blinds. Light the candles. Let the hidden colors and light in.

And because gratitude is a practice, not just a feeling, I want to offer two simple takeaways for this week.

First: bless your food at the Thanksgiving table. In Jewish life, we go granular, giving thanks not just for the category “food” but for exactly what we are blessed to have on our plates. If the main centerpiece is the turkey, then recite this one—which is one of my favorite blessings in the entire canon:

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה ה׳ אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם שֶׁהַכֹּל נִהְיָה בִּדְבָרוֹ.

Barukh attah Adonai eloheinu melekh ha-olam, she-ha-kol nihyeh bi-d’varo.

Praised are You, Lord our God, Sovereign of the Universe, at whose word all things come into being. For a full directory of food blessings (it’s not always hamotzi, that’s the point!) click here.

Second: join our Gratitude Circle, back by popular demand (or maybe just rabbinic whim) for year two. A WhatsApp group we’re opening this week for you and anyone in your life who wants to join in. Every day from Thanksgiving through the end of Chanukah (December 22) we will each post one thing we are grateful for. No cross-talk, no politics, no commenting besides an emoji, just a running list of things we are grateful for. Think of it like adding one more candle each night. Each person offering one small spark from their day, the light building as we share it with one another.

During this month of searching for light in the dark, I hope this is how we will find it: together noticing, naming, sharing goodness and gratitude, to reveal what is already here but too often hidden from view. Happy Thanksgiving, may our giving thanks be part of the way from darkness to light.