Every Thanksgiving, for the most part in my life, I've come to

In the words of Ben Feldman: “Every Thanksgiving, for the most part in my life, I’ve come to Deerfield in Chicago.” Though plain in sound, these words conceal a truth of great depth. They are not merely about travel or geography, but about the power of tradition, the constancy of place, and the roots that give stability to the wandering soul. For to return again and again to the same hearth is to anchor one’s life in memory, belonging, and continuity.

The ancients revered the act of returning. The Greeks spoke of nostos, the homecoming, a theme so powerful that it lies at the heart of Homer’s Odyssey. Odysseus, though drawn to adventures and tossed by storms, longed always to return to Ithaca, to the place where his heart belonged. In Feldman’s remembrance of Deerfield, we hear a quieter echo of that eternal longing: that amid the shifting years, there remains a sacred place to which one returns, not for glory, but for fellowship, gratitude, and peace.

The significance of Thanksgiving in his words is vital. This holiday is not about individual triumphs but about gathering, remembering, and giving thanks. To go to Deerfield year after year is to affirm that family and tradition outweigh novelty and distraction. It is to declare that amidst the noise of the world, there is one table, one place, one group of people who form the unshakable foundation of life. Feldman’s journey is not to a destination of luxury, but to a destination of meaning.

History, too, gives us parallels. Consider the Jewish Passover, where families across centuries have gathered to retell the story of deliverance, no matter where they lived in exile. The power was not in the feast itself, but in the act of returning, of repeating, of remembering. Feldman’s Deerfield is much the same: not simply a suburb of Chicago, but a place sanctified by repetition, made holy by memory, transformed into a beacon of family identity.

Yet his words also carry the bittersweet tone of time. “For the most part in my life,” he says, acknowledging that traditions, though strong, are not eternal. Life changes, families shift, loved ones depart. What was once unbroken may one day fade. But it is precisely this fragility that makes the return so precious. To gather while one can, to repeat the journey while the path remains open, is to honor not only the present, but also the memory of those who came before.

The lesson is clear: cherish the places of return. Honor the towns, the homes, the tables that serve as your Deerfield. Do not take for granted the constancy of family traditions, for they bind the soul in ways unseen. Let not the pursuit of novelty or convenience tear you away from the sacred rhythm of return. For it is in these repetitions that identity is forged and gratitude deepened.

Practical action is within reach: commit yourself to traditions that root you in love. Return to your family table, or if it no longer exists, create one anew. Mark your calendar not just with duties, but with pilgrimages of the heart. Whether your Deerfield is a city, a small home, or even the memory of a shared meal, let it remain central in your life. And when you return, do so not passively, but with full awareness of the gift that tradition brings.

Thus, Feldman’s simple words reveal an ancient truth: the act of returning is the act of remembering who we are. Thanksgiving in Deerfield is not only about food, but about identity, memory, and belonging. For in the constancy of tradition, we discover both the strength of our past and the hope of our future.