The autumn leaves – muted red, pallid yellow, and crisp brown – continue to hold on precariously. One nearby tree when in sunlight still features a large spray gone from bright crimson to a kind of orange red.

Some, though, have already dropped, fallen to earth and ready to enter the ground in the unending cycle of the seasons. Who knows where the time goes?, asks the pop song now become old. We are like the leaves, gifted with a fragile beauty.

Thanksgiving, the New England holiday par excellence, has arrived once more. Old and young prepare to gather around family tables for the feast and renew bonds of affection or, at least, consanguinity. Others in their isolation unfortunately must make do, despite being left out.

My neighborhood comes together each year for a communal meal, cooked by local residents and served forth with festivity. Our school hall brings old and young alike to partake in this ritual of food and greeting. Some enterprising burghers come from other parts of the city, attracted by succulent food and the spirit of our community.

Our immediate neighborhood has much to celebrate, too. A new resident, Peter, was born two weeks ago and now graces our street. He is part of a phalanx of young children who have brought us new life. Their comings and goings offer a welcome spectacle to onlookers: Who could not love the image of the local father who carries his five-year old daughter high on his shoulders as he takes her to school each morning?

We also celebrate the memory of a long-time resident who died a few months ago. A Harvard professor of Buddhist studies, Mas brought to our locale not only diversity but a courtesy and grace that we came to value. The stylish Japanese garden around his home attests to the heritage he shared with us.

Nor can some of us forget Maud, a flamboyant personality now three years departed. Her house, up for sale for many weeks, has been reported bought by newcomers.

The modern Jewish sage, Rabbi Abraham Heschel, once wrote, “Just to be is a blessing. Just to live is holy.”   That sharp-eyed insight provides spiritual power for appreciating Thanksgiving Day. It’s such a favorable time for remembering blessings received throughout long lives.

Letting the memories roll, I review the gifts of the years. Love, clearly the most precious, heads the list, having encompassed me from the beginning. As the great painter and muralist Marc Chagall has said: “In our life there is a single color which provides the meaning of life and art. It is the color of love.”

Our Thanksgiving table brings together the family members who, not seen during much of the year, remain cherished. We share a heritage that binds us together through the joys and sufferings experienced as individuals.

Friends galore who stay scattered remain lodged in my affections. Having just celebrated the seventieth birthday of David, based in Philadelphia, I harbor fresh thoughts of his personal gifts. At the Chinese restaurant where some seventy-five of his family and friends came together in his honor, I legitimately claimed the greatest longevity of friendship. We first met in 1949, long before any of his colleagues got to know him.

I also celebrate my privileged place in later life that has allowed me to know so many of my age peers and my seniors. My affections go out to the residents of Cambridge Homes, the assisted living residence where I have come to appreciate people who are aging gracefully and with wisdom and courage. Talking with them gives an added edge to my life.

And I toast the readers who contact me to speak their minds about columns. A Mormon bishop based in Nigeria comes to mind. He emailed me from that once distant part of the world to express appreciation for an article describing a visit to the new temple in Belmont.

Thanksgiving stirs in me the instinct to appreciate all the giftedness of existence. As Rabbi Heschel said, being is blessing and holiness. The fallen leaves are signs of a world full of beauty, ever unstable, ever renewed. They can speak to us of a hope that goes beyond death toward transformation.

A whole lot is wrong with our world, and, with time, some of this wrong gets worse. Perhaps that suggests the need to feel thankful for the many people old and young, who risk much to give the deprived some chance for having reason to give thanks.

I remember my friend Brinton who could avail herself of constant comfort. Instead, she leaves academia and ventures forth into troubled parts of the world to help poor people develop the tools they need to get a fair share of the world’s goods. She will be spending Thanksgiving in South Africa with new friends, in a landscape whose leaves are not brightened by autumn but still display for her the color of love.

Richard Griffin