I wrote this post a year ago, a few days after Thanksgiving. It wrestles with the question that I often find myself asking during the holidays: am I being present enough?
Looking down at the board, I considered a series of grim options.
A small troupe of pawns had pinned my one-remaining rook in place. My pair of knights had inconveniently wandered to a distant corner of the board. And my queen sat vulnerable in the center, like one of those horror movies where the main character is left to fend for herself.
I knew just enough about chess to know that I was going to lose.
Shit. It turns out binge-watching Queen's Gambit hadn’t turned me into the chess savant that I hoped it would.
I looked over at the fireplace and noticed the stacked logs thinning out in the middle. As if on cue, my dad called out, “Mark, how’s the fire looking?”
“Dying down a bit,” I replied. “I’ll grab some more wood.”
I jumped to my feet, grateful for a few extra moments to consider my next move. As I approached the door, I carefully stepped over my five-month-old niece as she crawled around on her mat. She smiled up at me, perched precariously on just her hands and feet. I smiled back, secretly pining for her approval.
“She’s doing her baby yoga,” my mom reassured me, “Isn’t that right, Quinny?”
“She’s got better down-dog form than I do,” I replied as I retreated for the door.
I continued outside into the crisp evening air, pausing for a moment to enjoy its coolness and the smell of dried leaves. On my trips home, the air was always the first thing I noticed. NYC is great for a lot of things, but a refreshing breeze is not one of them. My quiet Pennsylvania hometown, however, has the Evian of air. It always lifts my mood.
I bounded around to the side of the house, hesitating as I approached the neat stacks of firewood. I peered at them as if I were choosing an entrée from a crowded dinner menu. I could move my queen, but then... No, that wouldn’t work.
I shook my head in disappointment, grabbing the first two logs closest to me.
As I lumbered (literally?) back to the front of the house, I passed a large window and noticed the scene that I had just left.
Not much had changed.
My dad and brother, both donning large colorful aprons, chatted as they worked skillfully in the kitchen. My mom had picked up Quinn and was showing her the lights on the Christmas tree. My sister and sister-in-law sat next to each other on the couch, drinking white wine and laughing — probably at my brother's expense. And my sister’s fiancé gazed down at his phone, likely playing a parallel game of chess against a more challenging opponent.
In that moment, a sudden, overwhelming thought arose.
There will be a time in my life when I’ll be willing to give almost anything to be in this moment.
To be in a young, healthy body. To share in my mom’s excitement as she plays with her first grandchild. To see my dad and brother in the kitchen, sharing their mutual love of cooking. To smell the ribs roasting in the oven and hear the upbeat holiday playlist permeating the entire house. To see my sister laughing alongside her sister-in-law and soon-to-be husband. And to see all of this happening in the warmth of the home that I grew up in.
For a moment I felt disembodied, like I was not in that moment, that sliver of space and time, but rather a witness to it. Like I was watching a movie of my own life and this was a favorite scene.
I thought of the old man watching that scene. The one that, if all goes well, I will become in forty or fifty years. I thought of how he would feel if he were given the chance to revisit this moment. I imagine he’d be blissful. That he’d be kind and present and unburdened by trivial frustrations. That he’d be overjoyed to be reunited with his parents. That he’d be the absolute best version of himself — of myself.
As that image faded, I found myself back at the window. But the perspective lingered in me. I realized the attitude of my older self, his way of being, is the attitude I want to bring to this time with family.
Earlier that day, I had tried to be present. But trying to be present is like trying to be confident or trying to be happy. The very act of trying — the effort of it — prevents us from reaching the effortless state we’re searching for. It's a target we can hit only if we're not consciously aiming for it.
As I turned and made my way back to the front door, my mind wandered back to Queen’s Gambit. When the main character feels stuck during a match, she steps away from the chessboard and visualizes how the rest of the game will play out. By seeing her current position within a broader context, her next move becomes obvious.
The same thing, I realized, had just happened to me.
Happy Thanksgiving,
Mark
A Thanksgiving Story
So touching, great article Mark!