Grateful Is Not A Thought, Happiness Not A Concept

(or Is Presence The Natural Enemy of Memory?)There is a particular sort of cultural craze out there which brow-beats us. It tells us constantly to "be present" and to "live in the moment." To our sense of time, our sense of loss of time, it makes a more than a good bit of sense. Don't waste your life fretting about the past, worrying about the future, be pragmatic, but be here, now.
Often, as often as this sort of conversation arises, I find myself partaking in the communal deposition on the topic. Friends around the dinner table talking, for example, about how important it is to breathe lucidly, fully, bringing us into the moment, forcing our presence. Often, as often as this sort of conversations arises, I find myself telling the same story about about how, in my youth, I was keenly aware of the ease of my life.
"I always knew how good I had it," I hear myself say. "I enjoyed myself without thought of the future." This is generally met with congratulatory sighs. With pats on the back.
I am not lying, mind you. That's not where this is going. Not necessarily. I am not lying. In fact, I really did have a kind of preternaturally current appreciation for the moment of carefree youth. I really did know where I was, when I was and what I was doing in that kind of thoughtfully grateful way that, apparently, one is supposed to practice.
This morning, for no discernible reason, as is often the case with such things, I had a realization: What if it never was that I actually enjoyed those moments? What if I wasn't actually so laudably present?
Struck, I find myself considering the alternate version of events. It seems far more likely that rather than being in the moment, I was in fact in a celebration of the concept of the moment.
"Here I am on this boat, water skiing in the Summer, drinking beer, with pretty girls and good pals and I don't have a worry in the world because the gas is paid for!"
There I was in the boat, water skiing in the Summer, drinking beer, with pretty girls and good pals and I didn't have a worry in the world because the gas was paid for.
I thought that thought. I knew that fact. I marveled and watched, from my conceptual perch, the wondrous facility of the upper middle class Pacific Northwest suburban youth. And I was grateful to be a part of it, knowing full well that 99% of the world had no similar, even conceptually similar, experience. I paid the cranial lip-service to gratefulness, I made mental note as to my presence.

But I was not there.