Be Present

This moment is the only one you have.

I am wired to overthink. I live much of my life in my head, sorting out problems or planning the correct way to handle a conflict or strategizing the most effective way forward when faced with a problem. While this trait can be useful, it has also been the cause of much unnecessary mental anguish and anxiety.

There are a million and one reasons I can find to overthink, and not one of them ends up being worthwhile, because none of them have anything to do with the present moment, and this present moment is the only one I have. The past is gone forever and the future is not guaranteed, and I have missed so many current moments because I have been lost in my head.

This is a top five life rule for me because I don’t want to miss out on what is by dreaming of or fearing what could be. My wife is far too precious to see past while I spin circles in my mind, my son is growing up way too quickly for me to miss a single moment of it, and my God is far too present now for me to only hope for more of Him in the future.

I lived in Turkey for a year during college, and I think that was one of the most important seasons for my education in the practice of being present. I had no other choice! If I wasn’t paying attention I’d find myself on a bus going the opposite direction I intended or eating something I really didn’t want or know anything about.

I also learned it from the Turkish people. They were so incredibly warm and hospitable, always wanting to learn more about me and share some of their life as well.

Once I met a friend named Firat. Firat was kind and charming, inviting friend after friend after friend to come meet the American he’d found on his university’s campus. Before I knew it, Firat was inviting me to his family’s home for dinner. It was an important celebration in his culture and wanted me to come experience it. That night.

So I found myself on a bus with a man I just met, going to a part of a city in Turkey I had never been before with nothing but an old Nokia phone to call the other Americans I was in the country with if I needed anything. I felt more than a little vulnerable and out of my depth.

But soon enough we arrived in a neighborhood that might be considered undesirable in the United States, although I only learned this later from my friend. To my eyes it seemed perfectly normal. Plenty of concrete apartment buildings, stray cats and dogs, and vendors selling food on the street, much like the rest of the city. What made the neighborhood so “undesirable” was that it was primarily occupied by Kurdish families, a people group that had been in constant conflict with the Turkish people for centuries. It turned out my new friend was Kurdish, along with his entire family, and it was a Kurdish holiday we were going to celebrate, one which I later found out was not permitted to be celebrated because it was not Turkish.

Nonetheless, my friend’s family was gathered together in the small living room of the family home, many of whom I could tell lived together in this same dwelling. They smiled huge, warm and friendly smiles as Firat introduced me and I said a halting and imperfect Turkish “Hello, nice to meet you.” No sooner had I sat down than a plate of food was in my hand, and I enjoyed rice, beans, and chicken with everyone else. Through Firat they asked me questions and got to know me the best they could, and we thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company.

At one point Firat said something to them about me that made them raise their eyebrows, smile, and say “Wow,” collectively. I asked what he had said and he told me he had informed them that my birthday was that day, something I had mentioned to him earlier but wasn’t interested in making a big deal about. They wished me a happy birthday and we continued the conversation, talking about my family, life in America, and a hundred other questions they had for me.

Not much later something was being passed to me directly from the matriarch of the family, Firat’s grandma, who had left the room briefly and came back with this thing in her hands. It made its way across the room and into my hands, where I found myself looking at a bottle of Adidas cologne. 

I smiled appreciatively and said “Very nice,” in Turkish, trying to convey that I was very impressed with this possession they found important enough to show me, especially since I thought it might be one of the more valuable things they owned. When I attempted to hand it back to Firat, however, he made a small tutting noise and lifted his head an inch, which is a Turkish way of saying no. He then pushed the glass bottle back into my hands.

I looked at the grandma confused, who then told Firat something.

Firat looked at me and said, “Your birthday present.”

I was shocked. I still am as I write this ten years later. These people, many of whom had never met an American in their lives and who had only just met me, collectively nodded and smiled in complete agreement over an act of generosity for a stranger’s birthday.

None of them balked.

No one doubted it, questioned it, or disagreed.

Their collective gut reaction to learning my birthday was that day was to celebrate with me by giving me a gift.

And slowly they began to sing Happy Birthday to me in Turkish.

I smiled. I cried. I thanked them. I received the gift and still have it to this day.

That family wasn’t concerned about what life had been like the day before. They weren’t concerned with the rumors that the Turkish army was on its way to their community to “break up” their celebrations (we did in fact pass troops and tanks as we left the neighborhood that night). They didn’t think about the money it cost them to give this gift away. They knew what was happening in front of them, a human being had been born and they were happy he existed, so they gave him a present.

The people of Turkey were consistently present, wholly engaged in the conversation and friendship that was in front of them. It made them late to other obligations and they missed plans completely in order to remain engaged with the person they were currently with, and because this was an accepted way of behaving, people weren’t angry with each other when plans changed. It’s like they collectively valued the present moment enough to change future plans, and generally accepted when that happened.

I would have missed the mental snapshot I still have of that room and those people if I were lost in the future in my head. I would have missed so many moments that year and so many years since if I hadn’t learned to slow down, be present, and not overthink.

And the thing is, I think people know when you’re not all there with them. It makes me feel uneasy, unimportant, and not valuable when it happens to me, and I don’t ever want to make someone else feel that way. It doesn’t matter how many hypothetical scenarios I can fix or plans I can make in my mind at that moment, I’m not ever guaranteed any moment except the one I am currently in, so why would I miss it?

With the improvement of multi-tasking and the value we’ve placed on production, we’ve lost the slow art of conversation and friendship. We’re so busy trying to fix each other or be fixed ourselves that our interactions have been turned into goods and being present to each other is no longer enough. If we could I think we would bill our “friends” for the hours we spend with them in real life.

There’s no other moment I have except the current one, and no people I can currently love except the ones in front of me, and no blessings to enjoy except the ones currently present to me, and no God to know except the one who is nearer now than my very breath.

Every time I wear that cologne I am reminded of the moment I received it ten years ago on the other side of the world, and it helps me be even more present in this current moment here and now. May you find the ability to do the same, because you and the people around you at this moment of your existence are worth your full attention.