My friend Lynn Tipton is a brilliant, beautiful woman whom I’ve known since I was a teenager.
During high school, when I was palling around with a group of ne’er-do- wells that included Lynn’s daughter Jenn, I spent most afternoons, and many weekends, at Lynn’s house, drinking her sodas, eating her frozen burritos, watching her television and, although we didn’t realize it at the time, thinking about life.
Lynn, who we all called Mom T., or some variation thereof, always seemed to have a question for us. Something like, “Are you an extrovert?” and “What did you dream about last night?” and “Where will we be in 10 years?”
But the question that’s always stuck to me like Velcro is one that I’ve applied to at least one thing every day for the past 25 years, and it is this: “What matters most?”
When I’m looking at my notes as I get ready to write a story, I ask myself, “What matters most?”
When I’m shopping for shoes, weighing style, features and price, I ask myself, “What matters most?”
When I’m trying to drag myself out of bed on a cold winter morning to go skiing, wrestling between what might be a spectacular day of skiing and another hour snuggled under the sheets, I ask myself, “What matters most?”
I don’t always get the answer right. I’ve blown some stories and passed on some really excellent sneakers and even missed some fine, fine ski days because I answered wrong.
But because of Mom T., “What matters most?” is my litmus test for every situation, my yardstick to plan by, to hope by, a question designed, like insurance, to reduce the risk of regret.
Some days, the question means more. Like on Thanksgiving, that expectation-laden day when you’re supposed to be able to create an elaborate meal, effortlessly, serve it precisely on time, inspire happy memories in your guests, and look terrific right up through dessert. No stumbles allowed.
But that’s not a real Thanksgiving. A real Thanksgiving is wiping turkey juice off your fingers so you can open the oven and check on the pie, which is bubbling over onto the floor of the oven, then grabbing at the phone which spews news of heartbreaking last-minute no-shows, then cursing the heavens after bashing your knee on the coffee table and wondering in desperation whether the half-hour before they arrive will be enough time for you to muster the smile-mask you’ll need to greet your guests.
And so you ask, as you dab the blood from your knee: What matters most?
What matters most on Thanksgiving isn’t the turkey, the gravy or the pie. It isn’t the ceremony of the feast, it isn’t the football games on the tube, it isn’t even the people you’re with, if you aren’t alone. (And remember, Thanksgiving still happens, even if you’re alone. I’ve celebrated solo, hunched over an open-faced turkey sandwich and bottomless cup of coffee, and as another friend says about such unexpected moments of pleasure, I enjoyed the hell out of that meal.)
What matters most on Thanksgiving is none of these. What matters most is right there in the name: Thanks.
Gratitude is a rewarding emotion — humane, leveling, gracious and connective. It’s basic and good, and as Thanksgiving reminds us, we’re all due to offer some. A lot, actually.
It isn’t always easy to find a target for your thanks, especially on a day so booby-trapped with dirty dishes and disappointment.
But gratitude — thanks — is due. Not only on Thanksgiving, but especially on Thanksgiving. Because whether you’re together or alone, whether you’re wanting or feasting, it is Thanksgiving, today, and you are here. That, just that, is remarkable.
That’s what matters most.
Happy Thanksgiving, Mom T.
