We cannot always be home and together. Through an ongoing game of chess, we stay connected, even when we’re apart.

In the fall of 2020, we were homebound when the wildly popular series The Queen’s Gambit gifted our family with a chess craze. In fact, so many people took up the game that chess sets (the affordable ones) sold out globally, probably the least predicted shortage of the pandemic. 

We played together, at length. Chess champions may play short games, but for a group of novices, the games could take hours. And hours, in the fall of 2020, we had. 

Our opening move

In the hyper-modern, screen-focused world on lockdown, chess was a true gift. An ancient and immersive game, it met some of our deepest needs during the pandemic, beyond mere survival. It gave our worn out and stressed brains something new, with simple rules, elaborate strategies, and a new language.

We set up a board on a corner of our dining table, and learned the unique talents and vulnerabilities of bishops, knights, pawns and rooks. We snuck off to study brazen openings and sneak attacks. We played in pairs and in teams, though I don’t think that’s regulation. 

For a while, we stretched a long-dormant muscle—focused and sustained attention. 

Until we couldn’t. Or didn’t. In came 2021 and, eventually, out went lockdown. In-person school returned and soon thereafter, homework and sports clubs and occasional meetups. Time became scarce again, and out went most things long, sustained, slow, leisurely and nonproductive.   

The family gambit

But we didn’t put away the board. 

We moved it. It got dusty. The cat knocked over the pieces, and the dog carried them away. But the board stayed out and opened. And every so often, one of us would dust it off, recover the scattered pawns, and make an opening. 

A chess board, all set up with one opening move, is an invitation. If it sits there long  enough, someone will respond. 

A day or two passed, and a second move appeared. Another few hours and there was a third. Within a week, we had a full-blown game in progress. We didn’t know who made each move. It’s entirely possible that someone played themselves. And it didn’t matter. The competition wasn’t the point.

Each new move that appeared on the board was a small gift of time and care. It meant that someone else had stopped in the midst of whatever else they were doing and engaged with this shared experience. It meant that the game, the experience, the connection had value. It meant we craved presence, even when we were apart. 

No endgame

As 2021 comes to a close, we’ve played through many week-long (month-long?) chess games. Each one is a victory for us—a little celebration of connection and a rebellion against the short-attention-span world.

I don’t know how long these epic chess games will last. I know that someday, I will probably close the board and put away the pieces. And when that day comes, I will thank every single one of those little avatars for reminding me every time they showed up on a new square, that I am loved.