Spent some time this week rendering lard and we’ve got about twelve quarts put up so far. We’ve made only a small dent in the generously-sized stash of fat waiting its turn in the freezer, but a definite dent, indeed. Getting there.
I recently read of a practice that includes starting each new year with a big empty jar, a stash of scrap paper, and a pencil kept close by. Throughout the year as good things happen in your life, you write them down and place them in the jar. If you’ve got a family, share the jar with them. Then, on New Year’s Eve, with friends, family, alone, whatever the case may be, you pull out the many pieces of paper and read them to yourself or aloud, reminiscing and appreciating all of the good times. There are always good times. Another common (probably more familiar) practice is writing down your gratitudes, but it’s never been something I’ve gotten into. Probably because I tend to walk around gobsmacked by the miracle of another breath after I’ve finished my last, I'm fortunate to live with a man who is kind and together we have a healthy kid who seems to like us, and doggone it, the sun actually continues to rise each day. I can’t seem to get out of gratitude’s way. But reflecting on specific good times, big and small? That sounds intriguing.
If 2016 had a jar of good times, one of the earliest stories I’d have placed in it was overhearing my father tell someone, “I’ll tell you one thing about Heather, she’s always doing something: in the kitchen, in the garden, making something… she’s never just sitting around, her hands are never idle.” Now listen, I promise you I waste plenty of time in life, but my dad is a man of few words who values hard work above most things, as do I, so even if I can’t agree with him completely, it’s nice to be seen in that light. There are few things as validating as being seen. That’s the sort of snippet I’d put in my big ol’ jar of good times. Not necessarily the eventful tale of attending a Skynyrd concert, but I’m mostly into life's small, unexpected moments (although if Stapleton plays within 200 300 miles of us this year, we’re on it, and you better believe the memory will be added to our jar).
I don’t know, maybe the significance of overhearing my dad’s conversation is mostly about finding comfort in an unsolicited reminder that I'm not completely sucking at life, because we all have days when we’re convinced otherwise. As for 2017, there have been a few good times worth noting so far, like this morning’s pink and gold painted sky. And what a tease that such a sky only lasts for three minutes before dissipating into the clear light of day. Or maybe it’s not a tease at all. Maybe the fleeting moment is by careful design, ensuring us mortals will stop and look up. That we’ll pay attention. For some of us, it might be the only time we do so all day.