I called my brother the other day while he and his wife were sharing a morning cup. The weather outside was frigid, but they were basking in the warm embrace of home and companionship, quietly chatting about this and that. A slice of toast, a comfortable chair, and nothing demanding they get up and get going.
Such moments appear and then disappear, ephemeral, like bubbles in their passing. Too often we don’t notice them until they are gone. We think the stories of our lives should be written in headlines, but it is the little things we miss when they pass into memory.
I was fortunate to grow up learning to appreciate those moments. My father was born late in my grandparents’ lives, and they were very old when I was young. Their stories spanned two different centuries, reaching back to an age and a place where absolutely nothing was taken for granted in the struggle to survive. I miss the way they sang to each other and harmonized as they went about their chores around the house. The drive back home from their farm was not a great distance, but they insisted on praying for our safe journey at the end of every visit. Those prayers are still protecting us.
My parents have been gone some years now, but memory says they were just here yesterday, and I should expect to see them tomorrow. When I remember them, I do not think in headlines, but of the little things I miss most. Dad had a distinctive sing-song whistle he would use to get us out of bed or get our attention. I hear it in my dreams, and I expect to hear it when I wake up on the other side. I miss my mom’s tomato soup, and the way she would hide the okra and butterbeans in it that she couldn’t otherwise inspire us to eat. I have her recipe, but it never tastes the same.
Learning to cherish moments is a good strategy for ensuring the long-term survival of our contentment, but there is a greater wisdom in that practice. In “Weapons of the Weak,” James C. Scott writes that during major historical upheavals like revolutions, colonial impositions, or economic shifts— the “headline” events that become our lumpen understanding of history— the lives of ordinary people actually show remarkable continuity. The grand narratives of change we see in history focus on elite power struggles, institutional shifts, and ideological triumphs and failings, but for the average person, daily routines, survival strategies, and subtle acts of resistance persist largely unaltered.
If you believe that history is decided by the “greats,” you may be under-informed. Ordinary people making and keeping commitments and performing individual acts of faith, integrity, and kindness is the balance to all the failings of human nature, and the glue that holds together our successes.
Technology suggests otherwise, but technology is a fairweather friend. It promises to reward us somehow for thinking in terms of headlines, and constantly headlining our own lives with our incessant selfies and “sharing.” But what are we really sharing? Not often a quiet moment or a meaningful conversation. Instead, an endless stream of “me and I” for a fleeting audience with a shrinking attention span. How many pictures do you have on your phone? When is the last time you looked through them, really looked, and remembered? Did you actually read that post or watch that video, or did you just click “like” and go on to the next one?
Tracey needs a warm-up for her coffee on this chilly December morning. Max and Peaches are sleeping, Georgia’s dream is moving her tail, and Sam is purring warmth into my frozen toes. Every bird in the cove is taking a turn at the feeder, and we have the time this morning to enjoy this bubble of contentment, and to cherish these moments. I hope the same for you, my friends.
Outside The Box 