Glass Jars

Day 182: Glass Jars

I'm guessing - and correct me if I'm wrong - that the Masai women I met in Masai Mara (the ones who live in manure-and-grass huts) know exactly and intimately every single item they own. They would never proudly proclaim that every item in their home either brings joy or is useful, and a day later find an entire grocery bag full of glass jars that has been tucked away on a shelf, forgotten, for months.

When I noticed this grocery bag, pulled it down from the shelf and peeked inside, my first thought was, "I can't get rid of these! These are useful! And I like them!" Then I thought about the entire shelf full of glass jars I have in the kitchen, smaller jars that are just the right size for honey and jam. And I thought about the fact that I hadn't even noticed that these jars have been completely out of circulation. And I'm not a beekeeper any more. No need for dozens of Ball jars, no matter how lovely.

Years ago, I removed decades worth of paint from a white marble fireplace in our San Franciso painted lady. The first part was easy. Apply a little DIF, and you can see the paint bubble before your eyes. Thick swathes peel off in satisfying long strips, and you are an archeologist, looking at one hundred years of paint colors, thinking about the people who chose them. The second part - getting the paint out of the contours between the carved marble grapes and grapeleaves - required toothpicks and Q-tips. (Fortunately for me, I got pregnant just at the critical point when all the easy parts were done, forcing Rich to finish the toxic job. Thanks, honey.)

Here I am, one day shy of the halfway point: day 182. The first half of the year was the long smooth strips of paint, reminders of my history, interesting but irrelevant. Now I'm getting into toothpicks and Q-tips. Finding all the little bits and pieces in odd places. Scraping them away like lead paint in a bunch of marble grapes. Pregnancy won't save me now. 

I'll be surprised if I find 183 more lost and forgotten items. I don't expect to have as little in the end as a Masai woman. But perhaps, at least, I'll know what I have.