Grandad kept an immaculate peanut butter jar – the sides were neatly scraped down and the top layer of paste was nice and smooth. He played with this condiment. He cared for it; he had fun keeping this little container of his morning feast neat and tidy. As kids, we took great glee in driving a knife straight into his oasis and scooping gobs from the center of the jar; his feigned shock was predictable and laughable – it was just peanut butter, after all.
Or was it?
What if that act of just “doodling”, “mucking around” and “finding pleasure in playing” was more? It was a $6 jar of pureed peanuts. It was also a routine, a practice, perhaps a meditative expression that he created morning after morning. For as long as I can remember, he and Nana sat down to breakfast together: tea, cereal, eggs, toast – it varied on occasion, but not by much. And never, as far as I recall, things change on the peanut butter front. That jar was Grandad’s domain – his zen-like practice of making order in one little place was as much a staple as the bread he spread it on.
As I absent-mindedly slathered my own toast this morning I found myself running the knife around the rim of the jar, etching the sides of the container and seeking a little order that I hardly realized I was craving. And in the moment, I became aware of what I was doing and I connected to the man long-gone from my everyday life, and yet very present in my everyday living. It made me smile.
Hmm; so much more nourishment than I expected – in a jar of peanut butter !
Where are you connected to the past? Does it serve and nourish you? Where are the daily places you find moments of peace and how can you expand that practice?