The Jar of Good Things

Kerrie keeps an ancient empty bear-shaped glass peanut butter jar on her desk and fills it with bits of paper. Torn up scraps of old scripts and print outs, those free post it notes from charitable foundations that show up uninvited in the mail, a passive aggressive attempt to guilt her into a donation. Every day she writes down what she is grateful for, a good thing, a happy thing, something that makes her heart sing, and stuffs it into the jar. Kerrie then screws the cap back on tightly, capturing moments to prevent them from disappearing into the ether. A lightening bug lantern of ephemera, harnessing positive thinking. At first it was easy. Within a week her jar was overflowing with the minutiae of day to day occurrences: a long, low sunrise, happy dogs on the bike path, unexpected encounters with an old friend and spontaneous coffee catch ups. Clean sheets, dark chocolate, fresh dates with walnuts. Found coins on the sidewalk, an interesting article, great books,  a new haircut, restful sleep, the smell of his neck as he rolled over onto her pillow, the weight of his hand draped across her shoulder. Interlocking. Shared breath, fingers entwined. Thursdays. Spring is complicated.  Kerrie struggles. The daily practice becomes repetitive, trying, burdensome. The paper stares back at her, blank and wanting, ragged edged and angry, demanding, challenging. She wants to give up, walk away. He turns his back to hers and rolls onto the other side of the bed. The jar sits alone, paper compressed, airless, haunting her. Kerrie forces herself into the kitchen. Must be happy. Find something. Be grateful. The sky cracks and flashes. Summer storms, early rains, heat lightning. Fresh maple syrup forgotten in the pantry. Cats curling around her ankles. Coffee beans in the grinder. A shared smile, a neighbour's feint laugh. Life. Still here. Kerrie unscrews the jar, reaches in, pulls out a memory, a moment of wonder. It reads, "Woke up. Still here. A great day."