Recycling
Gratitude
By Jill Miller
One good habit I’ve managed to establish is maintaining
a stock of old magazines in the trunk of my car and distributing
them to new homes whenever the occasion arises. Places
where people are trapped and bored silly are best: Laundromats,
the Department of Motor Vehicles, the Jury Pool room at
the courthouse.
So when I took my car to be worked on, I recognized an
opportunity. Not that there’s anything wrong a “Big
Game Hunting” sort of periodical. I mean, who doesn’t
enjoy the hair-raising tale of a grizzly bear encounter?
But between that and Judge Somebody-or-Other silently
scolding a sullen couple on HDTV, the little waiting room
cried out for more options.
With the zeal of a merchandising expert, I fanned a selection
of magazines across each end table. I imagined how they
would alleviate boredom. Who knows, I thought, these troves
of stories, tips and advice might germinate new ideas,
even change lives. My little gift might inspire someone
to explore a national park, choose eco-friendly gifts,
start a new exercise program, or just throw a great dinner
party.
Before long, another woman joined me in the waiting room.
She did not look like the Big Game Hunting type. I watched
furtively, a social anthropologist, as she took a seat
and picked up one of “my” magazines. She flipped,
paused, flipped some more. Then, lips pursed, she glanced
at the front cover. “April,” she muttered,
slapping it down. She rummaged through the rest, and with
an exasperated huff, announced, “All out of date.
Not one of these is current!” In the corner, the
Judge shook his head and rolled his eyes.
I don’t say this to point out how very indignant
I felt on behalf of the rejected magazines. No, it’s
because as my Santa-Claus-in-June balloon deflated at
her pointed remark, at her abject lack of appreciation
for small gifts the world proffers, I felt a wince of
self-recognition.
Small acts and conveniences make life easier and sweeter.
Free Wi-Fi in airports, laundromats and ice-cream shops.
Google map directions. A customer service representative
who answers our questions competently and politely—via
a toll-free number at six p.m. on a Sunday. Those treacly
chain emails which clog our In-Boxes, but also remind
us that for a moment, we’ve (ahem) popped up in
the In-Box of someone else’s thoughts. But how often
do I, or any of us, pause to honor the little things that
grace our lives?
Sometimes formal gifts fall short of expectations, too.
Yet another self-manicure kit I’ll never use, a
sweater that must have emerged from a Christmas-tree tinsel
factory, or a book with a big “50% Off!” sticker
on the front cover. Certain hasty, here-ya-go gifts of
holidays past did not cause my heart to swell with appreciation.
Most of us long for “real presents”. A present
(as portrayed in, yes, magazines) comes beautifully wrapped,
accompanied by a card containing a thoughtful, hand-written
personal note that one remembers and cherishes long after
the item itself has been used and forgotten. Major bonus
points in my book if the gift and wrapping are cleverly
repurposed, organic, and topped with a pine cone ornament.
I’m a big fan of recycled gift-wrap, so I’m
especially tickled when a gift comes wrapped in paper
that once covered something I gave the giver.
Yet are we to appreciate the perfect present, or act of
giving? Beneath questionable surfaces, nobler intentions
often lurk: “Your nails—and you—deserve
some pampering.” “This sweater will keep you
warm—and feeling festive.” “Here is
a good book for a keen mind—one that loves a bargain!”
Well, I can’t argue with that.
Then there are the bigger things we often take for granted,
instead of with the gratitude they deserve: Our men and
women serving in uniform. The right to vote. The peaceful
transition of power between opposing parties. No matter
what breaks down, no matter what inconveniences we encounter
day-to-day, we have much to be thankful for. Remembering
that every day is another good habit I’d like to
establish.
So back to the car repair waiting room, and the woman
whose growling was now directed at slow service and her
absent spouse. I distracted myself by reading about harrowing
brushes with large, snarling predators. At long last,
someone announced that my car was ready.
As I left, I felt strangely grateful to the anonymous
Big Game Hunting fan for his or her gift. Sometimes, I
realized, we must be thankful simply to escape.
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