I write a lot about gratitude on this here blog. Do you know why, Dear Reader? Because I’m grateful. See how that works? Of course you do, Dear Reader. Because I have the bestest, most smarterest readers of all the blogs. Give yourself a round of applause, Dear Reader. Go ahead. I’ll wait.
Nice job. Maybe too nice. I said applause, not whooping and hollering. Please, Dear Reader. Modesty. OK, OK. I can’t stay mad at you. I forgive you.
Grateful Not Dead
Soooooo . . . where were we? Oh, yes! Gratitude. As I’ve written before, I’m among the luckiest jamokes on the planet. Maybe even in the universe, but I’m still waiting for proof one way or the other as to whether there’s life anywhere but Earth. I may be waiting a while.
Anyway, I try not to take anything for granted. Because notwithstanding my incredible luck (more on this in a future post), I still labor under the thinking that it could all go away in an instant. It’s probably unrealistic that that would happen. But so long as it could happen, that’s all it takes for my lizard brain to take over the driver’s seat in my head.
This manifests itself in many ways for me. But one way it has done so in recent years is with rice. Bear with me, Dear Reader, you’ll soon see that this isn’t strictly a food-related post, but one related to personal finance/FIRE.
I’m full of crop
Rice, along with a few other staple crops (as to which my actions described in this blog post apply exactly), is among the most consumed foods in the world. Billions of people depend on it for their sustenance or livelihoods. In many cases both. Some time ago, my brain got stuck on thinking about how every day, a scandalously large number of people living in poverty or otherwise food insecure must focus ridiculously large amounts of time on finding enough to food to keep them alive.
Sure, I’d thought about this many times before. But in this instance, I thought about it in a different way. One of these new thoughts was that I am certain that far too many people desperately wish there was juuuust one more grain of rice. Or one more kernel of corn. Or one more ounce of flour. You get the drift.
Now, to me — someone in the immensely fortunate position of being able to afford all the rice he and his family needs — one grain of rice is all but completely insignificant from the standpoint of my ability to sufficiently feed myself and my family. Ditto for the cost of that grain. I can’t even speculate as to its actual monetary cost except to say it’s an extremely tiny fraction of a penny.
But on that particular day when my brain took me to new ways of thinking, the symbolism of that one grain became outsized. If billions of people would go to great lengths to get that extra grain (or kernel, or ounce, . . . ), then, good lord, who in the heck am I to take it for granted?
From that point on, I’ve tried to capture or eat every last grain of rice from the pot it’s cooked in or the container in which it’s stored. When I’m unable to do so, or when I just plain quit after spending some time trying — Curse you, starch. You sticky fiend! — I feel a profound sense of guilt.
More often than not, I get a profound measure of satisfaction from capturing or eating that last grain. Or, should I say, I feel a profound degree of gratitude at that moment.
And in the end . . .
So, Dear Reader, I hope that I’ve made you think differently about that last grain of rice (or its equivalent as to whatever food). But, of course, just because we ought to be grateful for our food doesn’t mean that we can’t still monkey around a little bit when we make it.
