A Chance to Be

Every so often, Chairman Joe mentions his Bottle Run trips to Thief River Falls. I admire his environmental consciousness, and I smile when he describes the biscuit-and-gravy breakfasts he eats there with Steve, Joe, or whoever happens to be his latest partner in crime. Deep down, though, I cringe.

When it comes to recyclable glassware, I have a complicated relationship. When I was little, I always loved the Zarex bottles—the clear ones with the inviting jug handle. One gracious pour of fruit syrup into a simple glass of water could transform a sweaty summer day.

Another favorite was the Ovaltine jar. The cardboard carton of Nesquik—powdery and overly sweet—tried, but failed, to cure my aversion to milk. Because, in those days, children were required to drink it, my mother finally took a risk and bought the more expensive chocolate Ovaltine instead. The squat, brown jar that held those crunchy, malted granules delivered the heft of security, saving me—day after day—from standoffs over drinking milk.

If this were a competition for glass containers, first place would go to the B&M baked bean jar. I’m not sure I was ever a big fan of the contents; these days, I eat only my sister Beth's homemade version. But one look at the wide belly of this vintage specimen has always conveyed a sense of stability—and the down-home warmth of a hug.

To prove that my love for glassware isn't merely nostalgia, I'll fast-forward to today. This morning is pancake day, and the last dregs of maple syrup have just trickled out of the bottle below:

Unlike a head of cabbage or a bag of apples, which hog space, this modest bottle sits quietly on the inside shelf of my refrigerator door. I don't eat pancakes very often, so the syrup lasts forever. In the midst of busy days, each time I open the fridge, its demure size seems to wink at me—a friendly reminder of slow, cozy mornings. How could I trash something that kindles such comfort?

In my house, not surprisingly, empty mustard jars become vessels for salad dressings. Sauce jars hold leftover stews. Besides being practical, sentimental, and emotional, I sometimes simply become enamored of a particular design quality. A cleaned-out bottle from a used-up hand cream became an attractive receptacle for my dishwashing liquid and dutifully served for decades.

Squat ones. Tall, slender beauties. The ones that come with glass stoppers. Their symmetry and contours distinguish them as too nice to toss. In our tiny row house, there is nowhere for them to go. And yet, these days, I am harboring these three beauties in the back hall:

There they sit, their original purpose fulfilled, all empty and fine, not hurting a soul. All they have to do now is make me smile.

So yes, my affinity for bottles is complicated. I pause before dropping embossed wine bottles, lidded jars, and other glass containers into the recycling bin, but I do not believe bottle runs are criminal. Here in Washington, DC, the Department of Public Works picks up our recyclables every week— I cringe, but I comply.

In the end, I catch myself personifying bottles. And pause.

In my work as a psychotherapist, I sit with people in the midst of change. They usually come when the contents of their lives no longer make sense, and they want help making room for what is new. But people are not bottles. People are living vessels whose contents keep changing. For that, it helps to have an eye for whatever is possible - for whatever now wants a chance to be.