Sorting Beans

I have this memory – sorting beans with my dad. He tricked me into it, I guess, but in my pre-school head, I thought it was a game just like he said. He would pour a pile of beans from a Rogers Syrup tin onto the table. They made a musical clicking sound. A handful felt cool and smooth in my palm. Some were red, some white, mixed in with dirt, pebbles and straw. He called it chaff. He said this game was like herding cattle. You had to get the red cows in one pen and the white cows in another pen and leave the chaff behind.

Sometimes I wish for that time with him again – each of us at joining corners of the yellow and chrome kitchen table – talking and sorting. It was quiet. The fridge was humming. My mom and my siblings were somewhere in the house – each old enough and wise enough to hide from the bean-sorting chore. But I was conned – and wrapt.

Just my dad, the beans and me. 

We might never know which experiences one day might resonate with us on another distant day. If we have forgotten, we need re-learn how to be in the moment, absorbing the current experience. Demands and deadlines steal the ability for our heads to be quiet enough to hear the fridge hum, feel the texture of the table beneath our palms and truely be present.