You might imagine that my daily routine on the shelf is monotonous. Some may doubt it possible for an inanimate object made of glass to have a routine. I assure you that it is possible—and that I do. I’m not as vacuous as one might imagine.
The advantage of being a vessel is that the possibilities for being filled, refilled, and fulfilled are infinite. Some might describe me as having a rich internal life. I have few resources other than the space within, but one must work with what one has and aim for the most positive and pleasurable outcome. I have learned that life is short, and this knowledge has led me to a life of positive habit.
I know my time here is finite. One day, I might shatter—perhaps hurled to the ground by an earthquake or cast aside into the recycling bin for being chipped or cracked. For now, I cling to my purpose, maintaining a semblance of usefulness to the inhabitants of this house, hoping to delay the inevitable. Yet, despite my dread, I derive a perverse pleasure from the sound of the glass recycling truck each Tuesday morning—the tumbling of shards down the chute, a chorus of broken endings and new beginnings.
Back to the topic at hand—the importance of routine. Even for me, a being of glass with no need to be anywhere at any given time, routine is a quiet anchor. My responsibilities are few: to contain the possible—like crunchy sweet pickles—and the impossible, such as dreams.
Every day, as the sun rises, joy spreads through the chamber of my being. Its light streams through the window of the storage room, passing through the tiny crystalline panes of the dollhouse nearby and scattering rainbows across this otherwise shadowed space. Some rays find their way through my vitreous shell, warming the emptiness inside.
This is the first point in my daily routine: awakening—seeing the light. What makes this moment extraordinary is how it changes every day. As the sun shifts ever so slightly, its angle alters the patterns it casts, painting my world anew. My own sensibilities shift, too, so that even the familiar feels fresh. I marvel at this transformation, and it fills me with gratitude. This, then, is the second point of my routine: to pause and give thanks for these small, exquisite things.
After awakening, I often turn to a mental checklist, one that takes shape during the long, dark hours of the night. While the house sleeps, I usually rest undisturbed, with ample time to think. Occasionally, my peace is disrupted by the smaller inhabitants of this place—mice or spiders. They don’t trouble me much, being neither heavy enough to dislodge me nor sharp-toothed enough to harm me. Rats and cats, however, are a different story. Because of them, I’ve developed habits of mindfulness to calm my fears.
One night, some time ago, I witnessed a rat—the first one I had ever seen—gain entry to the storage room. First, a faint scratching sound emanated from the brick wall behind the shelves next to the window across the room from where I sit. At first, I didn’t think much of it. But before long, a hole opened in the mortar. A pointy snout and whiskers squeezed through the gap. I wasn’t worried, as it was a long way across the room, and the hole was scarcely large enough for a critter larger than a mouse to pass through. The animal continued toiling at the dusty old mortar and crumbly brick, eventually enlarging the opening so that it could fit. It was the biggest mouse I had ever seen!
Once in the storeroom, the giant rodent began exploring the contents of the shelf where it had landed. It stood on its hind legs, sniffing the air, pointy nose quivering upward. Two razor-sharp teeth glinted in the moonlight slanting through the window. If the creature hadn’t done what it did next, I would never have learned to fear others like it. One of the objects resting on that shelf was a jar, identical to me, except its lid was not rusty, and it was full of sunflower seeds. I shudder to think of the fear that filled its chasm as the animal stood on its hind legs and began gnawing at its shiny lid. The monster-sized mouse, in its eagerness to get to the contents, toppled the jar, resulting in a loud crash on the tile floor below. The beast flew off the shelf in mad pursuit of the jar’s spilled seeds, gobbling and gathering them when another commotion unfolded.
“Honey, get the gun!” the woman screamed from somewhere in the house, her voice sharp with panic. “There’s something in the storage room!”
Running steps reverberated throughout the house. The door to the storeroom swung open, and bright fluorescent lights flickered on. The whiskered intruder scurried up the wall and out the hole through which it had entered. The man of the house stood with a long gun in hand.
“Just a rat,” he muttered, lowering the gun with a relieved sigh. “Knocked over a jar of seeds.”
I learned then the name of the creature to fear—rat.
The woman grabbed a broom to sweep up the mess as the man inspected the wall. “Well, look at that,” he said, tracing the hole with his finger. “Guess I’ll patch it up in the morning. Grab a trap for tonight, though.”
Things pretty much went back to routine after they set the trap and closed the door, but I didn’t enjoy my usual ease. In fact, that night struck a fear in me that I can’t entirely shake. For the first time, I understood how fragile my existence truly is. Watching my neighbor jar tumble to its end, I realized that my time on this shelf—however serene—has limits. That night, as shards of glass glinted under the fluorescent light, I resolved to cherish the simple miracles of my days: the warmth of sunlight passing through my chamber, the quiet hum of the house, the endless possibilities of what I might hold. Every day, no matter how routine, is a gift to be filled.
P.S. There is a story to tell about a cat, but I’ll save that for another day.