Forever on Our Mind: Jars and Rocks and Life and Stuff
Reflecting on a busy summer—and getting excited to start writing again
Learning the Wrong Lessons
November 2025:
Back in high school, I remember this story. I don’t recall if a high-school teacher shared it in class, whether my Dad forwarded me the piece in a chain email (back when that was a thing), or if I found it online while randomly hopping from site to site (back when that was a thing). But I remember this story.
Over the years, the specific details of the parable faded from memory, leaving behind only the broadest possible contours and the faintest, foggiest shape of a story: A teacher filled a jar with fist-sized rocks, then riverbed rocks, then gravel, and then eventually grains of sand. There was a lesson in there about something, though I couldn’t recall what; I just remembered that the story existed.
Reading the piece now, the lessons about making time for what matters are obvious. But as I grew older, and as I forgot what the story was about, I internalized a different takeaway: Look how full this jar can get! I was less concerned with which rocks to place in the jar, and in which order, than I was how full I could fill it in the first place. It was like those stories about the finance bros who watched “The Wolf of Wall Street” and saw not a cautionary tale in Jordan Belfort, but rather a prophet who’d figured out the meaning of life.
Over the years, whenever I’ve been left to my own devices, I’ve taken a maximalist approach to organizing my life: I’d spend long days in front of my laptop, go hiking as often as my legs would allow, gab over happy hour with friends, and see the occasional late-night movie—sometimes all in the same day.
I’d maximize my time by watching my beloved Portland Trail Blazers while on the elliptical at the gym. I’d turn trips to Yellowstone, the Badlands, and the Oregon Coast into working vacations—wildlife-watching before the start of the workday, squeezing hikes in around Zoom calls, and staying up late to finish assignments that were due yesterday. When my friends would sneak off to the bathroom during dinner, I'd use those three free minutes to catch up on e-mail.
Which is to say: When I announced my summer break back in July, I had no idea my absence would extend until, well, now.
But then I filled that jar with revisions to my next (and final) guidebook. A trio of trips to Bend followed, as did 10 days in British Columbia, a week in Bellingham, five days in Texas, visits to Astoria, and overnight outings in Corvallis. Movies, so many movies. Timbers and Thorns matches. A conference in Southern Oregon. Work projects big and small. A Seattle weekend that ended with my second case of COVID-19. An all-new foot injury that’s still slowing me down.
By the time summer turned to fall, my jar was overflowing. Whatever grains of sand I sprinkled on top fell to the side, forming a whole new pile. Eventually, all that sand and gravel enveloped the jar. I hit a point, right around the first day of fall, when I wasn’t sure whether there was still a jar under that rock quarry full of rubble.
So, okay: I’ve been a little preoccupied lately.
The book revisions are out of my hands, though, and I don’t have another overnight trip planned until April. The big work projects are winding down for now. Other than a few movie tickets and a Thanksgiving dinner reservation for one, I don't have much filling my jar over the coming months—and I kind of like it that way. I look forward to figuring out what belongs in the jar—and what doesn't. I’m not trying to cram as much as I can into the jar anymore; now, I’m thinking about what I want to make space for.
This project belongs in the jar. It’s one of those fist-sized rocks. I don't know much else right now, but I know that.
So to quote John Wick: “Yeah, I’m thinking I’m back.” I'll see you back here again on November 17, and then the Monday after that, and the Monday after that. I can't wait, and I hope you can’t, either.
Thanks for your patience,
Matt
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