Just weeks ago, I sat in my car and watched my breath form little clouds of vapor between my face and the dashboard.  My coat was warm, but I ran out of the house without a scarf or gloves. I was cold and resigned to being cold for a while — or maybe not.

I opened the glove compartment. Ta-dah.  Hard to believe, but I actually had slipped a pair of black knit gloves into my glove compartment several weeks ago  — just for occasions like this.  I squirreled away a small box of Kleenex in the car console too.

What a great idea — having hiding places.

I’ll stash a twenty in the bottom drawer of my night table for emergencies, for when I want to go out and not have to find a Cash Station first.

I’ll stick slips of papers with notes and questions into the inside of the book jacket of my current reading project so that I can refresh my mind on what I want to take away from my reading time.

I keep an extra couple rolls of toilet paper in the downstairs bathroom so that I will never run out.

I’ve taped a spare key to my back door under the deck.

I have a zipper compartment in my purse where I keep my drivers license and primary credit card so I can keep them separate from less frequently used cards and pull them out quickly.

I have a secret computer directory that stores a file where I keep a list of all my user names and passwords; secret as in it’s not called Online Passwords or something like that.

I keep a book of Rumi poetry on the bottom shelf of a seldom examined bookcase because I always want to know it’s there.

I have hiding places for my college yearbook, for old love letters, and for trash magazines I like to read when I am sick. I keep a box of extension cords in the basement, six and twelve footers, in case I want to power a heating pad and nurse myself on the couch in front of the BIG TV.

When I reached for the pair of knit gloves in my glove compartment, I smiled.  I recalled my secret hiding place precisely when I needed the gloves.

I realized I have hiding places for emergencies, for spare objects that I always want in supply.  I have hiding places for guilty pleasures, for objects that I don’t want others to know about for fear of judgment. I also have hiding places for things that I want to keep to myself like old journals and photographs.

It’s wonderful to have little hiding places in your life.  It’s amazing to remember them, considering how seldom they may be used, at the exact time you need what you’ve hidden there.

Remembering where you keep your passport or your mother’s antique ring is no small thing.