Todd R. Nelson is a retired educator who lives in Penobscot. His books of essays, “Cold Spell” and “The Land Between the Rivers,” are published by Down East Books.

Dec. 21 and we have entered the season of counts. It is the count like the Advent calendar. Or it is the soulless countdown of spending days until Christmas, and the turn of the odometer calendar year at New Year’s. We are preoccupied with enumerating the passage of time, expense and our accomplishments connected mostly to consumption and the year’s impending expiration.

Another fiscal year draws to an end and we prepare for the reckoning with the tax man — the annual bean count. And what of the tariffs … on our civility and ethical stature? At Thanksgiving we ask, “How have we been fortunate?” and New Year’s Day, “How will I make good fortune in the future?”

If there is sincerity and humility attached, they are questions that draw us out of ourselves to think of others: How have I, or how will I, help others share in the benefits that abound?

At my elementary school one year, we diverted our attention to a unique seasonal count. The Lakota Sioux measured their year from first snowfall to first snowfall with what they called the “winter count.” It marked the passing of time and inscribed the important events of a year in a pictograph drawn on an animal hide.

Here were the crucial moments in tribal life: “The Year the Stars Fell” (the Leonid meteor showers of 1833), or “The Winter of Compassion” (1944, the year of the founding of the National Congress of American Indians). Their counts distilled the meaning of events, threading singular moments into a tapestry that becomes the history of the tribe. They can be found at the Library of Congress.

“What would the winter count for our school look like?” I asked my students. The fourth-grade class contemplated their own winter count after examining a Lakota example.

A sports fan felt it would be the year of the soccer World Cup. One boy knew it would forever be the year of “my baby sister.” For Charlotte, it would be the arrival of Amber, her new cat. For others, the pictograph would show making igloos, or skiing for the first time, or the start of our recycling program. Others cited natural disasters, and disaster relief; continuing warfare, and glimmers of peace.

My own list cited the year of Rosa Parks lying in state in the Capitol, and a local fisherman winning a MacArthur Grant for studying local fisheries — unexpected moments when wonders seemed natural. They were events that moved us forward … in the largest sense of “tribe.”

I ponder this exercise every year. The list of events is easy, so I’ll share my list of criteria. As winter approaches, I’d like this to be a season in which we count a better sense of annual accomplishment, a deeper sense of capital, of collective benefit and progress and unity.

The measure of growth in compassion, for instance, is rarely counted or enumerated. It can’t be tallied like time and money — but it should be. It’s a better measure of the stature of a people, a tribe.

I wonder if I could prepare a Form 1040 enumerating my cultural capital, a more complete measure of GNP or adjusted gross income. Economics shortchanges the long-term equity of a people. Where is the hedge fund of ethical competence and corporate shedding of indifference?

Our school “tribe” was certainly defined by more than professional sports victories or the advent of little sisters or nature’s turmoil. Even the kids know the greater values. Nonetheless, it’s still good to add up this winter’s key moments because they affirm that we have a voice in determining what will be remembered in the next winter count.

Are we working toward another “Winter that Strengthened our Voices?” Will this be a “Winter of Shelter,” to cite two Lakota counts? It will be, if we look outward, forward and past the urge to refill our shopping carts and only protect our own.