Encounter One:
Last week, I was visiting a friend's house as he was wrapping gifts to share with his family later that night. His daughter, Kim, and a woman, Misty, who is the mother of two children, dropped by. In talking with the Misty I learned she had no job and no car. She also shared with me that her children were no longer being home-schooled, and that they had returned to public school.
I asked how that was going, the return and all. She said, "fine, but they don't have enough clothing to go to school." She said she'd gone to the local Goodwill and bought them each three shirts.
After they left, I shared the conversation with my friend. I told him I thought his daughter was a unique person, to offer this family shelter when I knew she, too, was experiencing some economic hardship.
After dinner, my friend and I went to our one local department store and bought quite a lot of children's clothing. We left them at his daughter's home, for her guests, anonymously. Later I heard back that the recipent children were "amazed and thankful."
I have long held the belief that if something, someone comes to your door, you open the door and respond. My giving felt like a minor response to a gentle knock.
Encounter Two:
On Christmas Eve, a woman accompanied her husband into the farmer's cabin to help repair his television. The farmer seldom turns the tv on and when he does, it's usually to watch something educational, or something about the outdoors. Generally, I tune it out. If I want to view, I find a movie online and enjoy. Repairing the television was of no consequence to me or to my space.
I was in the living room when the couple arrived, reading comfortably by the fire. The farmer had prepared me earlier that they would be coming. "I've known him since I was a boy," he said. "We barter back and forth when one can help the other out."
"Well, that's convenient," I quipped. "We all need friends with whom to barter. "
When the couple arrived (I'll call them James and Naomi for the intent of personalizing) and in an effort to make small talk, I offered both a beverage and then inquired about the woman's plans for the holiday and more specifically for the 25th. The farmer had shared she had two young children, ages eleven and twelve, a boy and a girl. I asked, small-talking, "are you ready for Santa?"
Naomi looked at me and said, "I am now. I was able to put back $9.00 this month, and I had to really stretch it to get both of them a gift, but I did it."
She proceeded to tell me about a sweatshirt and an art supply she'd found on sale that afternoon at the local Wal-giant. I sat there, silently stunned.
A few minutes later, I asked Naomi if she would like a few more items to give to the children. I explained to her that my family had already gathered, and that I thought there were a few items remaining that I had no plans to use. I told her that there might be something for the kids. She answered me with a quick, "yes that would be so nice of you."
I pulled on my coat and boots and gloves, grabbed a flashlight and a trash bag, and walked about 60 yards to where I've kept my life in a storage container for almost three years. The whole way I kept hoping that something, anything, would be accessible, visible in storage. I had no idea if anything would be suitable for "gifting."
Box after box, I pulled off lids and tossed them to the floor. I found a jar candle, vanilla. A Scrabble game I must have considered using at school. Jewelry still on a card. A box of crayons. A box of paint. An electric game. A few coloring books. Some luxurious milled rose soaps I thought I'd lost. A set of screwdrivers that I'd intended to put under the sink. A child's novel I'd planned to read to the grands. A box of scented lotions. A scarf and glove set,still tagged, in an outlet store bag. A musical toy.
A small collection of other what-knot items I'd long ago forgotten and ignored.
For about ten minutes, I continued tossing lids and pulling items from the stored boxes, until the plastic bag was full. When I got back to the cabin, I entered as the couple was standing, ready to exit the door. The television was now working well again in the background.
The farmer was handing the repairman a bag of winter kale and a basket of canned goods, hearty vegetable soup, tomato salsa, and more.
I passed the plastic trash bag toward Naomi's hand and said, "I hope there's something in there you can use. If not, please pass it on."
Reflection:
I don't tell you about these encounters because I am delighted with myself. I don't share this because I think it is important to maintain a large exchange of gifts at Christmas. Quite the contrary, I do not like the commercial quality of December, and these two encounters have caused me a harsh and inward reflection. Night after night, I sit, quietly reading, quietly writing. I've gone about my month, and the last three years of my life, quietly engaging.
Most of this December, I've been nursing an injured shoulder. I've wanted to hibernate---more. To watch the snowfall. To rest.
My own children are grown, and I've simplified my life to a comfortable nub. I have given most of my household things away. I don't want "things" anymore. I want and have sought a leaner life. Everything remaining, I've stuck in boxes, in storage, thinking, in the spring, I'll clean those remaining boxes out as well. I have a small spot of sanity where I live and retreat. I like it this way. I can manage this life. I can breathe.
The farmer does not give holiday gifts. Sometime, around March or so, he'll show me something, and he'll say, "there's your Christmas." Last year it was a field of Crimson Clover sown in spring. I wouldn't have it any other way.
The television is on in the background. A young couple is telling how Obama's modification means nothing to them. "There is not help. There is not hope," the young husband is saying. "I'm losing my home after ten years of good credit, ten years of payments. I just need a little help right now."
I share these encounters, disturbed. These encounters quake my tranquil nest. I've got to get my boots back out and go put lids on boxes. Lids are strewn across a storage floor.
I share these stories because I am challenged. I am challenged to look more fully at my surroundings, to look up and down my neighborhood. People are hurting. Wounded shoulder, or not, I am strong, capable and fortunate. Although it could stop tomorrow, today I have health and I have reliable work. I can't wait until spring to share some forgotten trinket in a box. I need to get my coat and go. I need to engage--more. Life's a barter, and I've got to offer up something good, something better.
Scupper © 12/2010
Wikimedia Commons photo credit:
(== Summary == {{Information |Description={{en|1=Illustration from the book "With Peary near the pole" by Eivind Astrup }} |Source=http://www.nb.no/utlevering/nb/fbfbf443fc9d0aa0f9d9450ca97ccac3# |Author=Th. Holmboe / E. Astrup |Date=1894 |Permission= |ot)
Cardinal in Snow, by Karen Gibbs © 12/2010, permission
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Comments
This life you lead, quieter than mine, more thoughtful, shows me there is perhaps a better way to go through life.
I just got tears running down for the gifts you give. You are real dear.
I have never liked this time of year for the reasons you give, but if more people adopted your encounters, even I might change my views.
I help where I can when I can and feel helpless and hopeless sometimes. Maybe I will follow your lead..
Linda,
Reduction has been a gift to self. On giving, I have hope most people do engage. I've always tried to engage. But I see I am not engaged. I am comfortable.
(Hope your soldier, or shoulder, or both, get better soon as well!)
I don't know how to strike-out, but now I'm wondering about the soldier myself. How'd he get in there?
Trilogy, I saw your post about your own December. I'd like to hear how it all turned out.
FF, So true! I'm glad you see it as gentle. I can't get these two encounters out of mind. I've been far too still here.
Flower Child, I used to hang on to so many useless things, as if that could help me hang on to the core of what I'd lost. Not quite a hoarder, but definitely on the tipping scale. Now the more I release, the more I truly find.
I'd have to agree that it can't be. But what can happen is that it can be inspired. This inspires me. Thanks for that Scupper.
rated with love
Happy New Year, dear scupper.
bbd--Thank you, twice.
Bard, Sometimes I don't know how we get past that first year out. You're writing must be helping so many. And you as well, I hope.
Catch-- Thank you!
Zumapick!
Rated.
A stunning post. THANK YOU for sharing this and yourself.
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This is a shopping paradise
Special!!
Thanks for the Cardinal photo...one of the creatures I miss most living out West, those lovely Cardinals...and lightning bugs. : )
Rated
Hummer Parts