Never as toddlers are you ever expected to do any more than tear apart with gusto some colorful paper and greet with jubilation what it formerly wrapped, but move on to middle school and you are introduced to the act of the gift exchange where you can only receive a gift so long as you volunteer an item of a pre-established value. In no way was this compulsory, for the Jehovah's witnesses and other sensitive (not to be confused with 'sensible') minorities would sue the school until they owned its total worth to the last chalk. However, you were excluded from it all, whereby robbing you from the notion that gift-giving is an entirely selfless act. The early stages of life not affording me the luxury of experience, I went through the motions like everybody else, following through with this back and forth movement of gifts without a fail. I could fault no one for subscribing to this particular dance, since to give is a noble act itself and usually rewards consequently with a sense of satisfaction when greeted favorably. My reserve lied with the unease that I felt whenever I noticed that this or that party provided me with a more generous contribution or worse, many to the one I offered, then would set in a level of guilt that would have to be handled with the promptest of balance settling.
Middle school is long since over, new concepts have worn their way in, chief among them is the realisation that not all gifts are material. Embracing a humbler life up above in the mountains of British-Columbia was instrumental for it to come about, having befriended many a good person, whom despite being bereft of all things deemed essential by most, would make it a point to offer you hospitality if meeting ends looked a dubious matter, to the point of sharing the last cold beers to be found in their homestead until the coming payday could provide any chance for more.
Carrying this notion back as I repatriated, a trip to the grocery store in the weeks preceding the holiday period presented me with the opportunity to show kindness to a stranger, as I inched my way along to the sole register processing the exasperated costumers. As I witness weariness overcome this elderly lady after she has her card declined thrice, the man ahead merely standing, as if portraying my old self, I overtook him to hand my own to the teller who eagerly accepted and swipe it before any protest could be put up, the visible features of relief for having one less issue to deal with on her distinguishable from the otherwise vacuous look she normally maintains. My initial annoyance at further delay after an already prolonged queuing had been put to rest as the content her purchases caught my eye when curiosity had caused me to stretch my neck, everything a basic necessity, the exception to this a bottle of pop from a substandard generic brand. It got to me. I knew not her story, however the thought that I was enabling an addict in a downward spiral of abuse was far-fetched with this pitiful image being depicted in front of me. An unfortunate soul having used up her meager income to provide delight to grandchildren of hers by way of trinkets and toys was the more likely reality. Initially uneasy, the lady offered countless expressions of gratitude mixed with apologies as I completed my own transaction. I did not perceive this little act to be of monumental consequence, since a mere twenty-one dollars had no noticeable impact on my budget, but by the response engendered seemed so disproportionate that I effectively grasped this simple fact: the value of generosity can only be fully appreciated by its recipient.
With wisdom acquired I could commence a Christmas in the midst of my family, where each year a plethora of presents are presented, the current one not escaping the custom and compose with it. Having only just extirpated myself from the debt I was in from a life of travels, I was sorrowfully unable to contribute any offerings towards parents and siblings. My plea not to be bountifully awarded, for fear of disappointing for my lack of reciprocity, was blatantly ignored. The packages I was handed, when unwrapped, turned out to be items fit for my bohemian lifestyle. Books, to the number of seven, enjoyable and easily discardable after usage, a camelback bag, ideal for undertaking hikes in the everlasting quest for fresh powder, and a spice rack full with sixteen spices and herbs, trivial enough for most, but my dad procured me this for he had noticed how spartan my cooking had become lately, with the tacit acknowledgement that it was possible for me to pass it on and avoid the waste I abhors once I was ready to depart for new horizons. I was thrilled. That pleased them and they cared little of the fact I had nothing for them in return.
Maybe they are wiser, for they mastered it, the normalcy of it all in such situations, but I am learning, if slowly.
After all, it takes a lifetime to build a character...
