The Real Gift of Anonymous Giving
I walked up to my door this week, arms loaded with groceries. Hanging from my doorknob was a grey paper bag. Half a dozen Gerber daisies, ensconced in cellophane, blossomed from its mouth. An empty vase filled the interior.
The only notation on the bag was a post-it note inscribed with my name. I hooked the bag with my pinky finger and shifted my burdens to one hand. With the other, I retrieved the keys from my front pocket.
Once inside, I trimmed and watered the daisies and got down to the real business of the moment. I investigated the bag at length, searching for an overlooked note. I wracked my brain. Who might have thought to bring me flowers? Was it so and so? It might have been such and such. My fingers were itchy to text a thank you. I wanted to acknowledge the gift and let the giver know how much I appreciated it. Honestly, I was beginning to feel frustrated at my own impotence.
But, now, a few days later, as those blossoms greet me every day, I realize the particular gift they have been. Since they showed up anonymously at my door, I find that I’m bleeding gratitude. Instead of having a homing path to the giver, my gratitude roams among the people I know. It alights on this person and that person who may have left me flowers. I greet every friend with a secret thought that they may have taken a moment to show me this kindness.
This sort of roving gratitude has brought a lightness to my days. It has highlighted all the people who are loving and supporting me, and how many more are standing willing to step in. That is a gift that will long outlast my cut blooms.