Glory Ho

Growing up, my Mom taught me that going the extra mile meant giving the extra gift. So I selected souvenirs on trips and kept emergency items in the guest bedroom drawers. You never knew when a silver duck-head wine opener or a pear-scented candle set might be right. A small gift, she said, was a perfect demonstration of gratitude, celebration or sympathy. She was right.

When we joined the Peace Corps, I was forced to downsize. I found some small stones engraved with inspiration and slipped those inside stylish cards with a carefully constructed message. This became enough. When we left on this trip, Michael put his foot down. On my gifts. There was no room for rocks or cards, no matter how poetic. So I set out empty handed on a journey which depended (almost daily) on the kindness of strangers. It made me nervous.

But through her own example, my Mother also taught me to give of my time. My moment. Despite a ridiculous daily schedule, her energy was infinite. To friends, kids, sewing ladies or bank clerks, and especially us, she listened. Oh, how she listened. With the deftness of a lifelong fisherman and the sincerity of a lifelong confidante, she slowly drew secrets, doubts and ambitions out of everyone’s sea of issues, then sent bottles of encouragement and stars of approval toward their horizon.

While I think I picked up my Mother’s talent for bargains and thoughtfulness and I do have an inherent interest in others, I’ve never possessed her patience.

But travel has rescued me again. For one, it’s softened my schedule, sanding away the gritty necessity of hourly accomplishment. It’s also kept me away from Target, so I could pack my trunk with time instead of stuff, at least for a little while.

We are now frequently in the home of a local. We accept recommendations, rice, tea, sheets, tahina and hot water on a regular basis. I have often twisted with (perhaps knee-jerk) discomfort when I know we have nothing tangible to leave behind. Yet that feeling is slowly dissipating. I think because upon our frequent departure, I sense that the hearts of those around me are already full. That to have been there, giving of my moments, has been enough. That by listening to an organic farmer explain her methods or by hugging her child or by helping her bring in the laundry, I am giving of myself, just as my mom has always done. Or at least, I’m trying.

Maybe that’s the best kind of gift, after all. Because unlike some American flag magnet, which gets kicked under the fridge, you’re giving something that lasts.

Thanks Mom. Happy Birthday