Gifts given, gifts received

I am eight or nine, in Standard 3 in a tiny rural community just out of Gisborne, still years away from being a famous wine region. My new teacher is very hip - long hair and long legs, culottes and very sporty, a talented hockey player. I adore her, and her husband, tall and handsome and so chilled. When they offer to share photos of their trip overseas, I join the older people in the room, mesmerised by the atmosphere, the anticipation. Slide after slide is full of colour, of dust, of intrigue, of flowing robes. I remember three: a vehicle (car, truck, bus?) stacked high and overflowing with people and baggage; intricate prayer wheels; and women in burka. It is 1973, and here in Aotearoa, these full face coverings are yet to be seen. Later - much later - I will help women in the early morning corridors of Middlemore Hospital, their polished English accents emerging from behind their Muslim robes, their fear and anguish clear at that hour of the day.

I digress, as I am wont to do, memories and stark visual images playing in my brain. I wonder now if Viv’s photos were my inspiration for picking up a camera, wanting to capture life on the other side. The epiphany strikes me, sitting at the computer, as I realise the gift I have received. It has taken 50 years, but it is worth it. Thank you, Mrs Bell.

Ironically, this post was supposed to be about the gift given: a monkey, I think, to her newborn son, sent from Japan where I was living, stores full of kawaii mono (cute things), streets full of the language I had tasted at school. When she mentions the gift at Dad’s funeral, I smile politely but can’t recall, and it is then that I realise the power of gifts. It is the recipient who holds the memory, as the item is used or displayed or shelved; seen and felt; washed or dusted; sent to the op shop or inherited by an orphaned child.

As a celebrant, my role is to gift memories: rarely do I know my families, but with care, with aroha, with humour, I package their loves at weddings; their lives at funerals. Gently wrapping the stories they tell me, I create a story - a tiny story - and offer it to them while I hold the space. And to paraphrase Maya Angelou, people may not remember what you said, but they will always remember how you made them feel.

Gifts have a life of their own, a kaupapa, an essence. For me, gifts are given without obligation, without expectation of reciprocation. Gifts received are the same: I accept what I will, enjoying, hiding or regifting. For me, tangible gifts in shiny boxes are eclipsed by gifts of time, gifts of conversation, gifts of support. Even feedback is a gift, and I am reminded to “sift and sort” (thanks Aly!), taking what is useful and leaving the rest.

 ~

I offer to take photos for a three year old’s birthday, my gift to her, to her parents. As I process the shots, I realise this not entirely true: it is their gift to me. 

Aroha mai, aroha atu.

 



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