The Gift of Giving

For the first time here, I had the most tumultuous sleep. I awoke many times. One of the times, the ocean was so loud and angry I felt it would devour me. The sound, which has felt soothing and loving all week, was unbearable. At the same time, I experienced my inner body wanting to escape my outer body. My skin felt like a straightjacket. I stretched against it, flexing my feet and reaching my hands, as if I could break out of my self. Panic rose up in me – the sound was all around, my flesh was imprisoning me. I remembered the story that Stacy told me last night of Draupidi, clutching her sari as her captors tried to unwrap it, and called out in my mind: Sri Krishna Govinda Hare Murare, Hey Natha Narayana Vasudeva. I breathed deeply; the sea was calm, my spirit was calm, and I fell back to sleep.

I have had a huge urge here to give money away. When someone expressed ambivalence about doing the sweat lodge because it was $50, I paid for it. I feel like I want to sponsor S.'s trip to Guatemala – she is such an amazing person, and all her work is for good causes. Among many other beautiful vocations, she has worked as a doula, and runs a camp for brain-injured people. I want her to be able to travel and help others, because I can only do that in my mind right now. And yet, is that beyond “what is needed?” Do I want her to think I am a good person? Do I have to be sure my motive is pure before I am generous? If you know that merit is the byproduct of your action, does it taint the motivation? Am I consciously collecting virtue?

As long as I can remember, I loved giving things to people. When I was a child, I loved making gifts for my family’s big Christmas celebration. In various years, I made patchwork pillows, paintings, dolls, jams and cakes for my cousins, parents, aunt and uncle, and grandparents. I took painstaking care of my choices, wanting the gift to perfectly suit the recipient. I searched out the perfect wrapping paper, wanting to make sure my gifts looked beautiful and unified. And I loved watching my relatives open them. This was all that mattered to me; I cared little about the gifts I got. In fact, I barely remember anything I received, and yet the memory of giving is very real. But was it about me, or was it about them? Is the fact that I even ask myself this question a sign that my motives were less than pure? Does it matter?