The Gift of Acceptance

ESSAY- D.E. BENTLEY

Gift acceptance is, I believe, a learned art. Perhaps my challenges in this regard are part of the reason for my reluctance to embrace ritualistic holidays (or ritualistic anything). My favorite holidays were spent in unconventional ways. Perhaps the most memorable was the December 25^th spent doing my laundry at my Ithaca neighborhood laundry mat. For starters, I had the place to myself save for the periodic Jungle* resident who wandered in to take in some (relative) warmth and chat a bit. And, since I was there, alone, there was none of the usual gift extravaganza that so often comes to dominate the day.

These days I celebrate solstice by taking in the natural world all around. I also usually spend New Year’s Eve in the company of my current husband, my son, and my former husband. Love and life changes, but the most meaningful relationships carry us through.

Plus…these folks know that gift receiving is not my forte and steer clear (for the most part). I do enjoy gift giving, incrementally, when I create or find a special something that suits someone well (at least that I believe suits them well) and enjoy these moments of shared exchange now in a way that eluded me for most of my life.

I am not sure where my initial fear and aversion of this simple act of acceptance came from (perhaps it began with disappointing childhood exchanges). Looking back, there are some notable moments.

Take the time that I wanted a camera. I was very young but I had seen people taking pictures and already knew it was a cool thing to do. The camera I received was a toy, that showed rotating scenes of other peoples’ boring experiences. The disappointment dripped off of me.

My hesitation with accepting parental gifts continued into adulthood. I recall an absolutely lovely sterling silver necklace, two leaves surrounding a green stone cabochon, given to me by my mother. I know I let her down with my lackluster response; a response that had nothing to do with what I thought of the gift but rather with our forever strained relationship.

There were times when the response was related to the gift. Like the time when my grandmother—who I adored—gave me and my other siblings a pair of kitchen shears. We all got the same gift and grandma did look sad when I was visually less than thrilled. So much of learning to accept gifts is learning to enjoy the experience and find ways of being thankful for…whatever it is.

Still, I look back on some moments and still feel a sadness with my ability to accept even the simplest gifts, to embrace moments as special. The holidays always bring to mind a December 24^th gathering at the home of my friend Jay and a subsequent dinner out with he and his wife. These fantastic and loving people owned a plant nursery and I later taught in a classroom next door to Jay, at a juvenile lock up (he taught science and helped the students run a greenhouse; I taught social studies). He and his wife invited me to a gathering on the 24^th. As I headed out the door, Jay plucked a perfect lime off of a tree in their kitchen and handed it to me. I mumbled something about margaritas and could see the corners of Jay’s mouth descend as we bid farewell. That was the second to last time I ever saw him. The last was at a dinner hosted for his final birthday, as he fell into a fast decline. We approached him at the restaurant and he reached out and kissed me (well half kissed me; the gift so surprised me that I hesitated and it turned into an awkward moment). Simple gifts: a kiss, a hug, a smile, are the best gifts of all and giving back at these moments is divine.

Gift acceptance is not my forte although, it being a learned art, I have improved over the years and continue to reflect back on the gifts I’ve been given.  Years after receiving that crappy toy camera, I immersed myself into B&W photography, taking my camera everywhere, capturing street scenes and flora that I would develop, marveling at the magic of the chemicals that brought moments to light. I still have the necklace that my mother gave me. I still use those shears from Grandma Alice. And I have found many more uses for limes. Through these moments, and many like them, I have learned to love the gifts that find their way to me, however small or seemingly misaligned they may be.

*The Jungle, for those unaware, is a homeless enclave in Ithaca that has been there for decades. The Jungle is located on property owned by the rail company and my only wish for this season is that the folks there, and everywhere living unsheltered, have found somewhere to be to weather out the recent cold, if only in the nearest laundry mat.

D.E. Bentley is a writer and editor living and working in the Finger Lakes Region of New York State