We humans are creatures of exchange. Our lives are chopped into a confetti storm of colorful bits of commerce.
I place five red tomatoes in my bag at the farmer's market and hand over cash.
Slipping silver quarters in the meter earns me the privilege of parking.
Arriving at work for two weeks running results in an automatic deposit in my account.
You give me my wish, and I render you yours. Equitable. Fair. Predictable.
Yet there are forces that dance outside of these expectations, following their own fancy. Being generous with no hint of reward.
The salmon colored sky last night asked nothing in return, even that I tilt my chin to the horizon.
The golden branches that sigh over my deck seem unattached to any opinion of them.
The last vegetables in the garden are not invested in impressing anyone. They grow because.... well, I can't quite say why.
Which camp do I want to be in? The barterers or the benefactors? I have history with the swappers. They enable me to lock my doors at night, and call this roof home. They keep me out of jail when I start the ignition on our car and take to the roads. The system works well for filling the refrigerator.
But then again.
Last summer I went with the twins shopping, and I camped out in the cafe while they spent an hour in and out of dressing rooms. There were mothers with young children, some who seemed to enjoy their toddlers and others with slumped shoulders. There were grandmothers pushing strollers as if they had all the time in the world. The line of check out persons seemed consumed by the motion of scanning, bagging, adding, being polite no matter how much their feet hurt.
Then I saw them. Two bright faces talking animatedly over a cart of clothing, discussing the pros and cons of colors.
Mine.
Not because I deserve them, or did anything to encourage their beauty besides buying soap. Not because I know how to craft a child, or fashion a mind. Ignite their curiosity, or protect their vulnerable hearts.
And still they belong to me. I can't quite say why.
