The Real Gift of Anonymous Giving

I walked up to my door this week, arms loaded with groceries.  Hanging from my doorknob was a grey paper bag.  Half a dozen Gerber daisies, ensconced in cellophane, blossomed from its mouth.  An empty vase filled the interior.

The only notation on the bag was a post-it note inscribed with my name.  I hooked the bag with my pinky finger and shifted my burdens to one hand.  With the other, I retrieved the keys from my front pocket. 

Once inside, I trimmed and watered the daisies and got down to the real business of the moment.  I investigated the bag at length, searching for an overlooked note.  I wracked my brain.  Who might have thought to bring me flowers?  Was it so and so?  It might have been such and such.  My fingers were itchy to text a thank you.  I wanted to acknowledge the gift and let the giver know how much I appreciated it.  Honestly, I was beginning to feel frustrated at my own impotence.

But, now, a few days later, as those blossoms greet me every day, I realize the particular gift they have been.  Since they showed up anonymously at my door, I find that I’m bleeding gratitude.  Instead of having a homing path to the giver, my gratitude roams among the people I know.  It alights on this person and that person who may have left me flowers.  I greet every friend with a secret thought that they may have taken a moment to show me this kindness.

This sort of roving gratitude has brought a lightness to my days.  It has highlighted all the people who are loving and supporting me, and how many more are standing willing to step in.  That is a gift that will long outlast my cut blooms.