10 May
The Gift

“I want to give you a book,” the man said to me. 

Minutes earlier, he had told me the title. I had tried to memorise it but it was long and the words floated away.

It was an unusual place to have a conversation about a book – we  were in adjoining lanes at a swimming pool and resting at the deep end.

We were in a two-lane pool at a golf and spa resort that is only known to holiday-makers staying there, or locals. I liked the idea of the pool being hidden from tourists.

I had started going swimming to feel the warm water massaging away the tightness in my shoulder that had dogged me for too long.

Walking into the pool, the man told me his name, I responded and he introduced me to the swimmer in my lane. He adjusted his goggles on top of his head and after some small talk, he shared excerpts of his life story – having a farm, dabbling in race horses and owning an award-winning cafe. I always like hearing people’s stories and our conversation continued.

I mentioned teaching meditation and was surprised that this piqued his interest. We spoke about mindfulness and the power of the breath to relax. Then it was time for me to swim. He turned to chat to a woman in his lane, their voices reaching me as they swapped stories. I sensed a familiarity between them, of having met here before.

In our next conversation which was at the deep end of the pool, the man mentioned having bi-polar and how he had lost too many years on a roller-coaster of extreme highs and the deepest of lows. He was diagnosed in his mid-50s and medication now keeps him feeling evenly balanced emotionally.

“I was sixteen when it started. I lost so many years of my life,” he murmured, wanting to mask the feeling of regret for a life not lived as fully as he would have liked. “My mind still wanders back to the past.” He ran his fingers through his grey thinning hair that was already swept back from his forehead. I nodded. “But I know to focus on my breath and come into the present moment.”

“That’s perfect,” I said gently. “To focus on the moment and see the wonder of  what is around you. What you see, hear and feel.”   The words rolled easily from me.

“I want to give you a book,” he said. “It’ll be a classic. It only takes ten minutes to read. It’s in my car.”

My body felt hollow. I never like taking anything from anybody, let alone someone I don’t know. My mind was surprisingly calm. I decided to go along with the idea. After all, this was a resort. It was midday and the car park was always busy. He seemed to be known at the pool by other swimmers.

Trust, I told myself. Intuitively, I knew everything would be fine.

“Meet you back here,” he said.

“Okay.” I slid over the lane rope and walked slowly up the stairs from the pool. My mind was clear.

By the time I reached the changing rooms, I knew what I would do.

As we walked along the path leading to the first set of internal stairs at the resort, I talked light-heartedly about towns I had visited, mentioning Agnes Waters, 1770 and Maryborough. He had not been to any of them.

Down the second set of stairs, we both agreed about having to keep working on ourselves, whether that was mental or physical health – or both.

We came to the car park and I suggested in the same light tone, “I’m happy to take a photo of the cover. Then I’ll buy the book.”

“No,” he said. “I have the book. You’re into meditation, I know you will appreciate it.”

I stood in front of his white SUV as he opened the back passenger door, leaned in and fossicked around.

“It’s okay if you can’t find the book,” I said.

He went around and opened the car boot.

“I knew I had a copy.”

He handed me the book, neatly gift-wrapped in light brown paper with coloured ribbon around it.

I was stunned. I had expected a used copy. This was a real gift – and from a stranger.

“I have given this book to many people. They tell me that it changes their lives.”

What changed for me at that moment was the generosity of giving and for me to know that it is perfectly okay to accept a gift.

How easily we are suspicious when trust is a strong trait to cultivate. Though I also wondered if living in a small town rather than a big city makes a difference about being able to trust, particularly in a place where most people have come from somewhere else and wish to connect.

It felt wonderful to be gracious in accepting a gift, especially when it comes from the heart of a stranger finding his way in life. As we all are.

And he was right. The book is delightful. “Simple but profound,” I told him when we saw each other at the pool several weeks later. “I keep the book on a small coffee table.”

He smiled. “I knew you’d appreciate it.”

** And the book? It is The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse by  Charlie Mackesy.

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