Delivering supper to the elderly is part of Benjamin's week. He does not participate in shopping, or cooking, nor does he keep track of who is expecting meals that day. But when we arrived in the large kitchen he knew the routine. Hot food is in a warmer, cold dishes are in a cooler. A joke is posted on the refrigerator.
Today's took me a second to catch on.
"How do you make gold soup?"
"You take fourteen carrots, cut them up and put them in a pot."
It is
a mutually pleasing way to spend two hours, both for us as deliverers, and for the recipients. Some were napping on the couch but a few greeted us at the door for a chat. Then we celebrated by a treat.
A friend gifted me a bunch of bins of fabric. Probably a hundred pounds of colorful prints, flannels, and child friendly patterns became superfluous when his wife could no
longer sew. I have invited women and their grandchildren to come paw through the boxes and take home what they need for projects. It is sweet to be generous with something that so briefly landed in my possession.
While the illusion is that we are the origin of many of the lovely things we pass on, with a bit of digging it becomes obvious that they were given to us. Our
children, even though they may have our coloring and body type, are fearfully and wonderfully made. And not by us. The skills I share with sewing students were offered to me long ago, and although they have lingered long, I did not make them up.
The whole arrangement reminds me of a fire brigade, minus the urgency. As soon as I am willing to empty my hands of a kindness,
or a sandwich, or a gesture of benevolence, one appears to fill them up again.