She Probably Thinks I've Forgotten Her Kindness

but I haven't.

She probably thinks I’ve forgotten, but I haven’t.

Couldn’t if I tried.

Acts of kindness sit weighty upon me. In a good way. Too many withholders and haters, too many stingy sorts in my life at different stages to not pay close attention when someone is above and beyond, kind. Those sort make an impression, they remind me deeply of things I love being reminded of. I pay close attention to their notice and kindnesses. I contemplate their gifts, allowing them to carve out a place for themselves within me.

If you’ve ever had to learn to forgive yourself after having been thrown away, then you must also learn to accept the gift of those who choose to keep you. Fair is fair.

Susie sent me a painting of a Kingfisher from her place in the world, her hillside in France, knowing my fondness for them in mine, and I’ve been waiting for weeks now, for the right day to introduce her Kingfisher friend to one of my Kingfisher friends in a place I walk often. Today, finally was that day. Calm and cold, but without a steady drift of falling mist and raindrops (which I feared would splatter and run upon her beautiful, watercolor gift.)

Kingfishers in Susie’s part of the world are quite differently attired than those who make their lives and livings here. But they are also very much alike and I just had a sense that if they met in person, they might be fascinated. It works that way with human people. Why not bird people? Foreigners fascinate. At least they fascinate those of us who adore differences and who simply cannot imagine missing out on all of the wonderful things that make us different. I mean, the exotic tastes of unfamiliar foods alone would be worth it. And the sounds of their words.

So I took my friend’s Kingfisher for a walk and at the place I often stand and watch the patient vigils of one of our own, quite talkative, Salish Sea, Belted Kingfishers, I placed her vision atop the chain-link and waited…

There were no grand greetings or joyous conversations. Not between that magical sheet of watercolor paper and the feather-poet perched, distant. But there was a gesture, an intention, a wee little ceremony of appreciation. In a world nearly overrun with expressions of hatred and retribution, and ego preening and jealous comparisons, and profiteering and bullying, and loneliness, handwringing and despair, a silly old coot very intentionally opened a portal reaching halfway round the world to a friend; an introduction, a grin and the sort of playful nonsense kids deal in all the time before they forget how, before they learn to be embarrassed by believing … and make believe, before they become so busy and faux important. A string, if you will, between two tin cans at the space of half a planet.

Perhaps her ears were burning. Perhaps she heard the tinkling of some faint and distant bell. Perhaps she heard me whispering my yoo-hoo and thank yous.

I didn’t forget, my friend. Such acts of kindness are never forgotten.

Couldn’t if I tried.

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