A friend gave me a pencil recently. To be specific, she gave me Blackwing Palomino #602. Personally adorned with a winding of washi tape of stunning orange, yellow, and green to keep someone else from mistaking it for their Blackwing Palomino #602. But it wasn't just a pencil, you need to understand. It was a gift - spontaneous, thoughtful, without pretense, and with nary a shadow of quid pro quo. A gesture from the heart.
Geri and I attended a writers conference in Orange Beach late last fall and were happy to reconnect with a young lady we met at the same conference the year before. Since she probably wouldn't want the attention, for simplicity's sake, I'll just call her "Amy." We were sitting at the same table during the conference keynote dinner and, while most people were thumbing away at their smartphones capturing items of note, Amy was recording her thoughts in prehistoric fashion: pencil on paper. And what a pencil it was! Even without the colorful Washi tape, it was a handsome instrument of aromatic cedar wood painted medium grey and topped with an eraser that looked like it had been run over by a Subaru.
I had barely finished expressing my admiration of that fine writing instrument when she pushed it toward me past delinquent crumbs of yeast rolls and through small pools of water from our condensating water glasses.
"What?" I said.
"It's yours," she answered.
Well, I told her that I couldn't possibly take her pencil, especially since she had gone to the trouble to dress it up with the nice tape and all. It was obviously special to her.
"I have another," she said with a look of triumph, digging in her bag and extracting a second Blackwing Palomino #602. (Much shorter and undecorated, I noticed, and I was already gloating over the fact that my new pencil was the obvious superior of the two.)
(I know just about now that some of you are getting ready to speed-read the rest of this blog because a: you're just really not all that into pencils or b: there's paint drying somewhere that needs your immediate attention...but, if you will, bear with me just another couple of minutes.)
What was just a germ of thought at the time and has since bloomed large and loud: the simplest kindnesses in life are always, always, going to pack the biggest punch. And people really aren't all that complex and in need of big, cinematic moments. In this current environment of personal and social warfare, from the real violence that bangs and stumbles its way out into the streets to the passive-aggressive spit-fights of memes and words in the alleyways of social media, simple gestures of camaraderie and friendship carry a lot of weight. Enough weight, in fact, to squash so much of this spiteful silliness that we are exposed to day in and day out. And whether either of us knew it at the moment, what Amy did meant a great deal to me.
In fact, I used that Blackwing Palomino #602 to create the first draft of this blog. Its graphite lead eased my words on paper like silk on suede while its eraser absolved me of my original sins of syntax. My words waltzed out of that suave devil. Having finished, I decided I wouldn't use that pencil again. One and done. I would preserve it, save what was left so that it would always have plenty of life left in it, its needle-sharp point ready to strike at moment's notice. A souvenir, a keepsake. Maybe put it on my desk to be sucked into the black hole of clutter that resides there. Then better judgement vanquished that thought and I decided that, doggone it, I will write that pencil right down to its gnarly little stub and rub at that eraser until its metal ferrule mutilates the paper. That's why it was gifted to me and I would be doing the giver and the pencil an injustice if I approached it differently.
I suspect all gifts are meant to be used right down to the nub, right to the very end. Gifts of talent, skill, and proficiency passed down from the Supreme Gifter as well as a friend's gently used number two pencil, with a few light bite marks providing an extra dose of character. Gifts are meant to be used for the good they bring and the joy they create. Gifts come in all shapes, sizes, and usages, and you never want to look a single one in the mouth. Gifts aren't meant to be hidden or saved for later. What would the point be? If Amy's gift to me works out the way I wish, it will bring at least a brief respite from the written and spoken violence we are often exposed to. A counterbalance to spite and ugliness. A shading, if you will, of soft graphite offerings on brand new pages, toward something a little better. An olive branch bobbing on the flood waters.
Just the right words can do that you know.
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