My son asked me excitedly, “Did you notice how some of the dishes got dried last night?!”. Admittedly I didn’t, but I used my powers of improv. He impishly confessed to doing chores while everyone was asleep. He was delighted by his secret life as a ninja helper, granting wishes as a shadowy, benevolent entity. He feels proud, powerful, and kind. He has discovered the most rewarding manner of doing chores, as a gift given freely and unexpectedly under the darkness of night.

I take his lanky ten year old body into my arms and whisper a story. A legend concerning a cobbler and his family being assisted by brownies with the endless mending of shoes under cover of night. The brownies (elves, fairies, whatever) rush to conceal themselves at daybreak in order to witness the family’s shock and celebration and exclamations of gratitude. These are the moments I peak confidence-wise with my children. When together we tread other-time, other-world. A transcendent moment in connection.

I’d like to do less keeping score and weighing merit. I’d like my deeds to have less to do with what I will get in return. I don’t want to trade in doing something for doing nothing. I’d like to invest more in listening and attention to detail. I’m looking to indulge more in the role of secret benefactor. I’d like to access joy and spontaneity like my son, cut ties with acknowledgement, and enter my inner world with generous spirit.

There is something so powerful and archetypal about this type of giving. It shows up in all times, all cultures. Wishes get granted in the guise of anonymous donors and genies in lamps and Santa Claus. Surprises are the stuff of great joy rather than great anxiety. We wake with new eyes, fresh perspective, a positive buoying of faith in life and others. Our desires are reflected right before us, the embodiment of true acknowledgment and joining. There are few feelings in life that rival those of the giver. To be a witness, to be a cause- is divine.

Christmas morning was always magical in our house growing up. I hate when my memory of this time is intruded upon or debased with accusations of materialism or brought down to earth in any fashion. My Christmas day memories are aloft, untouchable. My parents were happy and competent in so many ways, still are, but Christmas morning was the zenith. They glowed in the lights of our tree, clearly exhausted, but beaming nonetheless. A halo surrounded them on this very special morning that they engineered for us. Every year they listened to our musings, took note of our circles and initials in catalogues, and stealthily tucked away our lists for later perusal. How beautiful it was to be seen and heard and appreciated in such a glorious and concrete way. And sometimes they even went off-list with awesome results, because we trusted each other. Although I was not witness, I can picture my parents’ heads bowed in collusion and their smiles at every detail addressed, tiptoeing and suppressing laughter in our tiny house. Santa’s cookies eaten, wrapping and labels affixed, stockings full…I hope they felt proud, powerful, and kind. They deserved to. Thats how I saw them. None of us ever questioned Santa’s existence, not ever to my knowledge. Its like we all quietly agreed that with this kind of magic afoot, how could we stoop to the banality of questioning the existence of Santa Claus? This is how my parents tread in other-time, other-world with us. The most authentic feelings and core principles wrapped up in legend and tied with a big red bow.