Today Katie, Zoe, and I wrapped up the cookies we made and put them in little plastic bags with cute cards and “homemade” stickers that Katie bought. Then we parted ways and delivered them to peoples’ houses like little secret Santas — except we weren’t secret and we’re not that little. Well, Zoe is.

I gave one of the bags to Denny, my friend Maron’s god mom, who I met for tea this afternoon. She gave me a book on herbs that was Susan’s, her late partner, who I felt close to and miss very much. And it was sweet to exchange and know that she was thinking of me and I of her.

We meet for tea every once in a while and I always end up in tears, asking her what I should do with my life, seeking guidance from an older, wiser woman. And she is so generous with her time, her heart. She amazes me with her strength and perseverance, especially in the face of her own loss.

But she also reminds me every time I see her that I give to her too, that seeing me isn’t just about her giving me advice or time, but also about me offering to her. It’s hard for me to see that, to grasp that I can bring something to her, especially when I feel like I just receive. Perhaps it’s my youth, or maybe it’s my open heart, or possibly - and probably - something I don’t even see or understand. Whatever it is, I keep finding the more I give, that I actually do have things to give. It’s heartbreaking to realize that I don’t believe that most of the time. I guess that’s been a theme throughout this month: the less I think I have to offer, the less I offer. So obvious, yet not at all.