The World is a Gift in Motion — by Dorcas Tang
December smells like boggy ground. Pellets of acid-tinged water hitting the ground over and over again, only to be met with a wholehearted embrace by the soil below. Neighbourhood mimosas, cinderella weeds and cupid’s shaving brushes have tilted up their pink and yellow heads up towards the sky, greeting an old friend. The grass delightfully drinks up afternoon rain like its a daily ritual, their relishment in contrast to my slight annoyance as my fingers graze slightly damp laundry. Maybe in another hour. I was being optimistic.
The prevailing Northeast Monsoon season marks our tropical version of winter. This “air-conditioned” weather lasts for about 2 months from December to late January. But most importantly, the rain also marks the season of giving. Getting off at different MRT stops on the commute to and from home became a ritual, going to malls I know I have been before, hoping for moments of epiphany where the market would magically provide what a friend said she needed in passing conversation.
But the more I walk, then more I feel this flavour of listlessness that I do not have the words for. As I stroll through shopping malls with the same old, tired brands, my feet tracing the familiar path into each shop I feel nothing for the crazy discounts and promotions that competitively demand for my attention.
I wander into a clothing shop, grazing my fingers over a brand new midi skirt to feel its texture, wondering whose fingers rested where mine was — cutting, sewing, attaching. Where the cotton plant made a home before it was spun into a tapestry of smoky lavender. I don’t know their names or faces, but I know that our stories are linked in the middle of this air-conditioned mall.
It feels almost wrong to pick it up, move over to the cashier and simply scan a barcode to make payment. It feels as if a simple thank you should a least be warranted, to the people who have given their labour and the plants that have given their lives. But in that transaction, the skirt is simply a price to be paid. Somehow, the value of the skirt feels lighter in my hands, though I know the weight of its full story is priceless. It feels uneasy, unsatisfactory, unjust.
I quickly walked out before anyone could convince me to buy it.
Since that encounter, I have been thinking about what it means to then live in a world that feels as abundant, and generous as it actually is. It feels crazy to think about alternatives because buying and selling is all we know of how the world works, but it feels so incredibly dissonant and empty. There isn’t space to receive something if you can’t afford it, no space to personally express gratitude.
Water is a commodity. Land is a commodity. Labour is a commodity. Art is a commodity. Even life is commodified.
Commodification transforms what was once shared and sacred, into tools for survival.
In Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer writes that “If all the world is a commodity, how poor we grow. When all the world is a gift in motion, how wealthy we become.”
And as I read that sentence, I felt the gears in my head click into place, an idea that had sat as a seed in my gut finally had words to sprout.
If the Earth belongs to herself, then we do not own anything. If we do not own anything, everything is to be shared. If everything is to be shared, then it only makes sense that whatever is given to us by the land is to be taken care of responsibly, and then passed on to others. We give what has been gifted to us and in that way, create a culture of reciprocity. Each act of reciprocity is then an act of thanks, creating a world of mutual abundance.
Robin writes that in her indigenous Potawatomi culture, “Sweetgrass belongs to Mother Earth…the (sweetgrass) is given as gifts, to honor, to say thank you, to heal and to strengthen…It is a gift that has passed from hand to hand, growing richer with every exchange.”
This was the first time I read about the idea that things that have been passed on have a higher value than the ones that are brand new. In a culture of private commodities, things are largely valued for their utility. Second-hand is not as good to use and therefore has a lower price. But in a gift economy, receiving something that has been used before emphasises the sacred emotional bond of the giver and the receiver. The weight of the story becomes present, and there is an inherent responsibility to take care of the gift before passing it on to someone else.
The world that lay before me became one of abundance. I found myself only wanting to acquire things that I can reciprocate care for. Taking more care of the things that I have because I know that everything was gifted, and will be a gift for someone else in the future. I found myself naturally wanting to buy second-hand because a gift that has been circulated is richer in value, though in the market economy, it is deemed lower for its price. The trees, the air, the neighbourhood wildflowers, were all gifts. I found myself constantly running out of words or ways to thank the Earth for all that she provides. Life feels fuller.
Without ever having to forcibly fight consumerism or shame myself into buying sustainably, it was clear why these choices were needed.
Every December brings gifts, even if they are not wrapped in red and green. The rain feeds the soil beneath our feet, brings people together to huddle over warm soup. The Pink Mempat trees at the junction of Farrer Road and Holland Road take it as a sign to bloom ravishly, stenciling the street floors in wispy clouds of soft pink.
The Earth feeds us, clothes us, nurtures our spirits, even if we don’t remember that she does. We don’t need to know name of each tree or how the monsoon season works — our bodies hear the hymns of joy and healing that pulse though the air. We know, deep in our bones, the way in which we are all blessed with gifts. We need only to listen, and say thank you. 🌸
This article was originally published at https://earthtodorcas.substack.com on December 21, 2022.
About the Writer
Dorcas Tang Wen Yu (website)
Dorcas is a Singapore-based storyteller for climate justice. In her creative practice, she creates stories through illustration and writing that advocate for a love-centered world for both our human and more than human neighbors. Dorcas’ art is rooted in the belief that every life is sacred, and humans are here to steward and reciprocate the gifts that Earth has bestowed.
