Three Gifts

When I was a child, many of the fairy tales I read revolved about the making of three wishes.  I used to wonder what blessings I might have asked for had I been given such a privilege.  And it was many years before I realized that my wishes had already been granted.  While I lay curled in my mother's womb, Something, call it what you will, had bestowed three gifts on me‑-three fantastic, unexplainable, and truly magic wonders.

The first was the gift of life, incredible in its loveliness, precious but finite.  With it came my senses to perceive the gift, and a world to stimulate them.  And there was a mind to interpret both stimulus and reaction.  So carefully had the gift been planned that there was nothing I might not experience.  Thoughts and feelings could come in their purest forms or as muted blends.  Their nuances were like the tastes of wines, different from each other, incapable of description, and satisfying in the savoring.

Because the gift was a generous one, there was a multitude of pleasures; because it was a wise one, there was a bounty of pain.  And because there was pain, a second gift was granted.

This was the gift of time, blessed in its purpose, immutable, and infinite.  There was no hurt, no ugliness that time couldn't heal, make acceptable, or end.  And the gift was a precious one, and could not be refused.

Lastly there was the gift of uniqueness, breathtaking in its complexity.  With this third gift I was set apart from all who had been or were yet to be.  None would be my duplicate, though many might vibrate to the same chords.  And the gift was pure: I alone would be the measure of myself.

Like the wishes in the fairy tales, the gifts might be misused.  I might make of them blessing or curse: the choice was mine.  I could destroy the first, waste the second, and disavow the third.  But I do not choose to do so.  These are the only wishes people are granted, unasked for though they are.  To deny them would be the most callous form of ingratitude.