I ordered a pair of cufflinks online. When they arrived, the size of the box was disconcertingly massive. Did I order a microwave in error?
Having been through this drill before, I assembled the requisite tools required penetrate the barriers between the cardboard and my cufflinks -a razor blade, scissors, a screwdriver, a hatchet, and a chainsaw.
I first hacked and sliced through the military grade strength packaging tape on the box. That process could only be described as primal and resulted in a violent and awkwardly shaped fissure into the box. Through this fissure, I found packing materials capable of protecting the 105-carat Queen’s Jewel Koh-I-Noor diamond. Next, I unceremoniously yanked each piece of packing material through the fissure and sent each airborne with the reckless abandon of a five-year-old unwrapping his gifts on Christmas morning. Then comes the paperwork. Receipts, instructions, and promotions with more text than the Declaration of Independence, The Constitution, and the Treaty of Paris – combined. I place the paperwork in its final resting place – the kitchen junk drawer.
Then, my moment of glory, I spot the cuff links – two tiny pieces of metal, nothing more or less. Sighting them reminded me of the glowing suitcase in the movie, “Pulp Fiction.”
I inspect the links. My satisfaction is real. They are more elegant and refined than I expected. I looked forward to the opportunity to don them. (Yeah, I know – the absurd satisfactions of a boring 40-year old’s existence, but take it easy on the judgment). As I wipe the sweat from my brow and strongly exhale a breath of relief and accomplishment, I glance around the room. The kitchen resembles a crime-scene straight from Dateline re-enactment.
That was a ton of effort to retrieve a small “treasure.”
Hours later, in my thought incubator (the shower), I have a fleeting thought that I was able to grasp with my mind’s fingertips.
The treasure, the passion, and the value that rests inside of each of us are less accessible than the cuff links were. How much packing material have we layered our gifts in? How accessible are they to others? To ourselves? Nobody cares about the packaging – it’s boring and ugly. If the “gift” in that box had been watch batteries, the packaging would have been identical. Identical in its physical makeup and in the absurdity of the effort required to find it. Do we make others (and ourselves) slash, hack, rip, and yank to access our gift? If so, how many people would bother to do so? Do you make that effort for others? Should you?
Does the world deserve and yearn for our gifts to be accessible, if not on display?
Yes – it does. These are our gifts to share, not to cloak in a metric ton of cheap packaging. The world needs them – now more than ever.
