by Kim Dinan
“Ah,” she said. “Claro.”
Wendy turned to me. “Speaking of dinero, I’ve been meaning to ask. Do you have any yellow envelope money left?”
I shook my head. “No, it’s long gone.” Like a movie, my brain flashed through everyone we’d given the yellow envelope money to. I would never know how the gift had impacted them, or if it even impacted them at all, but I did know that it had a profound impact on Brian and me. Like tendrils of a web, you cannot strum one thread without sending the others into vibration. The act of giving, and being entrusted to give, had shaken up our lives.
Wendy nodded. “I wonder how our rickshaw driver in Hampi is doing. What was his name?”
“Mahaj?”
“Yeah! Mahaj. I wonder if he’s still driving a rickshaw?”
“I don’t know. We should go back some day and see if we can find him. See if he remembers us.” I patted my belly. “I’ll bring the baby.”
Wendy laughed. “Okay. Baby’s first rickshaw ride!”
“Do you think we would have remembered Mahaj if I hadn’t given him yellow envelope money?” I asked Wendy. It was a question I’d pondered a lot during our nearly three years on the road. While traveling, so many new people passed in and out of our lives every day. It would be impossible to remember them all. But when we gave away yellow envelope money it forced us to stop and pause, to act intentionally, and that made the interaction memorable.
Wendy said, “I don’t know.”
“The thing about the yellow envelope was, it made ordinary interactions more meaningful.” I paused before continuing, unsure of how to explain the next part. “And it taught me how to give, not just give money, but to give of myself.”
Wendy looked up at me, waiting for me to continue. I knew I wasn’t explaining it right. “What I mean is, I learned how to set my own discomfort aside in order to do something for somebody else. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah, it helped you get out of your own way.”
“Exactly…” My voice trailed off as I thought about it. More than anything, the yellow envelope money had taught me to be more mindful. And though it was gone now, it continued to make me pay attention to the many ways there were to do good in the world. Money was just one way to give. I could also give of my time and my energy. I could give compassion and respect and tenderness. Those gifts were renewable and they were free.
Wendy and I had reached our spot on the beach again. We sat down next to Brian beneath the umbrella and stared out at the rolling waves of the Pacific Ocean. These wide-open days were coming to an end, I knew. Soon we would head home.
Closing my eyes against the breeze, I tried to imprint the moment in my mind. Looking backward, I could see how these three years in the world had taken me exactly where I needed to go. I remembered the terror and uncertainty I felt before leaving Portland, and I was grateful I hadn’t succumbed to my fears. In the end it had all been worth it—the hardest parts worth most of all.
• • •
The hot Mexican winter gave way to an unbearable Mexican spring. Brian and I puttered around our apartment and packed our backpacks in silence, thinking excitedly of the future. Taking a final glance at the place we’d called home for the past five months, I slung my backpack onto my back. Brian shot me a look, “You should not be lifting that.”
“I’ve hefted this thing all around the world,” I said. “You better believe I’m going to haul it on its final leg home.”
The midmorning streets of our village were still shadowed by giant palm leaves. We walked down the quiet road and stopped to buy strawberries and two bananas from the back of a pickup truck. At the bus stop, a few dusty benches beneath a thatched palapa, we waited to begin our journey home. I reached toward Brian and squeezed his warm palm. Some unmistakably essential part of our lives was ending, but I felt certain that another essential part was beginning too.
We didn’t know it yet, but it was a daughter we traveled home with. A baby girl who would arrive in this world on the first day of autumn, a red-haired, blue-eyed, wonder. And on the first night of her life, in the darkest and stillest hours before dawn, I would look into her newborn eyes and vow to teach her to love the world and, more importantly, to love herself enough to let the world love her in return.
We don’t have the yellow envelope anymore. It ripped and disintegrated along the way, and when we unpacked for the final time, I tossed it distractedly into the recycling bin. But we do still have the yellow bow that Michele tied around the envelope when she passed it across the table to us as we sat at the precipice between our old life and a new one. I keep it as a reminder of the powerful impact we have on one another, in ways that we see and in other ways we may never understand.
Dear readers,
It’s your turn. Visit www.facebook.com/yellowenvelopeproject to request a free yellow envelope of your own. Please use your envelope as a vehicle to spread goodwill and kindness to family, friends, or strangers. Write a note to someone you love, buy a stranger a cup of coffee (and ask the barista to pass your envelope to the recipient), put a sticker or a knock-knock joke inside and give it to a child. The choice is yours, and the possibilities are endless. Just never doubt your ability to change the world—one kind gesture at a time.
Acknowledgments
I am deeply grateful to the many people who made this book possible.
It’s probably clear by now that The Yellow Envelope would not exist without the kindness of Michele and Glenn Crim. Sometimes life gives you the people you never knew you needed, and that’s what happened to me the day I showed up at their door. It is an honor to call them friends and to share their story of generosity.
Thanks to my agent, William Callahan, for believing in this book and giving an unknown writer a chance. Thanks, too, to my editor Shana Drehs and the team at Sourcebooks who gently guided it into the world.
I am profoundly grateful to my in-laws, Mike and Terry, who watched our beloved pups while we were away, and without whom this trip would not have been possible. Thank you also for always giving us a soft place to land each time we come home again.
My Mom and Dad encouraged my love of reading and are avid readers themselves. Dad, thank you for being endlessly curious about the process of writing this book. Mom, thank you for the hundreds of hours you spent babysitting your granddaughter while I sat upstairs at my desk writing. I absolutely could not have done it without you.
To my little sisters, Amanda and Jessi, thank you for your love and support. In the cosmic sibling lottery, I definitely hit the jackpot.
Thank you to Wendy Gibson for your spot-on advice, boundless energy, roaring laugh and ability to run a painful amount of miles while talking the whole way. Jenny Lewis for your road-trip companionship, bottles of wine and perfect execution of text message emoji. Caitlin Fischer, Kelly Gliha, Jessy Martin, Jordan Mungin, and Kelly Ross Brown, who celebrate the big and small moments in life with me. Seriously, how did we get so lucky?
To the readers of my blog, many of whom have been cheering me on before I left Portland, I extend my heartfelt thanks. Your kind words and support continue to touch and inspire me.
I owe a thank you to the people we met on our travels, not just those mentioned in this book, but the hundreds of others that opened their homes and their hearts to us, or those who simply offered directions, a kind conversation, or a smile. It is because of you that I learned a great lesson: people everywhere are good.
Finally, the biggest thanks of all goes to my husband Brian, co-conspirator of dreams and Daddy extraordinaire. Thank you for your endless patience, support, and love. And to Juniper, who made my heart grow bigger than I ever thought possible. You make every day an adventure.
About the Author
Photo credit © Brian Patton
Kim Dinan is a writer who lives in Ohio with her husband and daughter, though by the time you’re readin
g this, who knows where in the world they will be. The Yellow Envelope is her first book. Learn more at kimdinan.com.
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