In this modern age, where most of my reading is done via an app or on my e-reader, I still carry with me a very old, and very analogue, bookmark.
Made from two pieces of the self-adhesive plastic you wrap schoolbooks with, it contains a thin border of lace and a handful of pressed cosmos flowers.
I received the bookmark completely out of the blue during a compulsory visit to my late grandmother, who at that stage was in her 70s and still deeply interested in the lives of her more than 30 grandchildren.
I remember little of my life during those years, but I am pretty sure I was a brooding young man with lots of pimples and far too many new hormones to be able to maintain a stable mood for an entire visit.
According to her, I had accompanied her a few months prior on a walk to the local shop.
On the way I plucked a fistful of cosmos, studied it, handed her a few and dropped the rest on the ground.
These flowers were later carefully pressed and made into bookmarks, with one copy in the Bible by her bedside and the other handed to me.
To a teenage boy a bookmark of pressed flowers is about as appropriate a gift as a Hello Kitty tea set, but the opposite turned out to be true.
This small token acknowledged the individuality of a young man during a very tumultuous time in his teenage life, affirmed the loving power of a random act of kindness, built a bond of love between two people two generations apart and taught me the power of being present to the everyday acts that can be so meaningful.
Robert Frost, America’s unofficial Poet Laureate, says we “make ourselves in a place apart”, distant and protected from scrutiny and rejection. Yet we seek with “agitated heart” to be found out, like a small child giggling behind the curtains.
That is why a small gesture can sometimes have such a profound effect. Deep inside, we are all hoping to be found.
Well-read types will laugh at the reference to Frost, who wrote in simpler times with perfect rhyme and meanings that were easy to grasp.
But perhaps, in defence of Frost, we could all be a bit more emotionally accessible in this age of individualism, shortened attention spans and loneliness.
Being more accessible and seeking to reach that “place apart” in others might require something as simple as a walk to the store or a recognition that someone else’s crude attempts at love or kindness are seen, even appreciated.
Grandparents are perhaps our greatest teachers in this regard. By the time I received the bookmark, my gran had already lost her husband. Like many people of her age, she was reliant on the kindness of her family for her living expenses.
Rather than hide behind a shield of self-loathing or the nothing-is-as-it-used-to-be cynicism of many older people who have fallen on hard times, my grandmother doubled down on being interested in and loving every family member, regardless of their failings or hormone levels.
This approach to life recalls an image from my karate dojo.
Many of the older fighters at the dojo still wear the same black belt they received as a young man or woman, which by this stage of their lives have turned almost completely white because the outer black threads have worn away.
Philosophically, these veteran “white belts” approach their martial art with the humility and reverence of a novice.
Years of attempting to master the art and many fights have replaced the cocksure arrogance of the young fighter with respect, a focus on the basics, called kihon, and the practice of being present to every action and reaction of the person facing them.
Ironically, by not trying to master karate anymore, they’ve become the masters.
Perhaps that describes my grandmother’s life as well. Age seems to have taught her that life and love are not things to master, or control. Rather, she showed that we can only be present to the very next moment, where we find others and allow ourselves to be found.