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| Photo courtesy Morgan Sessions |
“Joy does not simply happen to us. We have to choose joy and keep choosing it every day.”
—Henri J.M. Nouwen
“Joy does not simply happen to us. We have to choose joy and keep choosing it every day.”
“Joy does not simply happen to us. We have to choose joy and keep choosing it every day.”
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| Photo courtesy Valentin Sabau |
It seems like it should be simple to be kind. After all, to
be kind, we don’t have to perform extraordinary acts, give away large sums of
money, or make huge sacrifices. Kindness is a much cozier, more approachable
concept, as simple as offering a smile, a few genuine words of compassion, or a
listening ear.
Why does that feel so hard sometimes?
I’ve been thinking about kindness a lot since I wrote the
post here. Actively attempting to perform acts of kindness, rather than waiting
for an opportunity to present itself has proven to be more challenging than I
expected, even though kindness has always been a value important to me. Many
questions and decisions arise. How to be kind? Who needs kindness? What will be
the best thing to do for them? What about the man on the corner holding up the
sign? What about the emails in my inbox wanting money for good causes, causes I
believe in? What if someone takes advantage of me? This is a good chance to
give up the illusion of control. I can’t know what’s in another’s heart,
whether they’re taking advantage of me or not. I can know what’s in my
heart.
I still have a lot to learn, but here are a few conclusions
I’ve drawn after two weeks of deliberately trying to practice kindness:
Become aware. Maybe this is for me alone, but I tend
to walk around in my own little world, consumed by my thoughts and imaginings.
I’m sure I miss opportunities to be kind simply because I’m oblivious. I’m
making more of an effort to pay attention to what’s happening around me,
actively seeking ways to be kind, listening more closely to friends and family.
What you notice multiplies—noticing opportunities to be kind has opened my eyes
to more opportunities.
Start small and close. Be kind to your loved ones.
Think about what you do for your family as kind actions, not requirements.
There are a few chores around my home that I truly dislike (and sometimes
resent). When I think about them as kind actions for people I love, I’m much
less irritated by them (the chores and the people). Also think about
what acts of kindness come easily to you—maybe you love baking and sharing your
creations with others, or you’re great at finding exactly the right words of
encouragement. Start there.
Use your words. Phrases as simple as please, thank
you, can I help? might be just what someone needs to hear. Consider your
tone of voice, too. How many arguments start over tone of voice rather than
words themselves?
Fill your well. It’s hard to be kind to others when
you’re unkind to yourself. Meet your needs for rest, nourishment (physical,
mental, and spiritual), pleasure, and adventure. Don’t be stingy with yourself
so that you have something to draw from to be kind to others.
Follow your heart. When you have a kind impulse,
follow it. When faced with a choice, ask, “What would be the kind thing to do?”
Retain your boundaries. Being kind doesn’t mean being
a doormat. Kindness is not “niceness,” bending your desires to suit someone
else’s agenda.
Kindness sometimes feels awkward and scary. Putting yourself
out there makes you feel vulnerable, offering a gift that might be rejected or
misunderstood. It’s a risk you’ll have to take if you value kindness and want
to bring more of it into your life. Start small, and see where it takes you.
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| Photo courtesy James DeMers |
Introduction by Ted Kooser: How I love poems in which
there is evidence of a poet paying close attention to the world about him. Here
Angelo Giambra, who lives in Florida, has been keeping an eye on the bees.
The Water Carriers
On hot days we would see them
leaving the hive in swarms. June and I
would watch them weave their way
through the sugarberry trees toward the pond
where they would stop to take a drink,
then buzz their way back, plump and full of water,
to drop it on the backs of the fanning bees.
If you listened you could hear them, their tiny wings
beating in unison as they cooled down the hive.
My brother caught one once, its bulbous body
bursting with water, beating itself against
the smooth glass wall of the canning jar.
He lit a match, dropped it in, but nothing
happened. The match went out and the bee
swam through the mix of sulfur and smoke
until my brother let it out. It flew straight
back to the hive. Later, we skinny-dipped
in the pond, the three of us, the August sun
melting the world around us as if it were
wax. In the cool of the evening, we walked
home, pond water still dripping from our skin,
glistening and twinkling like starlight.
American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation
(www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported
by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. Poem
copyright ©2009 by Angelo Giambra, whose most recent book of poetry is “Oranges
and Eggs,” Finishing Line Press, 2010. Poem reprinted from the “South Dakota
Review,” Vol. 47, no. 4, Winter 2009, by permission of Angelo Giambra and
publisher. Introduction copyright © 2011 by The Poetry Foundation. The
introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate
Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not
accept unsolicited manuscripts.
Welcome to summer reruns! About once a month, I’ll be sharing a post from the archives. I hope you enjoy this one, from 2011.
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“It does not matter how slowly you go so long as you do not stop.”—Confucius
I’m not particularly patient. I want to get things done, and I want them done Right Now. However, especially with a horse, I’ve learned that some things absolutely cannot be rushed. They take the time they take, and you’ll be much less frustrated, not to mention safer, if you relax—and sometimes throw out entirely—your expectations. For me, when I’m learning something new (or teaching Tank something new), things go better when I take baby steps. Sometimes to my embarrassment, I’ve become the poster child for baby steps at my barn as my trainer often uses me as an example of someone who takes things slowly. I am not naturally athletic, and frankly, I’m also a big chicken, so yes, I do take things slowly. When I take a step forward too quickly, I often end up taking two steps back. What works for me in riding is breaking down every new skill into small parts, then practicing those parts until I feel completely comfortable with them. Then I can move on.
Baby steps work great for other pursuits, too: cleaning and reorganizing the house, learning to draw and paint, changing diet and exercise habits and so on. The beauty of baby steps is that if each small step is solid, you’ll find yourself making steady progress. You’ll be less likely to stagger forward then backward in fits and starts. In this way, you will go slower to go faster.
Of course, this is what works for me. Each person has his or her own best method for personal growth—my baby steps may drive some people absolutely mad with frustration. This is where you must listen to your heart for direction. What works for me may not work for you, and vice versa, so please ignore this advice if you’re more like a hare than a tortoise. Few things make me crazier than to have someone tell me my way is wrong and I should do things differently!
Sometimes I get frustrated, and wish I could progress a bit faster than I do and I have to remind myself that it takes the time it takes. Overall, this slow and steady method works for me. It works for Tank, who gets anxious when he’s not sure what he’s being asked to do. We plod along, tortoise-like, but we’re going forward. And that’s what matters.
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| Photo courtesy Tim Marshall |
“How desirable is a proper balance between motion and rest,
and how difficult it is at times for us to achieve it. Alternation lies
everywhere in nature. Even cows and chickens take time off from producing milk
and eggs. Only we human beings foolishly forget these solid well-known truths
at times and try to live our lives from crest of wave to crest of wave with
never a trough between. We forget that in the trough the next crest builds.”
—Jean Hersey, The Shape of a Year
