On long car rides, messy closets and unbearable heft of the careless.
Even now, I am still hearing beeps and blips and quiet voices. The rolling of wheels on sterile linoleum. The swoosh of scrubs down the hallways. Even now, when these things aren't even near. Like a snuffed candle flame when you close your eyes tight.
My father's gentle, faraway smile was still there as I brushed Claire's hair this morning. Laced her new shoes.
His smile was different while he was in that room. For six days he smiled at me in such a soft way - looking right through me, into my memory. I'm certain he was seeing me, my sister, as little girls - our long, messy hair in curlers, Strawberry Shortcake nightgowns on, purple Kool-Aid around our mouths. He was still young then, without steel wires pulling his ribcage back together. Before a machine ran his heart for too long. He was our protector. He wasn't seeing me as I am now, he was seeing me as a skinny three year old singing and dancing and giggling wildly through the house. I liked that better.
I spent last week sheltered from the real world which, in a strange way, was better. Standing over my father. Holding his hand as he lay unconscious - blue and purple and cut and puffy and lost and sick - almost felt better than driving to work and waiting in lines. Because it was important and it mattered. Nothing else. Being there with him - my Claire, my sweet mother, my family and friends who love us. Nobody else. It was terribly painful and just heartbreakingly dear. Now that he is home safe - only now that he is home safe - I can say this.
And I noticed as I made my zombie-like trips to the lobby for coffee and to the cafeteria for food I wouldn't eat anyway that all of the other zombies here were the kindest people I had ever seen. Patients in physical pain, families in emotional pain, staff under extreme duress day after day - literally taking people's lives into their hands - they were so good. They bought us coffee and asked how my father was feeling - how we were doing. We returned the favor - were so happy to do the same for them. They smiled. Strangers. They rested their hands on our arms and gave us that tender look - we cried as much for this unexpected kindness as we did for our father.
But now I am back. Back to men in SUVs honking at us a fraction of a second after the light turns green, complaining about the meaningless stack of work on their desks. Women frantically pulling t-shirts over their children's heads just to get out of the house on time - offering no reply when the girl at the barista wishes them a nice day. Back to the world where everything is going just smoothly enough that there's no need for pleasantries or thoughtfulness. No need. Back to the world I've been so disappointed in, in this way, for quite a few months now.
I've noticed it so much in this past year. People (strangers and acquaintances and sometimes friends) just being careless. Not saying thank you. Not replying to a thoughtful email. Not calling when they say they will. Not calling. Talking about themselves from the time they sit down until the time they leave to talk about themselves to someone else. Not asking how you are. Not remembering to ask the things that you asked them each time you bumped into them. Just apathy and ego and taking strange pictures of themselves for empty reassurance.
I wonder if I acknowledge people's kindness. I think I do. I hope so. I think, by way of genetics or planetary alignment, that I have a gentle demeanor and a tender heart. But I am not bubbly - not even especially cheerful. Going out of my way to do kind things is something I have to work to do. I don't do it as much as I should, but I try. Each day I try. I like to try. And now that I am happy - really just full and happy - it becomes so much more natural for me. I find myself doing it more and more and then some more - even when it is met with no response.
My friends, who are full and happy as well, they acknowledge kindness. They give it each day too. Even before something goes wrong, before they have to do it, they do it. Even before last week when so many of them called to check on me. Offered to take Claire for the day, get up before the sun to deliver coffee and magazines, put off work and packing just to call to make sure. Drove from a courthouse in Cleveland just to sit with me. They do it more than me. I think it may come more naturally to them. I think it is because they are happy too. Their contentedness allows them to welcome kindness and they give it generously.
It's almost become a strange experiment for me now. Doing kind things for people (strangers particularly) who seem to need it - passively tell you they want it. And when you do it - do what they say they want - you realize that they had specifics in mind. They didn't just want kindness - they wanted it from a certain person at a certain moment in a certain place. Not from an unexpected stranger. And it's like they refuse to acknowledge any concern or care unless it is delivered to them precisely the way they want it or think they need it. I've seen it so often. I saw it today.
I wonder, so often, why that is. It's odd. The two extremes. The startling contrast. The grieving families in the hospitals see it and give it - and the elated as well. The people in between seem just oblivious to it - ignore it or even refuse it. Is it because monotony hinders empathy? Renders them unwilling? Because inconsistency in their lives encourages egotism? The inability to predict what tomorrow will be like forces them to shun the unfamiliar - the good unfamilar- today? Are they just lazy? Are they incapable of understanding how they actually affect others - even strangers?
When did it become okay to not reply to a thoughtful email? When did it become okay to not make the phone call you promised? When did the concrete become the most acceptable place for your eyes while you walk down a busy sidewalk? When did we leave our porches to sit in our living rooms with the blinds drawn midday? When did it become commonplace to roll your eyes after the stranger who stopped to chat with you about the book you have in your hand walks away? When did kindness become a nuisance - intrusive? When did we start closing ourselves off into these tiny little circles not to be penetrated by cheerful outsiders? When did we start taking kind words for granted? When did we stop offering them? When did it become so easy to dominate conversations? Why is it so hard to listen for once? To just say thank you? To want to ask how someone is? To genuinely care? When did "too busy" become an excuse?
My father's gentle, faraway smile was still there as I brushed Claire's hair this morning. Laced her new shoes.
His smile was different while he was in that room. For six days he smiled at me in such a soft way - looking right through me, into my memory. I'm certain he was seeing me, my sister, as little girls - our long, messy hair in curlers, Strawberry Shortcake nightgowns on, purple Kool-Aid around our mouths. He was still young then, without steel wires pulling his ribcage back together. Before a machine ran his heart for too long. He was our protector. He wasn't seeing me as I am now, he was seeing me as a skinny three year old singing and dancing and giggling wildly through the house. I liked that better.
I spent last week sheltered from the real world which, in a strange way, was better. Standing over my father. Holding his hand as he lay unconscious - blue and purple and cut and puffy and lost and sick - almost felt better than driving to work and waiting in lines. Because it was important and it mattered. Nothing else. Being there with him - my Claire, my sweet mother, my family and friends who love us. Nobody else. It was terribly painful and just heartbreakingly dear. Now that he is home safe - only now that he is home safe - I can say this.
And I noticed as I made my zombie-like trips to the lobby for coffee and to the cafeteria for food I wouldn't eat anyway that all of the other zombies here were the kindest people I had ever seen. Patients in physical pain, families in emotional pain, staff under extreme duress day after day - literally taking people's lives into their hands - they were so good. They bought us coffee and asked how my father was feeling - how we were doing. We returned the favor - were so happy to do the same for them. They smiled. Strangers. They rested their hands on our arms and gave us that tender look - we cried as much for this unexpected kindness as we did for our father.
But now I am back. Back to men in SUVs honking at us a fraction of a second after the light turns green, complaining about the meaningless stack of work on their desks. Women frantically pulling t-shirts over their children's heads just to get out of the house on time - offering no reply when the girl at the barista wishes them a nice day. Back to the world where everything is going just smoothly enough that there's no need for pleasantries or thoughtfulness. No need. Back to the world I've been so disappointed in, in this way, for quite a few months now.
I've noticed it so much in this past year. People (strangers and acquaintances and sometimes friends) just being careless. Not saying thank you. Not replying to a thoughtful email. Not calling when they say they will. Not calling. Talking about themselves from the time they sit down until the time they leave to talk about themselves to someone else. Not asking how you are. Not remembering to ask the things that you asked them each time you bumped into them. Just apathy and ego and taking strange pictures of themselves for empty reassurance.
I wonder if I acknowledge people's kindness. I think I do. I hope so. I think, by way of genetics or planetary alignment, that I have a gentle demeanor and a tender heart. But I am not bubbly - not even especially cheerful. Going out of my way to do kind things is something I have to work to do. I don't do it as much as I should, but I try. Each day I try. I like to try. And now that I am happy - really just full and happy - it becomes so much more natural for me. I find myself doing it more and more and then some more - even when it is met with no response.
My friends, who are full and happy as well, they acknowledge kindness. They give it each day too. Even before something goes wrong, before they have to do it, they do it. Even before last week when so many of them called to check on me. Offered to take Claire for the day, get up before the sun to deliver coffee and magazines, put off work and packing just to call to make sure. Drove from a courthouse in Cleveland just to sit with me. They do it more than me. I think it may come more naturally to them. I think it is because they are happy too. Their contentedness allows them to welcome kindness and they give it generously.
It's almost become a strange experiment for me now. Doing kind things for people (strangers particularly) who seem to need it - passively tell you they want it. And when you do it - do what they say they want - you realize that they had specifics in mind. They didn't just want kindness - they wanted it from a certain person at a certain moment in a certain place. Not from an unexpected stranger. And it's like they refuse to acknowledge any concern or care unless it is delivered to them precisely the way they want it or think they need it. I've seen it so often. I saw it today.
I wonder, so often, why that is. It's odd. The two extremes. The startling contrast. The grieving families in the hospitals see it and give it - and the elated as well. The people in between seem just oblivious to it - ignore it or even refuse it. Is it because monotony hinders empathy? Renders them unwilling? Because inconsistency in their lives encourages egotism? The inability to predict what tomorrow will be like forces them to shun the unfamiliar - the good unfamilar- today? Are they just lazy? Are they incapable of understanding how they actually affect others - even strangers?
When did it become okay to not reply to a thoughtful email? When did it become okay to not make the phone call you promised? When did the concrete become the most acceptable place for your eyes while you walk down a busy sidewalk? When did we leave our porches to sit in our living rooms with the blinds drawn midday? When did it become commonplace to roll your eyes after the stranger who stopped to chat with you about the book you have in your hand walks away? When did kindness become a nuisance - intrusive? When did we start closing ourselves off into these tiny little circles not to be penetrated by cheerful outsiders? When did we start taking kind words for granted? When did we stop offering them? When did it become so easy to dominate conversations? Why is it so hard to listen for once? To just say thank you? To want to ask how someone is? To genuinely care? When did "too busy" become an excuse?
posted by Floge at 3:28 PM
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