kindness

We’re crying for softness.

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(A tapestry by Sheila Hicks)

Threads. Blankies. Comforters.

If we let it, this hard world of sharp angles and square blocks, straight logic and serrated edges can seep into us and concrete us from the inside. That must not be allowed to happen as it may be impossible to undo.

We, tender-fleshed people, need cushioning. We, supple spongy beings, seek preservation through rounded, silky, fluffy coverings. Our need to be nestled with tenderness inside the pliable delicate tissue of another’s compassion is primal. It must be recognized as the ultimate necessity for living.

To keep softness alive in a world so harsh is the job at hand in this moment.

In any moment, ever.

Secretly we’re all yearning for something that is warm, welcoming, and soft. Born into the young arms of our mother, held against her soft chest, we’re rocked gently to sleep, patted rhythmically on the back and hummed to. Lullabies ringing and sleep half-arriving into this space of trust and love. Remember how easy it was to rest into it, knowing all was well and would be well? Let it be thus again.

“Life is better when you surround yourself with people for whom kindness isn’t a strategy, it’s a way of life.”

Bad mother.

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She had been admitted to a separate room in the Birth Center because of her special circumstances. The thing was written all over her notes.

“Congratulations Vicky! You have a beautiful baby boy. Do you have other kids?” the doctor’s voice boomed from behind the drapes covering Vicky’s legs. She was grieving her first born, Oliver. Only six weeks prior, his brain tumour had ended his sweet little life. He was three. The doctor should’ve known but he didn’t. Did he not read her notes? Did no one tell him?

She kept quiet and so did her midwife, who knew. She let go of Vicky’s hand and walked south to whisper something in the doctor’s ear. His question remained suspended on top of her head like a heavy cold fog.

Vicky lay there, admonishing herself for the time Oliver had asked her for a cuddle. She was so tired, she was unable to stand up. The last few weeks of her second pregnancy and the last few weeks of Oliver’s life had mercilessly clashed and she was trapped in the middle. She wished for more strength. She wished Oliver had been home to receive his little brother. His sweet round face with blue google eyes danced in front of her eyes. The new baby had been cleaned and weighed. He lay in the cot while she danced with Oliver in her dreams.

Back in her room, the midwife fished out a smiley portrait of Oliver and set it on Vicky’s bedside table so she could see his face. Susan, her friend from the Lamaze classes came with a bunch of red roses. In those days that was allowed. “You have the perfect replacement.” she leaned down to kiss Vicky on the cheek, holding her own belly with her right hand.

Forty-five years later, Vicky still says “Bad mother” to herself for not having given Oliver more cuddles, especially the one he had asked for. She has not forgotten his smile or his suffering. She still believes her doctor was callous. She wishes Susan had not said what she said.

The kindness of that nameless midwife still brings a smile to her face and a tear to her eye.

*** *** ***

(On Unresolved parental grief , research says that parents who have not worked through their grief are at increased risk of long-term mental and physical illnesses. Core helps parents grieve and grow together.)

Candy?

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‘How can I trust you?’ says Neo.

“It is a pickle. No doubt about it. (Pause) Candy?”

‘You already know if I’m going to take it?’

“Wouldn’t be an oracle if I didn’t.”

‘But if you already know, how can I make a choice?’

“Because you didn’t come here to make the choice. You’ve already made it. You’re here to try to understand why you made it.”

The longer I live, the more I remove all that is unnecessary, the more I see why I might have, knowingly or unknowingly made the choice to be here in the first place.

To be enthralled by the mysteries of life and death and the awesome ways in which our numerous programs, some within multiple others, work or don’t. To be in wonderment.

To see each day as the unveiling of yet another secret – the toothless smile of a four-week-old infant in response to me looking at him and speaking nonsense words with love in my eyes.

To experience each moment on this exceptionally spectacular planet, as a miracle not owed to me.

To appreciate the unfathomable source of the mathematical intelligence of golden ratios held within the ordinariness of a pine-cone, a pineapple and the head of a sunflower.

To listen with fascination using not just my ears but all my being.

To allow spontaneous, effortless, un-self-conscious expressions to flow.

To be surprised and amazed by the everydayness of extra-ordinary pieces of writing and music.

To be touched by simple kindnesses. To celebrate love and joy.

To be enthralled by rivers, skies, clouds and mountains.

To notice each of these gifts and marvel at them.

I wish you and me, a Wondrous New Year!

Please share your moments of wonder in the comments as often as you like. I have started noting them down in my calendar:

1st Jan 2025: My hands finished a new Mandala on the wall of a restaurant in Patnem (Goa) – completely unplanned.

2nd Jan 2025: My train from Goa to Sakleshpur arrived in time! I had to change my seat four times, but I had a fantastic journey. The train was delayed only by half an hour. A young man seated next to me on the train asked me if I was a writer. “Do I look like one?” I asked. He said, yes. “Is that a complement?” I asked. He said, yes. Made my day.

3rd Jan 2025: Wonder where the inspiration for this blog-post came from.

A shadow and a friend.

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One little girl arrived with bare feet on the site. May be six years old. Tiny. The odd one, out of place. Unflinchingly prancing about on the dry prickly ground, then sitting quietly, watching her dad clear the tall brown grass with his strimmer. Not a word from her. No toys. No books. No company. No food. Simply watching men working with their tractors and JCBs and one woman watching the men do their thing. Six egrets curiously dancing about the Hitachi and whatever else.

I wondered what her bright little eyes picked up on. I wondered what went on in her little head. What did she think about? School? Mum and Dad? Brothers? Friends? TV last night? Did her family have a TV? Who decided what to watch? What did she have for dinner last night? Where were her slippers? Her father said she forget to wear them as they left home in a hurry. Was that the real reason?

I wanted to talk to her and listen to her but wasn’t sure if that would be okay. As I walked past her I smiled lightly and waved my right hand at her. She gauged me as she turned her head to look in my direction. I continued waving my hand as she considered her response. After eight waves from me, she finally waved back once and I think I detected a hint of a smile.

For today, that was enough.

An excerpt from the poem ‘Kindness’ by Naomi Shihab Nye:

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

PS: The building of a home for CORe has begun. http://www.core-community.com

(Ref: https://poets.org/poem/kindness)

Little things

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Croydon, Berlin, Lebanon, Antrim and Troy, all within a few miles of each other. Yes. This is the New Hampshire (NH) part of New England. But the capital city of NH is not New London. It is Concord.

1.35 million inhabitants of NH live in 9,300 square miles.

9 million inhabitants of London live in 600 square miles.

It’s a different world. Time and space assume a different dimension here. They are both expansive. I have a sense of abundance and connection.

I have met nothing but kindness since I’ve been here. On the very first day, I was offered two lifts, one from Manchester airport (yes, they have a Manchester too) to Concord and then from my AirBnB house to the grocery shop and back. I have no car as I can’t trust myself to drive on the right (wrong) side of the road. I can literally hear the wires clanging and short-circuiting in my head as I watch the cars move on the roads.

Apples, maple syrup, random conversations with the locals on the street, excellent assistance in shops, witty Halloween decorations and the fall colours. Within the last week, a festival of colours has unravelled in all their glory. I don’t think any camera can do full justice to the drama of Orange, Yellow, Red, Terracotta and Green.

I have really noticed the small things. I spent yesterday morning cutting out small squares of felt in preparation for a community meeting at a small village school where they have recently lost a student to suicide. These pieces are for everyone who attends. They serve as tiny ‘blankies’, something for people to hold on to and fiddle with, to help them cope with the difficult conversations taking place in the room. I would have never thought of that.

When we got there, each table was decorated with twines, hydrangeas, little pumpkins and squashes to make the atmosphere a little bit festive. Warm and welcoming. Not too sad and drab. These little things made such a huge difference for everyone present.

On World Mental Health Day and every other day, let’s remember the little things. They are the big things.