Kindness

Kindness Part 1

First, before this essay gets going, I want to say this: I'm happy today. I'm grateful for my life. I have a group of friends, and I'm confident in their affection for me. More confident anyhow—I still have to circumvent some old ideas first. I'm living a good life with laughter, comradeship, love for my family, and a fundamentally open heart. O.K… onward.

Looking back, I think my first influences regarding kindness were Captain Kangaroo, Mr. Rogers, Sesame Street, my parents to the best of their ability, and to some extent, my sisters, although that would have its ups and downs as we grew up together.

Kindness was a mixed bag for me. One time, when I was about thirteen, I saw a piece of jewelry in a thrift store, and I was confident that my oldest sister would like it, so I bought it for her. When I gave it to her, the girl I had a crush on was also present. On a sunny day in front of our Eichler home on Louis Road, I gave the jewelry to my sister. She became incensed and called me something. I'm not sure what it was, but I felt like an idiot when she said it. She admonished me for not giving it to my crush. So that's what I did, and it was horribly awkward for me and the girl I liked. At that moment, she was trying to help me understand what this other girl's feelings might be. A clumsy attempt to help me inhabit empathy. That was the kindest she could be on that sunny day.

I must have been an interesting father. I loved to laugh and to compliment. I was also wandering around with an undiagnosed case of bipolar disorder. In Vegas, I would have made a fortune betting that this came with some interesting and awkward moments. Today, I'm not as loud and not as depressed. Somewhat healthier is how I would put it.

I like to be kind. It seems like such a simple thing to do. When my cat is lying on the bed, and I come in from the office, she rolls onto her back and goes into full stretch mode. Then, I do as instructed and rub her belly three times. Only three times because… boundaries—also, I don't want a cat biting and clawing my hand.

After I put my groceries in the car, I bring the cart back inside. Sure, it's the right thing to do, but it is a smidgen kinder than parking it in the coral and a full degree kinder than leaving it on Key Banks lawn.

It is easy for me to see the better side of people, and if it feels right, I let them know that I saw it.

In April of 2018, I returned to Orcas after having been in Bali for eight years. While I have thousands of good memories from my time there, the last two years hadn’t gone that well. I had been in a slow downward spiral until it became untenable, and the help I needed wasn't available on that island. I really didn't know what kind of help I needed, but my homing instinct brought me back to this island, Orcas, home sweet home.

At the time, I was walking on tender feet and feeling pretty jumpy. In that state of mind, I had an experience that was unexpected, shocking, gratifying, and healing. I had this experience at least twenty times in the first week I was back. I still get a little choked up when I revisit it.

One of you would come to say hello, and of course, you would ask, "How long are you here for?" as in, one week?—two weeks? I would say, "Well, actually, I'm back to stay." I can only tell you what I remember. I remember your faces lighting up. I remember getting hugs and vigorous handshakes. I remember the wide smiles. I was welcomed home.

My interior view was dark then, and your kindness let in some light. I didn't have an epiphany, and any insight I may have had came a few years later. What I can tell you is that it was good. I will always be grateful for your kindness. Here's what I think is amazing, and it's possible that it is a small-town thing, but I think it might be especially true on Orcas: you were kind because it was in your nature. What absoulute good fortune to live in a place where it is common for people to be kind.

Kindness Part 2

I make mistakes. I've been a carpenter since I was nineteen, and mistakes are an inescapable part of that trade. Evidently, that also goes along with being human. The great thing about carpentry is that when I cut a board too short, I use it somewhere else and get a new one to cut to the right length. Easy peasy.

When it comes to human interaction it becomes complicated. Friendships come and go, romantic relationships wax and wane, and even the interior experience rides its occasional rollercoaster.

In September of 2018, I made another mistake in a long line of mistakes, which ended my marriage. I didn't take it well. Actually, I didn't take it well at all. I became untethered, and my mind ran in circles without direction or purpose. I was in a dark room without a door. Sound dramatic? It was.

I didn't have the thought, "You know how you could find your way out of this? You should go back to your friends and compatriates." I had zero ability to consciously think about what might be good for me.

So, it was on pure instinct that I found myself back in a room that I had drifted away from over the years. This was a room where I had grown, where I had made friends, where I had been a contributor, and where I had felt at home after a lifetime of social awkwardness.

Here is what would happen for the next three months. I would come into that room. I would sit at the corner of a long table. I would stare at the table, and I wouldn't say a word. Afterward, I might say a few soft sentences to some old friends, and then I would hurry/shuffle to my truck and go home. It was painful.

The question I had for years was, "If it was so painful, why did you go back every night for three months?" I posed that question out loud once, and the answer was, "Because you were in the presence of hope." Seven and a half years later I still go there.

I don't think that anyone was going out of their way to be kind to me, but the act of there being a chair for me to sit in—the act of accepting me into that room without question or a need for explanation—the few gentle words of welcome that I could stand, added up to what I would experience as extraordinary kindness.

One of my new friends from that room told me this story. He had known me for about six months. We were on the phone, and he was telling me about his morning. It was spring, and the sun was making its first strong showing since last fall. He was sitting on the ground in front of his garage and a hummingbird made a stop to hover an inch away from his nose. He said he opened his eyes and freaked out.

Upon hearing this, I laughed. His report was that, in the six months that he had known me, it was the first time he had heard me laugh. I was thawing.

It would be another year before I broke out of my despair. As I look back, all through this difficult time, I was surrounded by kindness.

You did that. You were kind to me—over and over. You brought me back to being alive in the world. It can be a simple thing. A simple thing that can change a world.