I have so many rough sketches I never finished–many I never intended to. My my life–that I always intended to do more with. I was thinking about this as I quickly sketched a rough self-portrait. My skills an an artist aren’t what they once were. But then, I reflected, much about me isn’t what it used to be.
The sketch, lacking in detail, nevertheless shows more than I would have thought. The not-quite-at-ease posture, the slightly lifted arms (as if to carefully hold the mug and keep it from spilling) are very accurate. I move differently than I once did, with more care and less ease. The hands are awkward, and grip too tightly, as mine do, to maintain their grip. I couldn’t quite get the foot right:my dancer’s feet that just won’t do what they’re supposed to anymore. They have the muscle memory, they try, but they are going the way many of my other joints have…
Yet here I am. Seated, contemplative, even if just for a moment. Looking into the distance as do most of the female figures I [used to] draw and paint.
But rough around the edges, just like my life: So many things I haven’t finished, and priorities have had to change. So much isn’t what I would have envisioned. So much is still vague.
Yet here I am.
She limped into the coffeeshop, the heavy fracture boot throwing her walk askew.
“What happened to you?” the young man behind the counter asked, with a tone of genuine concern.
She was taken aback. Why would he care? He was young, good-looking, and could easily afford to be self-absorbed if he chose. She was–a wreck. Young, too, but she didn’t feel it any more. Her scars ran deep.
“Well,” he seemed oddly at a loss for words, “I’m–glad you’re alive!”
She was startled, but there was a place deep in the pit of her stomach that flip-flopped even as she felt an embarrassed gratitude. He wasn’t flirting, and she wasn’t trying to make something out of it. It was compassion, and she was grateful for it.
How many times have I said “hello” to someone, especially someone older than myself, and found them brighten in response. As I near 40, it occurs to me with some chagrin that I am now on the receiving end of those young day-brighteners.
And have you ever met with a friend for coffee, and while talking learned of her deep struggles, her life-changing decisions?
I often think that sometimes the best thing we can do is be kind (though let’s exclude one-liner quotes we might find on teabags). For all our web connectedness, we are missing out on personal human interaction. Even offline, we are all so busy we don’t have time to put away our phones and sit down with people–just to talk. Just to say Hi. Just to have a cup of coffee.
Reflecting on the value of kindness. I keep meeting people who just need to hear a kind word, have someone take an interest and care. I think about all the times someone did that for me, especially when I was struggling with depression. Sometimes it means the world.
The girl in the coffeeshop never forgot the barista’s kind words, even after her leg was long healed. There are enough Unkindness-es in life. Words (or lack therof) and actions can keep the world harsh and cold, or shine a light in a dark time. All it takes it one minute of genuine kindness.
Hmm, I should pitch that to Yogi Teas….