The woman behind the wheel was doing it all wrong. She was trying to parallel park her silver subcompact on a busy city street, and she couldn’t get it right. She pulled in, she pulled out. She backed up, she pulled forward. She paused.
Meanwhile, the driver in the lane behind her chose not to wait quietly while she got herself parked. They rolled the car up behind her, and roared its engine.
We don’t get a lot opportunities to show kindness in our daily days. But this was one of them, and it was wasted. Instead of giving the poor woman a few extra minutes to get parked, the driver chose to intimidate her.
We Get Cranky
Why do we do that? Why do we let ourselves get cranky and bully each other at moments like this? How is it that we overlook these small opportunities to be kind, to give an unearned gift, to alter the arc of the universe by a fraction?
Heaven knows, I’ve done my share of honking and griping over the years. But lately I’ve found that there is something about widowhood, something about losing a dear one, something about living alongside death, that makes a person — well, me, anyway — turn to kindness as a salve for the chronic, low-grade pain of grief.
In the past three months of living with head-spinning vertigo, I’ve taken maybe fifty Uber and Lyft rides around town. Each time, as I am delivered to my destination and I slip out of yet another stranger’s car, I find myself saying, “Thank you. Thank you so much for being there.”
It’s My Id Talking
And I mean it. I’m not trying to be nice. This is not my super ego talking. I am not being a virtuous goody-good. It is my totally irresponsible id talking, my reptilian brain. My gut.
For reasons not at all rational, I find myself wishing to give something besides a tip to these hardworking drivers, people with names like Qiana, William, Angel and Zurab, people who have shown up for me day after day for three months running.
Kindness. Screenwriters Bradley Cooper and Josh Singer chose to put that word into the mouth of the dying Felicia Montealegre toward the end of their prizewinning film “Maestro,” a biographical drama exploring the marriage of composer Leonard Bernstein and his wife Felicia.
We’re Older and Kinder Now
I like Montealegre’s choice of words as she lay dying. I like the screenwriters’ decision to note them and give them their moment. “You know, all you need, all anyone needs, is to be sensitive to others,” a fading Montealegre says to her grieving daughter. “Kindness,” she says. “Kindness. Kindness.”
Maybe that’s what happens to us as we get closer to death. We do what the wisdom traditions of the world have been exhorting us to do for millennia. When an opportunity to be kind presents itself, we notice.
More on love and marriage at “Is Cabin Fever Setting In?” Also, “Office Romance in the #MeToo Era. Is It Worth the Risk?”
It takes longer to be kind, so maybe you feel less pressure to get as much done in a day, so you feel able to take the time to be kind.
So true. It does take time to do thoughtful things. And without those old deadlines looming, it’s easier to spring the time.
Kindness. I agree. Kindness. It’s the best. eb
Yep.
Thanks Barb, That’s a good one!
Thanks, Rich. And how are you feeling these days, kinder? Or grumpier?
Kinder. Maybe you know the following already, but if you don’t, Ken Manley, who as you know was married to Diane Ryan, one of your pals from high school, died last year. He
was the love of her life and she was the love of his life. The time left for us very old teenagers is fleeting, so being kinder makes each day more special.
Rich. No, I didn’t know that Ken had died. Wonderful that he and Di found each other and had so much time together . . . “A very old teenager” — yes, that’s exactly how I think of myself: as a very old teenager. How in the world did we get from there to here? It’s good to hear from you, reassured that I’m not the only one who remembers those years.
We either mellow, becoming more kind or we turn into grumpy old goats yelling, “Get off my lawn.!”
So true. And in my case, I fear the worst.
you may fear the worst — that’s not a bad approach! — but those of us who know you do not, at least as far as you are concerned.
another dear friend of mine, another barbara, whose husband died in 2018, told me she particularly liked your description of turning to kindness as a salve for the chronic, low-grade pain of grief.
she wrote, “i don’t still have the low-grade pain of grief, but of loneliness sometimes. i couldn’t have put that into words a few years ago when i did, but it’s a great description.”
Thank you, Ginger. And thanks for passing along the other Barbara’s response. It really helps to know if/when my thoughts have landed with other people. Interesting that her grief has evolved into something more like loneliness.