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I’m stewing. But not a pot of tomatoes freshly harvested from my garden.
My tomato plants are Charlie Brown Christmas tree quality and they’re struggling to stand, let alone grow fruit. The grape tomatoes usually yield enough to make me sick of them, but this year, their growth is half-hearted. I’m sure there’s a joke to make about my lack of heirloom tomatoes. I’ll just say they’re alive in my imagination.
I’m stewing in my own juices because I’m thinking about kindness.
An ice cream emergency brought me to Hannaford. When I was leaving, stuck at the stop sign looking for a hole in summer traffic so I could make the turn toward home, someone bumped into me.
Not “bumped into me” as if a friend on the same mission saw me in the ice cream aisle so we laughed and chatted while cartons of mint chocolate chip melted in our hands. A big car bumped into my little car with enough force to rock me forward. I’ve been calling them “The Bumper” ever since.
I wonder if The Bumper was rolling along, playing a game with themselves to see if they could coast to the stop sign without hitting the brakes. Maybe they’d forgotten about summer traffic on Maine Street and thought I’d be out of their way before they closed the gap. Maybe the driver was texting. Maybe they were trying to gently coax me into making the turn.
The Bumper didn’t reverse to back off my car, not even an inch. They didn’t roll down their window to wave, or smile and shout an “oops,” or declare the bump a love tap.
I decided to stay on mission and ferry my ice cream safely home. I could inspect my car later because I wasn’t sure if conflict waited outside.
We teach toddlers how to share and play nice in groups. We spend years in school learning lessons designed to create a well-functioning society. Is an annual unit on kindness a glaring omission from civic syllabi? Is exercising kindness something we’re meant to practice, but, like those exercises assigned in physical therapy, never quite get done?
It seems like we’ve lost muscle memory for the basics.
Years ago, I was walking down a crowded New York City avenue and a young woman, about 20 feet ahead of me, sobbed. She walked with the crowd’s pace, though her shoulders shook and her anguish was palpable.
People don’t usually open their raw parts to the gaze of strangers. Distress is uncomfortable, and even on a crowded sidewalk, people were giving her wide berth, their eyes trained on the pavement, the pigeons and the blue sky — anything but her.
I debated. Ignoring is the easiest option. Or, if I take a few quick jogging steps to catch her, what comes next? What if my words don’t land as intended? What if me in her morning is the last thing she needs? What if, in the array of possible actions, I choose not just a bad one but the worst one?
Fear changes the course of lives, and it changes the course of kindness. Worry about how we’ll be received can stop us in our tracks, because nobody likes feeling incompetent and nobody wants to make something worse.
Maybe lapses in kindness happen because we’re not sure we’re good at it.
I caught up to her and said, “Here you go,” as I handed her a tissue. She clutched the tissue and held it there in space, staring at it and at me, her mouth open. I said, “Whatever it is, it will be OK,” though I knew nothing about her. And she stopped crying. For a moment she stood straighter, and when she said, “Thank you,” I knew she meant it.
I think of the Tissue Test when I debate my ability to be kind. If I ignore my fear, am I capable?
The answer is usually yes, and on the days when it’s not, I give myself grace. We’re flawed people and everyone is doing their best with the tools they have. So I’ll keep trying, because I believe kindness is a building block for compassion and accountability. It’s the cornerstone of living in community.
To The Bumper: I’m OK, and so is my car. I’m giving you the wave we should have shared in the moment.
My zucchini plants are in the same boat as the tomatoes, but despite hardship, are dedicated to delivering fruit. They must know how much I count on them to give me the base for making cake disguised as bread.
I’ll start grating this weekend and deliver warm muffins to neighbors. I want to keep my kindness muscles toned.
