I recently saw a middle-aged woman stocking produce in the grocery store display cases. She greeted me cheerily and asked how my day was going. I was in a hurry and not in the mood for idle chitchat. But I replied warmly that it was going well, and I asked her about her day. Her response was not negative or positive; it was sort of non-committal.
As I turned my shopping cart and headed out of the produce section, I heard a clatter. Whatever vegetable she was unboxing was packed with ice, and as she grabbed a box off the cart, it fell off. Crushed ice scattered onto the floor like an avalanche of miniature unruly hockey pucks.
I could tell the grocery worker was frazzled, and I turned back to her to see how I could help. She muttered under her breath, words that she probably hoped I would not hear. With remarkably adroit maneuvers, she corralled the wayward ice cubes before I could think of a way to help her. She was irritated, but she clearly had the situation under control.
The incident made me think about kindness.
I was a sweet girl growing up though I was temperamental. Moodiness was in my blood, and flashes of anger would rip through me, seemingly unprovoked. But my rage was more self-inflicted; I do not remember it being directed at others very often. I was competitive and sensitive, which made me volatile, but I was never a mean girl. In high school, I aspired to be included in a certain peer group, a process that was mostly inconsistent with inclusiveness, but I was not malicious towards others. I spent my college years focused on my social life, boyfriends, and grades. I think I was basically a good friend to people, but I never consciously thought about deliberate goodwill.
Then came marriage, law school, and young motherhood. The stress of caring for kids, advancing my career, attending to my aging mother, and managing a household overshadowed the opportunity for introspection. The crush of responsibility and diligence left little time for generosity or compassion. But gossip and malice were absent as well, as my busyness would have disintegrated their footings even if they had existed. The path of least resistance was always through agreeableness even when discourtesy lurked beneath the surface. I scarcely had time to address my own needs, much less the needs of others. It was a period when kindness was not on my radar screen.
Maturity has changed me. I have become kinder with age, and it manifests itself in several ways. For one, I have slowed down, allowing myself to really see people: the busy barista behind the counter; the man pushing a baby stroller out of a coffee shop while juggling a hot drink; the woman struggling to hold a rambunctious pup; the masonry worker hurriedly finishing an office building project before rain begins. Noticing people requires that you cease thinking about yourself, the most fundamental tenet of humanity.
I am increasingly nonjudgmental. I do not know why someone cuts in line in front of me on the highway – perhaps they are late to work and are worried about losing their job. The neighbor with an unkept lawn might be frail and not have the resources to pay someone to maintain it. The parent that never attends his or her child’s school events might be depressed or overwhelmed. The seemingly rude person in the checkout line talking on the telephone might be receiving a health update on an elderly parent.
I feel more financially generous as time goes on. To be fair, I am not on any charity’s top donor list. But nothing makes me happier than pressing $10 into the hands of someone cleaning an airport bathroom. I regularly pay for the Starbucks order behind me, knowing that it might not mean anything for the recipient, but it fills me with joy. I think it would be fun to stand outside Target and hand out $100 bills to busy families, although it occurs to me that people might be concerned about my mental health.
Finally, I have become more compassionate about other people’s pain than ever before. A lifetime of delight intermixed with its inevitable heartbreak is one that I know too well. Everyone stumbles through potholes of sorrow, and my heart goes out to them. Pain is humanity’s common denominator.
My only wish is to react more quickly the next time I see someone fumble a box filled with vegetables. The grocery clerk would probably appreciate that more than me simply admiring the asparagus.