"mostly Love, now"

Happy Friday to the world, oh how we all needed this day to be over, didn't we? Today was a tough one, I will be honest. I listened to too much NPR, which always puts me in a thoughtful and sober mood, and then work kicked my ass up and down life's hallway (and then made me type out that terrible metaphor). My day can really be summarized by the most important thing rap has taught me, which is "haters gonna hate." The only thing on my mind at 5:00 was a stiff drink.

But.

I checked Facebook first, which I don't do too terribly often. And a girl I went to portfolio school with, who is so talented and kind and funny and real, that I wish I was better friends with, had posted a link that really helped me find my way out of my Friday slump. It was a beautiful convocation speech delivered this past May by the peerless, unquestionably great George Saunders (look him up, no need to thank me).

Reader, every word from his mouth is gold. Shiny, heavy, luminous, reflective. Quoting my favorite parts of this speech would involve me transcribing the article verbatim, thus robbing you of a magical experience. So I highly encourage you to take a few minutes and lose yourself in his loving, good, kind words. You're only reading a blog right now anyway (and I promise you I'm no George Saunders). Then you can read the rest of this.

***

He speaks about what old people are good for (in addition to making them dance for your own amusement and/or borrowing money from them), which is being able to ask them what they regret the most. He says that it's never the terrible jobs they held, or the miscalculations made whilst skinny dipping, it's not even embarrassing themselves in front of a crowd and the girl they really liked. None of those things even factor in after a certain amount of time has passed. No, what really sticks with you are what he calls failures of kindness. They are "those moments when another human being was there, in front of me, suffering, and I responded...sensibly. Reservedly. Mildly." Who can't relate to that? As a remedy, he makes a glorious suggestion:

"It's a little facile, maybe, and certainly hard to implement, but I'd say, as a goal in life, you could do worse than: Try to be kinder."

Can I borrow someone's rooftop so I can shout this out with a megaphone? Or perhaps just a medium sized box and a hollowed out soup can? George then goes on to tell his own story, not of hurting someone directly, but of failing to defend them in a way that made any kind of difference. I had to re-read it several times though, because his words instantly called to mind a moment from second grade, a moment I have cried over more than once. It's a moment that shows my hard heart, it shows my meanness, it shows the least of me. It is shameful, and it's the lowest I have ever felt.

A quiet, shy girl named Saima was assigned to be my class partner for an afternoon. My classmates whipped their heads in my direction as the teacher read the list of partners out loud. I somehow knew that merely by being assigned to her, by having my name mentioned in such proximity to hers, that they had marked me. And I knew that if I was to maintain my reputation as the ball-busting, parent's-signature-forging sass-mouth that I undoubtedly was, I had to do something about that. So the first words out of my cruel, hateful eight year old mouth were, "Ewwwwwwww, Saima? Gross!" as I held my nose. Everyone heard but the teacher, and burst into laughter. I was so pleased with myself; I've always been way into making people laugh and I was pretty satisfied that everyone knew I was still in control of that situation. But then. Then, I looked over at Saima, my poor quiet partner, whose only offense was being different and having the utter misfortune of being assigned to me. And she had the smallest tear in the corner of her eye. And I knew that I had made a mistake.

In hindsight, I would bet my left hand that Saima would have rather been invisible than be my partner. Or anyone's partner. No one was kind to her. I don't know why. Maybe it was the matching sweatsuits she wore every day, or the fact that she wasn't an identifiable race like the rest of us. Maybe it was her glasses, or her ever-present fluffy pigtails, or maybe it was because we hadn't yet learned that words could really do some damage. I don't remember ever having been that unforgivably mean to her (or to anyone), but I do remember that she was openly ridiculed on a daily basis. No one thought twice about it. She was a second grade punching bag. And she didn't even smell bad.

I've thought about this so many times over the years, and I wish I could throw myself at her and tell her that I am sorrier than sorry. I would tell her if I had three wishes from a lamp-bound genie, my first wish would be to undo all the hurt I caused her with my one asshole comment. My second wish would be a way to understand why, and how, someone who cried after thoughtlessly crushing a tiny spider could treat another person that way. (In case you're wondering, my third wish would be to set the genie free. Aladdin really resonated with me, obviously.)

So when I read George's story, I knew he would shed some light on that darkness. He posits that we humans are confused about a lot of things, things that he says are probably somehow Darwinian: we all believe we're central to the universe, that we're separate from the universe, and that we're permanent, as in "death is real, o.k., sure - for you, but not for me." Rather than believing these in an intellectual manner, we believe them viscerally, which causes us to "prioritize our own needs over the needs of others, even though what we really want, in our hearts, is to be less selfish, more aware of what's actually happening in the present moment, more open, and more loving."

I read this and I felt like someone had suddenly tucked me into bed and kissed my forehead. I struggle with this every day. Every single day, since second grade, a part of me has constantly worried that I am not yet the person I want to be. I'm painfully aware that I could always be kinder, more considerate, more patient, more everything. It's hard on me.

There's a Patty Griffin song I love, "The Long Ride Home," which is a story about what happens after the death of a spouse. Reflecting upon their life together, the lyrics go:

Forty years go by with someone laying in your bed;
Forty years of things you say you wish you'd never said.
How hard would it have been to say some kinder words instead?
I wonder as I stare up at the sky a-turning red. 

I mean...seriously, guys? Just kill me til I'm dead, why don't you.

But there is hope for us yet. How can us mere mortals take the carefully spun words of Patty and George and do something meaningful with them? George says it the way only George can:

"Do all the other things, the ambitious things--travel, get rich, get famous, innovate, lead, fall in love, make and lose fortunes, swim naked in wild jungle rivers (after first having it tested for monkey poop)--but as you do, to the extent that you can, err in the direction of kindness. Do those things that incline you toward the big questions, and avoid the things that would reduce you and make you trivial. That luminous part of you that exists beyond your personality--your soul, if you will--is as bright and shining as any that has ever been. Bright as Shakespeare's, bright as Ghandi's, bright as Mother Theresa's. Clear away everything that keeps you separate from this secret luminous place. Believe it exists, comes to know it better, nurture it, share its fruits tirelessly. 

And someday, in 80 years, when you're 100, and I'm 134, and we're both so kind and loving we're nearly unbearable, drop me a line, let me know how your life has been. I hope you will say: It has been so wonderful."

I take comfort in George's words, because he is older and wiser than I. He assures me that "most people, as they age, becomes less selfish and more loving. I think this is true." I hope he is right. I really, really do. I am already kinder than I have ever been, which is easy to forget since I've got some lofty goals where kindness is concerned. But I keep trying, and I believe that I'll get there one day. To provide a final note of encouragement from George, and to wrap up this unforgivably and delightfully lengthy post:

"The great Syracuse poet, Hayden Carruth, said, in a poem, written near the end of his life, that he was "mostly Love, now."

I bet your Friday is already better than it was.