I read something on a blog recently that has been churning in my mind and spirit ever since. The title of the post was “Is my dad in heaven or hell?” The writer’s father had died years before in a car accident. She later found Jesus and became very concerned about where her dad was spending eternity. She went to her minister seeking comfort and asked him if her dad was in hell. Now what do you think that minister said?
“Yes, your dad is in hell.”
Wow.
I’m not going to get into a theological discussion, much as I’m tempted to. I’m not here to debate whether there is a heaven or a hell, or who gets to go where, or if there is any person on this earth who knows for a fact what the answer is to any of these questions. I’m not even here to discuss the pastoral counseling skills of a minister who would tell a grieving daughter that her dad is in hell and she will be forever separated from someone she dearly loved.
What I am here to do is to confess that I am having a hard time feeling compassion for this minister. In fact, I have been full of judgment and outrage, and despair over what, to me, is a perversion on so many levels of a faith I love.
Justified? Perhaps. But that is not really the point. If I believe that judgment and anger separate us from others and that any separation from others is a separation from God, and I do, then I want to find a way to mend that broken connection. So I’ve gone back to the focus of this month – Step 7–Practice compassion. I noticed, really noticed, perhaps for the first time, the first word. Practice. Okay, so perhaps compassion is a skill I can actually practice. And perhaps I can get better at it.
[Of course, I would like to get better at it fast. I’m reminded of my daughter who came home from her first lacrosse practice saying she hated the game because she didn’t know how to play. I asked her how long she had been playing. Two hours, she replied in a huff. I suggested that she give it two more hours before she decided. She came home the next day loving the game and went on to play varsity for two years. But I digress.]
It’s easy to feel compassion for the writer of the post. I don’t need to “practice” compassion for people who are vulnerable and hurt, for hungry children, for animals in distress. Compassion springs forth naturally when a story touches our hearts and breaks them open. The real practice occurs when compassion does not spontaneously arise, when aversion or anger or fear has closed our hearts and separated us from someone we have labeled as “other.”
If I believe that all people are beloved children of God, and I do, then how do I claim my kinship with this minister who withholds comfort from an aggrieved daughter, who presumes to stand in judgment over a beloved father? I could think, “There goes a beloved child of God, cleverly disguised as a #@*&.” Oops, then I guess that would be me presuming to stand in judgment over the minister. Hmm.
If I believe that everything we do or think or say is either an expression of love or a call for love, and I do, then this minister’s words, surely not an expression of love, are necessarily and just as surely a call for love. Perhaps not a conscious call, or even an unconscious one. Rather, a spirit’s call to be reconnected to all that is good and light and loving. When I characterize his words in this way, I feel my perspective shift, my tension ease, my heart soften. And in this moment, my spirit responds and sends a blessing his way.
Go with God, my brother.
Related post: Calling for Love
Friday, July 22, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Mary was a Real Mother
I know a woman whose son died in a carelessly started cabin fire when he was 12. That was twenty years ago. She told me her story after I commented on her brilliantly colored tattoo featuring a name, her son’s name, surrounded by turquoise rays of light emanating from an eagle, his favorite bird. One ray embraced a heart with a piece missing. She recently got the tattoo after all this time to honor his memory. And to let go, in a way.
As I listened to the story, I was struck by several things. First, you can talk to someone for a long time, years in this case, without having any idea about that person’s deep story. The story that matters. Second, tragedy is both personal and universal. I have grieved and still grieve over my son’s autism. Chronic grief. It is not the same as her grief which was heart-exploding catastrophic. I can’t imagine hers. She perhaps can’t imagine mine. But we share a mother’s broken heart.
I have often felt guided and protected by Kuan Yin, the Chinese goddess of mercy and compassion. But Kuan Yin is always serene, never born as a human being, never suffering as a mother. So when my heart has been torn apart with pain that seems unbearable, I turn to Mary, mother of Jesus. As a therapist once said to me, "She was a real mother." Mary is often portrayed with a radiant, sublimely loving face, a Kuan Yin face. But I don't think that is what her face really looked like much of the time.
What did her face look like when her wayward preteen disappeared, only to be found days later teaching in the temple, shrugging his shoulders at his parents’ worried consternation? Or when he refused to acknowledge her in front of the crowd, instead claiming the people around him as his family? (I remember telling my mom once that I wished the next door neighbor was my mom. She promptly told me to go see if Mrs. Beasley wanted any more children and locked me out of the house.)
What did Mary’s face look like when her son was being ridiculed and hated? Not a mother’s proudest moment. What did she answer when all the moms got together to brag about their kids and asked her, “And what does your son do?”
I’m sure none of that compared to what her face looked like as her son was arrested, tortured, and killed right in front of her. I don’t care how strong your faith is. That is not something any mother should have to endure. And yet so many have. Before yielding to God’s will, Jesus asked for the cup to pass from him. How many times did Mary pray this prayer? How many times have I?
I don’t pretend to understand the meaning of such suffering. Or of any suffering for that matter. But I know that some of my most fervent prayers have been to Mary. The mom prayers. The prayers a mother would understand.
Lately, I’ve been asking Mary to watch over my two too young daughters who are expecting babies of their own. I ask Mary to strengthen them with courage, to soften them with kindness, to inspire them with wisdom, to delight them with joy, to calm them with patience, to awaken them with compassion, to sustain them with faith. I ask the same for me.
No, I’m not Catholic, but I think that’s okay with her. After all, Mary was a real mother.
As I listened to the story, I was struck by several things. First, you can talk to someone for a long time, years in this case, without having any idea about that person’s deep story. The story that matters. Second, tragedy is both personal and universal. I have grieved and still grieve over my son’s autism. Chronic grief. It is not the same as her grief which was heart-exploding catastrophic. I can’t imagine hers. She perhaps can’t imagine mine. But we share a mother’s broken heart.
I have often felt guided and protected by Kuan Yin, the Chinese goddess of mercy and compassion. But Kuan Yin is always serene, never born as a human being, never suffering as a mother. So when my heart has been torn apart with pain that seems unbearable, I turn to Mary, mother of Jesus. As a therapist once said to me, "She was a real mother." Mary is often portrayed with a radiant, sublimely loving face, a Kuan Yin face. But I don't think that is what her face really looked like much of the time.
What did her face look like when her wayward preteen disappeared, only to be found days later teaching in the temple, shrugging his shoulders at his parents’ worried consternation? Or when he refused to acknowledge her in front of the crowd, instead claiming the people around him as his family? (I remember telling my mom once that I wished the next door neighbor was my mom. She promptly told me to go see if Mrs. Beasley wanted any more children and locked me out of the house.)
What did Mary’s face look like when her son was being ridiculed and hated? Not a mother’s proudest moment. What did she answer when all the moms got together to brag about their kids and asked her, “And what does your son do?”
I’m sure none of that compared to what her face looked like as her son was arrested, tortured, and killed right in front of her. I don’t care how strong your faith is. That is not something any mother should have to endure. And yet so many have. Before yielding to God’s will, Jesus asked for the cup to pass from him. How many times did Mary pray this prayer? How many times have I?
I don’t pretend to understand the meaning of such suffering. Or of any suffering for that matter. But I know that some of my most fervent prayers have been to Mary. The mom prayers. The prayers a mother would understand.
Lately, I’ve been asking Mary to watch over my two too young daughters who are expecting babies of their own. I ask Mary to strengthen them with courage, to soften them with kindness, to inspire them with wisdom, to delight them with joy, to calm them with patience, to awaken them with compassion, to sustain them with faith. I ask the same for me.
No, I’m not Catholic, but I think that’s okay with her. After all, Mary was a real mother.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Kuan Yin Calling
One Sunday morning years ago, I was driving through a business district in Portland. Everything was closed, the street deserted. I drove past a store window full of Asian ceramics and furniture.
Let me pause here and tell you something about myself. I don’t like to shop. I never browse. And if I’m going somewhere, I rarely get sidetracked.
Okay, back to the story. As I drove past the store, I felt a sudden urge to go in. I dismissed it and continued on, mentally noting the location for future reference. But the urge grew more insistent, almost like a scene in a Western where the cowboy lassoes the girl or a bandit and reels them in. I shook it off, reminding myself that the store was no doubt closed and I had other things to do. I told myself I would come back another time.
Not good enough. The further I drove from the store, the more compelling the urge became until finally, feeling like a crazy person, I circled back and pulled up in front. Although there were no cars in sight, there were two people standing by the door. I rolled down the window and asked if the store was open. They said they had no idea; they were just passing by.
Feeling more foolish by the second, I parked and went to the door, which, amazingly, was unlocked. I walked in, and, seeing no one, called hello. A petite, elegant Chinese woman came out from the back, and in answer to my question, assured me that the store was open. She added that there were also things upstairs and downstairs. She invited me to look around and went back to whatever she was doing.
I have always been attracted to Asian art and decor, even before I lived in Bangkok. If you came to my home, you would see rugs from China and Nepal, tapestries from Burma, furniture from Thailand, and art from all over Asia. Several closets are full of paintings I have no wall space for in my small house. I had no room for more. Nevertheless, I did look around, appreciating the things I saw, wondering why was I there. I wandered aimlessly about, going upstairs to see the furniture displays, and then downstairs where things were haphazardly stacked and stored.
Having seen most everything, I started back upstairs to leave, still puzzled about what drew me there in the first place. Then I saw her, a statue of Kuan Yin, covered with dust, in the midst of piled up chairs and pillows, smiling serenely, unperturbed by her jumbled surroundings.
Her name is spelled many ways and there are many explanations of who she is, but most simply, she is identified as the goddess of mercy and compassion. Her name is sometimes translated as the one who hears the cries of the world. She is often depicted holding a vase containing the nectar of compassion which she pours out over the world to ease suffering.
Kuan Yin and I go way back. My history with her is too long to tell right now, but I think of her as my guardian angel. So there I was, in the basement of this store, facing this exquisitely beautiful (but huge!) bronze statue of Kuan Yin. Reminding myself of all my things I already didn’t have room for, I took one last look and turned to walk away....
She now sits on a sturdy wooden table in the corner of my living room. She is the first thing anyone sees when entering the front door. (She’s hard to miss!) I like to think she is blessing all who come, bringing peace to our troubled hearts, pouring her nectar of compassion over our spirits to ease our suffering.
So generous.
Let me pause here and tell you something about myself. I don’t like to shop. I never browse. And if I’m going somewhere, I rarely get sidetracked.
Okay, back to the story. As I drove past the store, I felt a sudden urge to go in. I dismissed it and continued on, mentally noting the location for future reference. But the urge grew more insistent, almost like a scene in a Western where the cowboy lassoes the girl or a bandit and reels them in. I shook it off, reminding myself that the store was no doubt closed and I had other things to do. I told myself I would come back another time.
Not good enough. The further I drove from the store, the more compelling the urge became until finally, feeling like a crazy person, I circled back and pulled up in front. Although there were no cars in sight, there were two people standing by the door. I rolled down the window and asked if the store was open. They said they had no idea; they were just passing by.
Feeling more foolish by the second, I parked and went to the door, which, amazingly, was unlocked. I walked in, and, seeing no one, called hello. A petite, elegant Chinese woman came out from the back, and in answer to my question, assured me that the store was open. She added that there were also things upstairs and downstairs. She invited me to look around and went back to whatever she was doing.
I have always been attracted to Asian art and decor, even before I lived in Bangkok. If you came to my home, you would see rugs from China and Nepal, tapestries from Burma, furniture from Thailand, and art from all over Asia. Several closets are full of paintings I have no wall space for in my small house. I had no room for more. Nevertheless, I did look around, appreciating the things I saw, wondering why was I there. I wandered aimlessly about, going upstairs to see the furniture displays, and then downstairs where things were haphazardly stacked and stored.
Having seen most everything, I started back upstairs to leave, still puzzled about what drew me there in the first place. Then I saw her, a statue of Kuan Yin, covered with dust, in the midst of piled up chairs and pillows, smiling serenely, unperturbed by her jumbled surroundings.
Her name is spelled many ways and there are many explanations of who she is, but most simply, she is identified as the goddess of mercy and compassion. Her name is sometimes translated as the one who hears the cries of the world. She is often depicted holding a vase containing the nectar of compassion which she pours out over the world to ease suffering.
Kuan Yin and I go way back. My history with her is too long to tell right now, but I think of her as my guardian angel. So there I was, in the basement of this store, facing this exquisitely beautiful (but huge!) bronze statue of Kuan Yin. Reminding myself of all my things I already didn’t have room for, I took one last look and turned to walk away....
She now sits on a sturdy wooden table in the corner of my living room. She is the first thing anyone sees when entering the front door. (She’s hard to miss!) I like to think she is blessing all who come, bringing peace to our troubled hearts, pouring her nectar of compassion over our spirits to ease our suffering.
So generous.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Finding Love
Okay, we’re all suckers for sweet animal stories with cute pictures. Here is your awww moment for the day. As you will see, Noah is a one-legged pigeon with a heart the size of the ocean. He lives on the Wild Rose Rescue Ranch and is clearly the ambassador of compassion.
Noah the pigeon and the bunnies
Browsing elsewhere on the website I found this wisdom – “Love is found where love is given.” I think the people who run this ranch must find love every day. Certainly Noah the pigeon does!
He will cover you with his feathers and under his wings you will find refuge. –Psalm 91:4
revised from archives
Noah the pigeon and the bunnies
Browsing elsewhere on the website I found this wisdom – “Love is found where love is given.” I think the people who run this ranch must find love every day. Certainly Noah the pigeon does!
He will cover you with his feathers and under his wings you will find refuge. –Psalm 91:4
revised from archives
Monday, July 11, 2011
Guided Tour
This last weekend, I had company from out of town. My visitor was someone who lived across the street from me in Memphis when we were kids. He and his sister were part of a group of kids with whom I played and rode bikes. We had not seen each other since our early teens and had not stayed in touch until last year when our paths crossed in cyberspace.
He now lives in New Orleans, and until this weekend, had never been in the Northwest, which is about as far away from New Orleans in every sense as one can get in the continental US. So for three days, I was his guide, giving him his first impression of the place I have called home for twenty years. I wanted him to see the beautiful scenery of course, but I also wanted him to understand something of the culture here, the inner workings of this city and this region.
Although I never take my life here for granted, being a tour guide for a newcomer gave me the opportunity to look at my home with fresh eyes, to voice what I appreciate about living here, to share my enthusiasm about my life here. As the days went by, I found myself more consciously aware of what was best about the place. Oh, there are faults to be sure, and I didn’t deny them, but I wanted to put my city’s best foot forward, so to speak. And as I did so, I was filled with tenderness and love and gratitude for this community which welcomed me with open arms all those years ago.
It occurred to me that we might awaken this same tenderness and compassion for ourselves by a similar process. If you were going to take someone on a guided tour of your life, what would it look like? If you wanted someone to understand and appreciate who you are, what would you say?
Many guide books include sections on history, culture, places to see, and things to do. A guide book for our lives could include these same sections. What are the significant events in your history? What are your qualities and values that would help someone understand who you are today? Are there any customs or taboos that a visitor should know about? And what are the best things about you, the things you would want someone to be sure to see? Don’t forget that guide books include things to do that are fun! What would someone enjoy most about you?
If you have time and are so inclined, I invite you to be a tour guide for your own life. You could write a guide book or just jot down some notes. Or you could simply think about it. My hope is that a fresh look at our lives in this way will awaken compassion for ourselves. There is a saying that charity begins at home. Compassion does, too. Experiencing compassion and appreciation for ourselves will spill over to others as well.
Enjoy your tour!
Related post: First Date
He now lives in New Orleans, and until this weekend, had never been in the Northwest, which is about as far away from New Orleans in every sense as one can get in the continental US. So for three days, I was his guide, giving him his first impression of the place I have called home for twenty years. I wanted him to see the beautiful scenery of course, but I also wanted him to understand something of the culture here, the inner workings of this city and this region.
Although I never take my life here for granted, being a tour guide for a newcomer gave me the opportunity to look at my home with fresh eyes, to voice what I appreciate about living here, to share my enthusiasm about my life here. As the days went by, I found myself more consciously aware of what was best about the place. Oh, there are faults to be sure, and I didn’t deny them, but I wanted to put my city’s best foot forward, so to speak. And as I did so, I was filled with tenderness and love and gratitude for this community which welcomed me with open arms all those years ago.
It occurred to me that we might awaken this same tenderness and compassion for ourselves by a similar process. If you were going to take someone on a guided tour of your life, what would it look like? If you wanted someone to understand and appreciate who you are, what would you say?
Many guide books include sections on history, culture, places to see, and things to do. A guide book for our lives could include these same sections. What are the significant events in your history? What are your qualities and values that would help someone understand who you are today? Are there any customs or taboos that a visitor should know about? And what are the best things about you, the things you would want someone to be sure to see? Don’t forget that guide books include things to do that are fun! What would someone enjoy most about you?
If you have time and are so inclined, I invite you to be a tour guide for your own life. You could write a guide book or just jot down some notes. Or you could simply think about it. My hope is that a fresh look at our lives in this way will awaken compassion for ourselves. There is a saying that charity begins at home. Compassion does, too. Experiencing compassion and appreciation for ourselves will spill over to others as well.
Enjoy your tour!
Related post: First Date
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Calling for Love
Many studies show that our happiness is directly related to the connection we have with others. And we are only connected to others when our hearts are open. Great concept, but hard to put into practice. How many times a day do I separate myself from someone by closing my heart with anger, judgment, criticism, fear, resentment, seeing someone else as “other”? Let’s face it, there are plenty of folks out there I really don’t want to be connected to.
I have a friend in Los Angeles who does stand up comedy. She says she supports the military policy of banning women from combat. “Why,” she asks, “would I want to go halfway around the world to wear a ton of gear in the middle of the burning desert and shoot at people who have done absolutely nothing to me, when I can sit in the air-conditioned comfort of my own living room and take out a few people who really matter?!”
Been there. So if maintaining a connection to other people is the price of admission to my happy place, I sometimes need, as Patti LaBelle sings, a new attitude.
A Course in Miracles teaches that love has no opposite. Love is all there is. (Wasn’t that the title of a Beatles song? No, that was "Love is all you need." Also true.) When something happens that blocks our awareness of love’s presence, we experience that separation as fear. When we feel afraid, we reflect our separation from others through negative thoughts, words, and behavior. In reality, all we are doing is seeking reconnection. We are calling for love. Everything we do or say or think is either an expression of love (when we are connected) or a call for love (when we are separated). Everything is one or the other. Everything. It’s that simple.
When I can remember this, I find that it is much easier to keep my heart open. For example, if someone is unkind to me, instead of reacting defensively, I can take a deep breath and think, “Man, you are seriously calling for love.” Someone cuts me off in traffic? “Hey, I see you are needing some love over there.” Big hurts, little affronts, it’s all the same. If it isn’t an expression of love, it’s a call for love.
This reframing shifts my attention from my own hurt feelings or irritation. My ego is not engaged. I can stay connected at that sacred level. It’s easier then to respond with an expression of love. This doesn’t necessarily mean that I voice affection. It might be as simple as a smile, or sending a silent blessing.
If I am unable to make this shift, if I react with separating thoughts or words or deeds of my own in retaliation, then later I can see that I was calling for love myself. And yes, sometimes I am the perpetrator who initiates the call for love by being unkind or insensitive to someone else. When I see my own behavior in this light, it is easier for me to accept responsibility and apologize.
Characterizing negative thoughts, words, or behavior as a call for love helps me avoid judging and reacting. If I can reinterpret a perceived attack, from myself or someone else, as a call for love, then my heart stays soft and open. Compassion flows naturally to others and to ourselves from an open heart. We stay connected, happier, and our lives become expressions of love.
I have a friend in Los Angeles who does stand up comedy. She says she supports the military policy of banning women from combat. “Why,” she asks, “would I want to go halfway around the world to wear a ton of gear in the middle of the burning desert and shoot at people who have done absolutely nothing to me, when I can sit in the air-conditioned comfort of my own living room and take out a few people who really matter?!”
Been there. So if maintaining a connection to other people is the price of admission to my happy place, I sometimes need, as Patti LaBelle sings, a new attitude.
A Course in Miracles teaches that love has no opposite. Love is all there is. (Wasn’t that the title of a Beatles song? No, that was "Love is all you need." Also true.) When something happens that blocks our awareness of love’s presence, we experience that separation as fear. When we feel afraid, we reflect our separation from others through negative thoughts, words, and behavior. In reality, all we are doing is seeking reconnection. We are calling for love. Everything we do or say or think is either an expression of love (when we are connected) or a call for love (when we are separated). Everything is one or the other. Everything. It’s that simple.
When I can remember this, I find that it is much easier to keep my heart open. For example, if someone is unkind to me, instead of reacting defensively, I can take a deep breath and think, “Man, you are seriously calling for love.” Someone cuts me off in traffic? “Hey, I see you are needing some love over there.” Big hurts, little affronts, it’s all the same. If it isn’t an expression of love, it’s a call for love.
This reframing shifts my attention from my own hurt feelings or irritation. My ego is not engaged. I can stay connected at that sacred level. It’s easier then to respond with an expression of love. This doesn’t necessarily mean that I voice affection. It might be as simple as a smile, or sending a silent blessing.
If I am unable to make this shift, if I react with separating thoughts or words or deeds of my own in retaliation, then later I can see that I was calling for love myself. And yes, sometimes I am the perpetrator who initiates the call for love by being unkind or insensitive to someone else. When I see my own behavior in this light, it is easier for me to accept responsibility and apologize.
Characterizing negative thoughts, words, or behavior as a call for love helps me avoid judging and reacting. If I can reinterpret a perceived attack, from myself or someone else, as a call for love, then my heart stays soft and open. Compassion flows naturally to others and to ourselves from an open heart. We stay connected, happier, and our lives become expressions of love.
Monday, July 4, 2011
So Generous
If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want yourself to be happy, practice compassion. –The Dalai Lama
This link between happiness and compassion may not be immediately apparent. One dictionary definition of compassion is “a feeling of deep sympathy and sorrow for another who is stricken by misfortune, accompanied by a strong desire to alleviate the suffering.” Frankly, this doesn’t sound very happy to me.
And yet, compassion opens our hearts and connects us to others. It lifts us out of ourselves, out of our isolation and separateness, to touch with tenderness the heart of another. And there is joy in that touch.
I am not a writer of dictionary definitions, but if I were, I might expand the definition of compassion to recognize that blurred line we sometimes experience between joy and sorrow. Tears flow as readily for one as for the other.
I read something recently that, to me, describes the raw heart of compassion. (I’ve been trying to find it again for the last two days without success, so if you recognize it, please tell me where it came from! I don’t remember the exact words, so I’ll try to capture the meaning as best I can remember.) The author was describing the bounteous generosity of nature. The sun shines down on all without discriminating between the thief and the saint. So generous. The rain nourishes weeds as well as trees. So generous. The flowers display their beauty without regard for who is passing by. So generous.
The passage was infinitely more eloquent than my memory allows, but the concept was much on my mind up at the cabin this last weekend. As I sat by the creek, I watched small insects flit above the water, visible in the sunlight, disappearing in the shadows. The breeze sang in the trees whether I was there to hear or not. A mother duck guided her ducklings expertly through the rushing waters around rocks and under branches. It was all so exquisite. So generous.
I know, that doesn’t sound anything like the definition of compassion I quoted above, but somehow it captures my experience of compassion, as either the giver or receiver. It is the experience of a heart broken open, vulnerable, touching and touchable. Perhaps that is the essence of compassion...touch.
I hope you will share your thoughts and experiences of compassion this month as we focus on Step 7–Practice compassion.
related post: The Joy of Sadness, the Sadness of Joy
This link between happiness and compassion may not be immediately apparent. One dictionary definition of compassion is “a feeling of deep sympathy and sorrow for another who is stricken by misfortune, accompanied by a strong desire to alleviate the suffering.” Frankly, this doesn’t sound very happy to me.
And yet, compassion opens our hearts and connects us to others. It lifts us out of ourselves, out of our isolation and separateness, to touch with tenderness the heart of another. And there is joy in that touch.
I am not a writer of dictionary definitions, but if I were, I might expand the definition of compassion to recognize that blurred line we sometimes experience between joy and sorrow. Tears flow as readily for one as for the other.
I read something recently that, to me, describes the raw heart of compassion. (I’ve been trying to find it again for the last two days without success, so if you recognize it, please tell me where it came from! I don’t remember the exact words, so I’ll try to capture the meaning as best I can remember.) The author was describing the bounteous generosity of nature. The sun shines down on all without discriminating between the thief and the saint. So generous. The rain nourishes weeds as well as trees. So generous. The flowers display their beauty without regard for who is passing by. So generous.
The passage was infinitely more eloquent than my memory allows, but the concept was much on my mind up at the cabin this last weekend. As I sat by the creek, I watched small insects flit above the water, visible in the sunlight, disappearing in the shadows. The breeze sang in the trees whether I was there to hear or not. A mother duck guided her ducklings expertly through the rushing waters around rocks and under branches. It was all so exquisite. So generous.
I know, that doesn’t sound anything like the definition of compassion I quoted above, but somehow it captures my experience of compassion, as either the giver or receiver. It is the experience of a heart broken open, vulnerable, touching and touchable. Perhaps that is the essence of compassion...touch.
I hope you will share your thoughts and experiences of compassion this month as we focus on Step 7–Practice compassion.
related post: The Joy of Sadness, the Sadness of Joy
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