to be kind

“Everybody today seems to be in such a terrible rush,
anxious for greater developments and greater riches and so on,
so that children have very little time for their parents.
Parents have very little time for each other, and in the home begins the
disruption of peace of the world.”
Mother Teresa

“It is easy to love the people far away. It is not always easy to love those close to us.
It is easier to give a cup of rice to relieve hunger than to relieve the loneliness and pain
of someone unloved in our own home.
Bring love into your home for this is where our love for each other must start.”
Mother Teresa

(the wee one letting her feelings be known during a shopping outing / Abby Cook / 2018)

I would wager that most of us would agree that it’s pretty easy to be kind to a baby
or for that matter, a small child.

That is unless you’re some kind of depraved individual but those are sad thoughts for another day.

Babies just seem to have a way of drawing us in…into their little worlds.
They do so with their large inquisitive eyes, their sweet and heartwarming smiles
and their openly unconditional acceptance.

You have a bad hair day — a baby doesn’t care.
You have visible scars — a baby doesn’t care.
You have internal scars — a baby doesn’t care.
You have issues, a baby simply doesn’t care.

They smile, they coo, they draw us in…

And suddenly we have no cares.

We don’t care about much of anything but for this exchange of warmth and kindness.
We are lost in the kindness.
It just feels good.
No cares, no worries…just basking in an exchange of endorphin pumping feel good
between two individuals.

That is of course until said baby or small child decides they are displeased with life’s
current circumstance.
All of which could be due to hunger, teething, a soiled diaper, colic,
too hot, too cold, too tired…you name it.

And it is at these very moments that our own capacity for kindness seems to quickly
dissipate as our nerves take over and kindness takes a back burner.

So we ask ourselves…does kindness come naturally?

I’m no psychologist or anthropologist or neurologist.
I don’t study people’s brains or actions or reactions.

Rather I am just a wife married for 35 years, a mom to a 30-year-old, and now a grandmother
to a 5-month-old. Plus I was a high school teacher for 31 years…
so I kind of know people and I often know myself…be that for good or bad.

Kindness seems to be more of a reciprocating response.

Now granted there are certain folks out there who just seem to be more innately
kind than others.
Think Melanie versus Scarlett.

And yet I’ve observed some really gruff individuals lose some of that bristled gruffness rather
quickly when met with pure kindness.

In our day’s quote, Mother Teresa observes that we often tend to be more gracious,
more kind to strangers much more readily than we do to those actually closest to us.

An odd human condition.

She notes that perhaps it is easier to be kind and gracious to those we don’t know rather
then those who actually deserve our kindness the most….those who are closest to us
in our lives. Yet it is those individuals who we often look over, take for granted or
just assume they care despite our brusqueness, attitudes, selfishness, curtness,
rudeness, and self-absorption.

I know this to be true.
I recall now in hindsight my days as an adolescent and I feel the constant need to offer up
my apologies to Mother.

I also know that during 35 years of marriage, I’ve had a lot to learn in the way of kindness.

Two imperfect people are joined in the union of marriage…to have and to hold…to
love, honor and respect, to live with until death does them part…
all the while, the perfect union and marriage is being lived by two very imperfect people…
a bit of a blind leading the blind.

I know that I tend to be a bit hard-headed and stubborn. I blame an Irish heritage.
I know that I tend to be the one who is always more right than wrong despite my
husband not yet figuring this out.

And yet I also know that I can be more Scarlett than Melanie…
wanting things my way…
I can be selfish, snappy, short-tempered, overwhelmed and moody.

And I also know that my husband has a high frustration level,
very little patience and is a 69-year-old by-product of a very abusive alcoholic father
who left deep lasting scars.
Add in the fact that my husband is nearly deaf so he can misinterpret, misunderstand
or miss everything I say…talk about over the top frustrating.

And so often in this life of ours, kindness has sadly taken a backseat.

And yet kindness seems to be a glue.
It is a binding agent.
It can bind two imperfect people together placing them under the blanket, or yoke if you will,
of the One who casts the perfect light of hope and healing over our human brokenness.

And yet we know this act of kindness must often be learned as well as worked on.
It is something I have learned that is a grace that more often than not
must be prayed for, cared for and nurtured.
It is a grace that God will and can work in our hearts.

A tree is known by its fruit; a man by his deeds. A good deed is never lost;
he who sows courtesy reaps friendship, and he who plants kindness gathers love.
Saint Basil

O Lord, I need to laugh. . .

A joyful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.
Proverbs 17:22

(image courtesy the web)

With the weight of winter crushing down on this weary mind and body, as our schools are closed once again for a snow day with nary a white flake on the ground, ok maybe there’s a patch of black ice or two here and there, what with the nightly news doling out ominous warnings upon grim and dire global stories. . . it has dawned on me that I am in desperate need of a good dose of humor, laughter, joy!!!

Some people wrongly believe that God is without a funny bone—that He sits about playing, well, God, exacting punishments while issuing the squadrons of the “serious police” as He sends them down to nip any and all fun, humor or even joy in the bud. . .I for one know that is far from the truth.

Now I’m not talking about vile, malicious, sick or twisted humor that comes at the expense of any one of us—as I find much of the “humor” that our entertainment industry rolls around on the ground over as sophomoric, stupid and belittling–possessing no redeeming value.

So this morning as I dutifully journeyed to the dark, cold, cavernous basement in order to engage in my hour of servitude , I mean healthy regime of weights and bobbing up and down on the elliptical, I found myself pondering the need for some laughter. . .

As if standing before some imaginary crowd, I found myself raising my hand, with the childlike exuberance of “pick me, pick me” as I have volunteered, taking one for the team, as I to try find you and I a little something to, if not laugh over, at least enjoy a good chuckle, guffaw or chortle.

I picked my brain over what we could laugh about.
As humans, our usual go to area of prosaic conversation, when we find nothing at hand to actually discuss, is of course the weather–but truly, I think we are all certainly over the weather. . .

I then moved on to current events—again, over that. . .

We could discuss health. . .that’s a topic we all tend to like to discuss especially as we age. . .as in my 86 year old dad seems to relish in telling me things that scream of TMI–too much, way too much, information. . .with me wailing “Daaaaaaddddddd, please!!!”

And whereas I don’t think I really want to chat about IBS, sinuses, osteoporosis, hormone replacement therapy, or any other malady plaguing this aging body of mine. . .I continued to pick my brain in search of the elusive idea of humor on this wearisome cold, grey winters day.

Looking around, taking in my duty-drudge filled “workout” area of the basement, I decide I’ve finally hit upon something of interest.
I have decided that compression tights are what we shall discuss today as they are now my go to in the wardrobe department.
“What?”
Yes, compression tights.

(image courtesy Nike)

Please note that this is not, I repeat, not my body—only in my dreams. . .

You know, the black things people put on to run or work out in. . .
But why should we stop there. . .at merely something to put on during exercise and physical activity?!
Forget spanx or other “suck um up” undies, compression tights are where it’s at.

I can remember as a little girl seeing my mom’s girdle sitting on the bathroom counter wondering as to what in the world this torturesque contraption was that my mom counted as part of her daily dressing ritual. Was I too to look forward to donning a girdle one day, I fretted as I imagined myself passing from childhood to training bras, eventually to girdles. . .As the idea of women forcing tight contraptions onto their bodies, or actually forcing their bodies into said contraptions, as in a need to suck up, reign in, tighten up and conceal, seemed to be a centuries old issue and quest that was now sadly staring at my 8 year old self.

(vintage Montgomery ward advertisement)

Fast forwarding back to the current moment at hand, I now faced my own issue of sucking up and sucking in, as I stared at my tights. My mind suddenly racing back to the scene in Gone With the Wind with Mammy cinching up Scarlett’s corset as Scarlett was bound and determined to sport that girlish 17 inch waist of hers both before and after pregnancy.

(before said pregnancy)

(after said pregnancy)

Now mind you, I don’t ever recall having a 17 inch waist. . . but my thighs, well, they’re a different story. . .And sadly I fear, these thighs of mine are certainly bigger than 2 of Scarlett’s waists put together, or so it feels. . .hence this new love of tights of mine.

Have you ever put on a pair of compression tights?
These are not your run of the mill average pair of hose, stockings or tights. . .these are serious when it comes to compression–meaning a decrease in volume. . .as in the volume of my thighs. . .

You start by putting on one leg in at a time, because that’s certainly all you’ll have strength to lift up, one leg at a time. . .
Working the tights up over the ankles is a piece of cake, the calves are also fairly easy. . it’s just past the knee cap where the trouble begins.

Twisting, contorting, hopping, jumping, falling over, pulling up while pushing fat down–precariously placing the second leg in the 2 inch opening. How can a 36(which in now more like a 38), 26 (which is now more like a 30), 36 (which by God better still be a 36) fit into a 2 opening? Have you ever found yourself falling over, half naked onto the cold bathroom floor, with your legs hopelessly trapped in the confines of a pair of tights–tights that were made for the likes of either Twiggy or a Barbie doll?! You find yourself hoping that you don’t suddenly die so as to ensure that no one should ever come home finding you dead, with your bare bottom exposed pointing upward as your head is plastered on the cold tile floor while both legs resemble a large black pretzel. Somehow I’m thinking a 55 year old woman is not meant to contort her body in this sort of fashion.

Now pulling up with all of ones strength, doing good not to hear any sort of tearing or popping, you begin attempting to get your butt pushed down, while continuing lifting the tights upward. Up and over your bottom, squeezing and wiggling while you now work to squeeze your stomach into the ever shrinking black spandex on steroids fabric.

Once in, you proceed to push and pull, adjusting the areas that are now pinching every ounce of said body fat. Not one to ever think thong underwear was a good idea, I get a sudden uncomfortable feeling that the crotch area of the tights is now going places it is not normally meant to travel. Pulling and adjusting a bit more, I finally think I’m all in as nothing has split, burst or popped open.
WHEW! I now attempt to breathe.

There!
I am heard to triumphantly exclaim to both cats as if I have just accomplished some miraculous feat. Somehow their blank expressions do not match my feeling of jubilation.
Pausing to look in the mirror, I joyously think that I am now a lean, mean, slim and svelte fighting machine. Take that Scarlett O’Hara!

Which now leaves one question begging to be answered. . .were does it go? The fat. I mean, where does all that excessive me go, where is it pushed and squished off to???
This lingering thought as I suddenly wonder if I’m not looking a bit more buxom than before—hummmm.
Then as if a ton of bricks, it hits me, the urgent calling to the loo. . . I think I need to go the bathroom otherwise I’ll be wetting these freshly pulled on tights of mine.
UGH!
Remember women of a certain age have less than trustworthy bladders. . .one allergy ridden sneeze, one croupish cough and me and these tights are one wet mess!

Which brings me back to the thought of our needing a good laugh- – -at this point, it may not be advisable for me to offer up said laugh as I wish to remain dry as I am now poured into these tights—which means, our quest for laughter may have to come later, as I am once again reminded of those immortal words of Scarlett O’Hara, tomorrow is another day. . .