Tara Cousineau, PhD

Clinical Psychologist, Kindness Warrior

Blog

Being a Kindness Warrior

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The world can at times feel like a very unkind place. The year my daughter, Josie, was twelve years old, three horrendous events occurred: the “Batman Shooting” at a movie theater where twelve people were killed and seventy wounded; the massacre at Sandy Hook Elementary School that left twenty- six children, teachers, and staff dead; and the Boston Marathon bombing that wounded hundreds of people and killed three. It was a year of extreme tragedy. Despite my efforts to minimize overexposure, Josie felt a real and strong fear that these things could happen to her. Lockdown drills were being done regularly at school, and she began imagining herself and her loved ones torn to bits. Josie’s heartbreaking response was to wonder aloud, “Why do people do this?” A basic dread took hold of her.

Then something sparked an awakening. In a long-jump sandpit, some kids discovered a pair of baby field mice. Josie became determined to rescue them, even though everyone knew it was a lost cause and coldly said as much. She declared, “I know they will die. At least I can give them comfort until they do.”

At her insistence, I drove Josie to the sports field as she clutched a bottle of Pedialyte and a dropper. She dashed across the track to be Nurse Nightingale. The mice were still alive, and she gently placed the pink creatures in a box of tissue. As I watched, it hit me: Josie was fully alive with her compassion for all living things. It was the act of caring itself that mattered to her. As if, by demonstrating the kindest way that she could possibly act, she could turn the world around. She gave them names as children do—Bradley and Charlotte—and carefully nursed them. One mouse died a few days later. Josie held out hope for the other but, in the end, she buried the pair in the garden. While she was frustrated that they hadn’t lived, she consoled herself with this: “At least I tried.” We were all moved by her efforts. At a time when the world felt burdened by grave issues, saddled with grief, frustration, and helplessness, Josie found healing and empowerment by demonstrating her own kindness. She showed a brutal world that she would care for the meekest of its creatures. And, in doing so, she discovered that what feels best is not evading harsh realities—it’s being kind along the way.

Excerpt from my book,  The Kindness Cure: How the Science of Compassion Can Heal Your Heart and Your World

Photo by Hanny Naibaho on Unsplash

 

If you like what you read, please consider getting The Kindness Cure book for you or a friends. It’s chock full of vignettes offered by people, scientific tidbits, and practices in kindness. Thanks for your support!

 

Love & Resist: Anniversary of Women’s March

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As we come upon the anniversary of the game changing Women’s March, I am in awe of what transpired over the last year. The most curious thing of all is what I found so despicable about our elected leader of the free world was, in fact, a very odd blessing. Light was cast on the dark shadows lurking around for so long. Not all my friends might agree with me or hold similar views, but it’s quite hard to ignore what happened over the year. #MeToo, #TimesUp, and Oprah’s amazing speech at the Golden Globes.

The times they are a-changin’.

One year ago my husband and I marched in Boston. It was nothing short of transformative. First, that my man went with me (he got into designing posters and he even gave one away to a mother and her kid on the subway so she’d have something). Second, that we became part of a peaceful tribe 175,000 strong, forming a “radical kinship” as Father Greg Boyle likes to say. Third, that we took tons of selfies together and sent them to our daughters—not only so they can confirm how their “awkward” parents are, but to see their core values in action (and what a good guy is all about).

I still have our posters in the family room and will dust them off this weekend. I didn’t get my hand-knitted pussy hat in time for last year’s march, but that hat has not seen the dust. I still wear it—and I will as long as it’s cold outside and this president is in office.

It’s not a time to be complacent. It’s a time to address the dark side with a legion of light workers. It’s not a comfortable time and nor should it be. We need to feel irritated enough to take action. The other day I was clearing my office and out of a book fell a prayer card my mother had given one of my girls: Joan of Ark. How apt!  The Novena begins: “Glorious St. Joan of Arc, filled with compassion for those who invoke you, with love for those who suffer, heavily laden with the weight of my troubles I kneel at your feet and humbly beg you to take my present need under your special protection.” The image on the front is of the armoured French girl of the 1400s, a spiritual warrior across the ages, holding her flag and sounding the call for compassion, social justice and new leadership. I believe Joan of Arc is at our sides protecting us and emboldening us right now, but mostly we have each other. Saints, angels, whistle blowers, courageous women and men… and those contrarian naysayers, too. We all belong. And we all need to evolve humanity. We can do better.

Be a kindness warrior.

My protest sign last year was on kindness. It’s been my calling and so I’ve been studying it, collecting science and story. The basis for my upcoming book has been the view that kindness is strong, not weak. It is courageous, not cowardly. It is heartful, not heartless. It’s not about being nice, agreeable, or virtuous. It’s about understanding, having boundaries, and taking reasonable action. It’s moving from empathic distress to motivational empathy. Taking a kind stance doesn’t mean giving in. One of the protest slogans seen all over the world last year was: “Feel the Rage, Be the Love.” These six small words perfectly capture both the challenge and the solution when facing difficult persons, places, or things. The meditation teacher Sharon Salzberg asks, “Why can’t we both love and resist at the same time?” This is a perfect question for our life and our times, and it forms the basis for reimagining kindness.

We all have something to stand for. For me it’s giving kindness the gravitas it deserves in the landscape of humanity. After all, we can’t survive without it. I invite you to join me. How are you going to rock your world with kindness?  

Get a FREE Rock Your World with Kindness Guide (PDF). 

 

 

Picture Your Loving Self

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The little girl in the framed photo is holding a Siberian husky pup almost too heavy for her little body. She has dark banana curls and is missing her two front teeth. The teeth were lost after a face plant on a marble coffee table a year earlier. Like a gymnast on the parallel bars, she had been swinging her body forward and back like a pendulum, her little hands grasping the carved mahogany arms of a couch and chair placed kitty corner to each other. She had been warned not to do that, of course.

The old photo rests on a small cabinet in my home office in a lovely frame set against the backdrop of a wall painted with a lavender hew called Misty Memories. My eyes scan this photo every day, along with a few photos of my daughters at various ages and other reminders of the vulnerabilities and joys in life. I’ve included my small self in my morning ‘centering practice’ for so long that I’ve virtually forgotten the original intent for placing her in my view:  Self-compassion.

What are some things you do to take care of yourself when the world seems to be falling to bits and pieces?

That’s a question I was asked recently by two amazing moms, Leslie and Tesi, founders of the Mama Bear Dares podcast. As I thought about my own life, the most tangible answer I could offer was having this little picture in my view every day. When I look at it I give an internal bow to that child who was so full of light and love and who overcame so much. It’s also turned into an acknowledgement of gratitude. It’s as if the now-me and my smaller me can wink at each other, our mutual gaze strung by delicate threads of resilience across the decades. And I always smile.

But the kicker is this: I don’t mention this practice in my book. This blind spot took me by total surprise. I have suggested this ritual to women who seek my counsel countless times.  I even suggest they find photos of themselves at various ages 3, 12, 25 and so on. For some women, this is difficult because of all the pain, shame, or regret their past can trigger. But that’s precisely the point. Loving ourselves can be very hard to do. In fact, there is so much resistance to this idea that I put my own photo out many years ago. I wanted these women to see that I do this, too.

When I shared this idea Leslie and Teri teared up. It captured their attention. Their original question was about coping with the plight of humanity but we ended up talking about self-care. It can be challenging to care for others or to find one’s bearings when the latest calamity hits your life or ambushes the airwaves. We can fall under what I call a SPEL:  Self-Protective Empathy Lethargy.  The overwhelm can shut us down and make us want to crawl under the bed. That’s where I used to hide as a kid. This is a natural and human response to threat or fear. As a way through we need to find ways to calm the fear. “Compassion for others begins with kindness to ourselves,” says the meditation teacher, Pema Chödrön. Many wise people insist that in order to love and care for others, we must first love and care for ourselves.

Love Includes Everyone, So Count Yourself In

Love me first? It’s a true paradox.  Self-kindness doesn’t just spring out of nowhere—it arises from being physically held by another person from the moment you were born. Envision the quintessential image of a mother with babe in arms, perhaps a memory of holding your own infant. Physiologically, a bonding process is unfolding within that image—eye gazing, rhythmic breathing, beating hearts, cooing sounds—sealing the human connection. Or imagine a beloved pet like the puppy in my photo. For me that photo is a double shot of mojo. I’m sure I didn’t even realize it when I chose to frame it for my little office altar so many years ago—before I even had a clue about the powerful emotional and physiological effects of self-compassion practice.

Such tenderness is inherently relational and has been part of our neurobiology from the start of life. But we don’t always have loving caretakers around when we need them. Sometimes we need to imagine ourselves enveloped with tenderness. Indeed, self-compassion has strong physiological elements. You can give yourself an inner hug, or embrace yourself with folded arms, or place a gentle hand over the heart. This is how you can ignite your body’s natural ability to soothe. That’s why having a photo of your smaller self can be so healing and nurturing. To seal in this self-care you can add in a personal affirmation that is authentic and true to your experience in the moment. It can be as simple as “I am strong.” “I am loveable.” “I’ve got this.” For the skeptic, you might try: “Even if this feels weird, I will be kind to myself.” Sometimes using self-talk in the third person can be helpful: “You sure were cute, kiddo.” “You are worthy of love.” “You can count on me.” The practice is meant to ignite uplifting feelings of love, tenderness, trust, protection, and well-being in relation to yourself.

When it comes to helping others just start close to home: the home of your own heart. The more you practice kindness for yourself, the more resilient—and compassionate—you become for others.

You can listen to Mama Bear Dares podcast here (Episode #146) as well as many other great conversations with women.

Learn more about my book, The Kindness Cure: How the Science of Compassion  Can Heal Your Heart and Your World.

For any one who pre-orders a book you can also get some extra goodies, like meditations downloads and affirmation images for your devices — after all we do need reminders!

Finding Comfort in an Emotional Storm: The R.A.I.N. Technique

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As human beings living in the limitations in living in our physical bodies it is natural that we can find ourselves with strong reactions. After all, the body has a tendency to resonate with the energies in the environment, too. People, places, and things all hold energy. Your true self, your loving intentions, and soul purpose can get camouflaged by negative vibrations from worry, panic, exhaustion, anger and so on, or that of the people around you. This can cause disconnection. These triggers can also flare up an inner critical voice, who can wreak havoc on your sense of self. This is the voice who reprimands you, says you are not good enough, or admonishes you with, “Who do you think you are….”  for wanting, needing, desiring something new, fresh, alive and loving.

The acronym R.A.I.N. is a helpful kindfulness tool for just such moments. It can be a salve for those times when you are caught under a spell of negativity, which can happen naturally when feeling overwhelmed or overly critical, and consumed with anxiety, fear or uncertainty.

You can use RAIN in a difficult moment to cultivate a deeper connection and direct experience to the world.

Let’s go through each step.

R. The R in RAIN stands for recognize — recognize what’s going on in the body, and consciously noticing in any given moment the strong emotions, thoughts or sensations that are arising… and doing so in a way without judgment.

Recognizing can be as simple as a silent nod, or a mental whisper, noticing that a reaction is occurring. It can be helpful to name the experience such as: “This is anger” or “I’m feeling frustrated” or “I’m just so tired.” “Oh that’s my inner bully acting up.”

A. The A in RAIN stands for allow — allowing means letting the thoughts, emotions or sensations simply be there… applying loving attention to your body… it doesn’t mean we have to agree with the inner critic or like the situation at hand. It simply means that we can honestly acknowledge the arising of any judgment, as well as the uncomfortable or painful feelings that percolate underneath.

Instead of trying to suppress the experience, or resist, avoid or repel, we can soften into it with the quality of kindfulness, and not get caught up in the thoughts or the emotions.

Rather it is about saying “Yes, this is what’s happening right now.” “It’s OK.” “Take a moment here and just be.” We can tell our inner bully to go take a seat in the corner. This is a time out.

I. The I in RAIN stands for investigate — to investigate your experience with kindness and care. Once we recognize and allow what is arising we can become curious, and call on our natural ability to inquire. Tapping your inner detective and asking yourself, “What most wants my attention right now?” “How am I experiencing this reaction in my body?”  “What is my inner critic telling me, or trying to warn me about? Am I believing it? Is it true?”

You can reflect: “How can I bring kindness to this moment?”

It is essential to take a non-judgmental attitude and move away from trying to interpret or overthink. Instead, bring your awareness to the felt sense in the body and allow direct experience or connection in the moment.  The body is an exquisite emotional radar system with important information and clues. You may notice over time that there is an incredibly wise and quiet voice inside. An attitude of care helps to cultivate a sense of safety and understanding. You begin to befriend yourself as you would care for a dear friend in need.

N. The last letter in RAIN stands for nurture or nourish. We can intentionally care for the vulnerable and wounded places inside. You can ask: What does this place deep inside me need most? Reassurance? Respect? Forgiveness? Friendship? Love?

N can also stand for what some meditation teachers call non-attachment. This means cultivating an ability to take a step back and having some distance from the reactivity. This means not getting hijacked by difficult emotions (the brain’s flight or fight reaction) or being harassed by mind’s incessant commentary. Instead, you can be a benevolent caretaker just as you might care for a small child. In this way, you’re not fused with or defined by the reactivity; instead you adopt a sense of care, ease and compassion.

RAIN allows you to find refuge from the emotional storm by a very deep inner sense of peace, comfort, and homecoming. When you are at home in your center you can intentionally choose who you want to be, how you want to act, and what kind of world you want to live in.  And that is rather refreshing!

 

To listen to these instructions you may download an Audio version.

The R.A.I.N. Technique – guided instruction (7 min)

 

 

The RAIN technique was originally offered by senior meditation teacher Michelle McDonald and is frequently taught by my mentor Tara Brach, PhD.  There are a number of variations of this technique. See what works for you.

 

Photo by Kostas Katsouris on Unsplash

In Dark Times Look for the Helpers

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Sometimes it takes effort to remember the goodness in humanity.

Waking up to the terrible news about the Las Vegas massacre was difficult. My husband delivered the news in the kitchen. Instinctively I emitted one of those gut-wrenching heaves with a hand to the mouth, Noooooo. Then a pause. Not again.

I know better to not watch news when there is still little information and so many unanswered questions. I know better not to equate October 1, our wedding anniversary, with a new national tragedy.

When you wait long enough, and intentionally not allow the dark and horrific images to sear into your brain, other scenes begin to emerge. A light behind the shadow.

  • Scores of people waiting in long lines to donate blood.
  • Hotels welcoming families of victims.
  • Donations pouring in.
  • A rally cry of Vegas Strong (as  uncomfortable as that slogan is as it trails from the winds of tragedy in my backyard, Boston.)

It’s all there, too. Kindness. Compassion. Resilience.

As with so many unfathomable events in the recent past, I find myself reflecting on the wisdom of a gentle and great man, Mr. Fred Rogers. This unassuming and benevolent teacher knew just what to say to the frightened child in all of us:

When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’

That does helps me. Because it is the truth about human nature. We are wired to care.

I ended the day watching TV. Something I rarely do. My husband had turned to a PBS station. (This was a bait and switch so I wouldn’t end the day with the blood bath. For me, this was comforting sign that 23 years of marriage has wrought a familiar cadence of care.) As it happened a documentary was premiering called Swim Team. It was about autistic teenage boys on a competitive team in New Jersey.  A tireless swim coach and his wife, parents of an autistic child, found a way to help these boys. The water. The routine. The acceptance. I sat down, riveted.

One boy on the team with Tourette’s syndrome had uncontrollable outbursts. Over the years he left a trail of holes in the walls of his family’s home. His mother pointed to the pock marks as another mother might show her child’s finger paintings on the fridge. A different kind of normal. According to the father medication had failed and swimming was the only thing that worked, even a little. When boy inevitably said the f-word at swim meets his teammates would matter-of-factly tell him to ‘pause and take ten breaths.’ The helpers.  You can see these kids participate in life, make friends, and find inspiration when so many barriers exist for them – and will exist as they become young adults. And the parents… exasperated yet patient, frustrated and kind, and finding solace among the other parents. I had a good cry. I welcomed the reminder about the resilience of the human spirit. After all, it’s in and around us all the time.

We just need to pay more attention to the goodness.  After all, what we focus on grows.

Pause. Pray. Participate.

 

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Join my mailing list about my new book The Kindness Cure book, out in February 2018.

 

 

Photo Credit: 2017 Patrick Hendry https://unsplash.com/photos/jd0hS7Vhn_A

After The Storm A Kinder Tomorrow

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I really can’t complain that my Leo has that wet dog smell. In fact, I’ve been happy for some rain up here in New England. Even a bit guilty. Watching the news about one weather calamity after another evokes in me both awe and fear. The aerials are eerily compelling. Almost hypnotic.

Hearing the name of the next storm is like learning the roll call of a kindergarten class… in the 1920s. Harvey, Irma, Maria. It makes the storms feel somehow personal, like the friend you just made on the first day of school and who turned out to be a bully. And maybe if you mustered the courage to stand up to him, he’d just go away.  That is until you see trees eviscerated, roofs blown off, and people suffering. These are no schoolyard antics.

Weather scientists have predicted between 11 and 17 storms this hurricane season for the Atlantic.  In an article on LifeScience.com it seems we should brace ourselves, “As of September 18, the Atlantic has experienced 13 named storms (Arlene, Bret, Cindy, Don, Emily, Franklin, Gert, Harvey, Irma, Jose, Katia, Lee and Maria), way above the total typically seen over six months, according to National Oceanic and Atmospheric Association [NOAA]. Already, seven of those storms have been hurricanes, exceeding the seasonal outlook’s forecast.”  Of course, there are another 13 letters in the alphabet and I wondered what names they’ve come up with.  (In a search the next up are Nate, Ophelia, Philippe, Rina, Sean, Tammy, Vince and Whitney).  Apparently, at one point in history tropical storms only had female names as if the the wrath of nature must be feminine. The weather people have evened out the playing field. I confess, the naming convention has a bonding effect. A sense of common humanity. A befriending of those in the wake of the storm.  I hope this anthropomorphizing of the elements is good for relief efforts.

I cant’ remember Nor’easters having names, those nasty ice storms more typical of where I live. Every year I say, “It’s time to move south.”  And then…. “No, it’s not!”  It wasn’t long ago that 8 feet of snow trumpled us in a matter of a few days, creating icicle dams, and cracking open our roof.  In the aftermath there was terrific snow for sledding and snowboarding. Kids toppled out to frolic. There was a whole week of snow days off from school. A 5-year old girl was struck dead by a heaving branch in her backyard.

Every region seems to have forces of nature that seem beyond comprehension. Earthquakes, fires, mudslides, tornados, tsunamis, pestilence.  As I write I see news of a second devastating earthquake in Mexico in just two weeks.

It is as if Mother Earth is in a constant state of heartbreak somewhere. She is. We are.

Just today I heard the haunting song Tomorrow Will Be Kinder, which was inspired by a tornado.

Today I’ve cried a many tear
And pain is in my heart
Around me lies a somber scene
I don’t know where to start
But I feel warmth on my skin
The stars have all aligned
The wind has blown, but now I know
That tomorrow will be kinder”

Yes, I thought: Hope is an aspect of kindness, a faith that brings us together and carries us forward. And the question remains: where in the world do we start?

Anywhere we can be of service is where. And that may be right where you are.

 

Resources

Make plan for hurricanes using a simple guide at Ready.gov.

What’s the difference between a hurricane, cyclone or typhoon?

Learn what to do before, during and after an earthquake using a simple guide at Ready.gov.

Tomorrow Will Be Kinder by  the Secret Sisters

 

Current Natural Disasters: Help out 

American Red Cross Hurricane Harvey Relief Fund

American Red Cross Hurricane Irma Relief Fund

CruzRoja Mexicana Earthquake Relief Fund

Unicef Mexico Child Victim’s Relief Fund

 

Latest News from the American Red Cross

Stay informed on the latest Red Cross efforts HERE.

Image credits:

Daiga Ellaby

NOAA

What Would Ben Franklin Say?

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It was a warm Sunday afternoon in April. We were on our way home from New York City, which is a good four hours away. The youngest flower girl in our own wedding had just been married. She was just as beautiful the previous evening as she was 23 years ago. I felt like I was watching a blessed soul walking down yet another aisle leaving a trail of anticipation and hope. Of course, it made me think of my own daughters and how I hoped they would be graced with lasting love. Alas, I was getting ahead of myself.  The very thought of my girls getting married also made be depressed.

We had just picked up our dog Leo who spent his weekend with my in-laws. We were driving through the back roads of the Blackstone Valley in central Massachusetts pocketed with small towns. Hopedale. Mendon. Franklin. They were once home to French Canadians and other immigrants working in the textile mills or on farms. My husband’s earliest memories are of the old family farm, riding along in his father’s milk truck, or getting lost in corn rows.  Many of the farms no longer exist and the mills have all but disappeared. Suburbia and service roads now take up the space. It feels somehow uncomfortable as if I could be in Anywhere America, unmoored and without clear landmarks or a sense of community.

Yet, there is a very small sign we always pass along route 140. It honors the town of Franklin as the home of the first public library in the United States. It was established in 1778 when the town changed its name from Exeter to Franklin to honor the inventor Dr. Benjamin Franklin. In gratitude for the recognition, Franklin gifted some of his books to the town. As the story goes, this apparently caused a ruckus about who would house these treasures. Some sensible town folk decided to lend the books to the town residents at no cost and thus birthing the first lending library.

I’ve driven by this little road sign countless times and often think of Ben Franklin. For over two centuries we have absorbed Franklin’s wisdom in ways we may not even be aware. I will guess my girls have a faint idea about electricity and a kite rather than his timeless insights on life, liberty, and freedom. In one way or another many of us are familiar with his kitchen table quotes.

Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.

Take time for all things: great haste makes great waste.

In taking a quick tour of Franklin’s quotes I find some other words of wisdom to be rather fitting when I think about our treasured and endangered institution of the public library.

Tell me and I forget. Teach me and I remember. Involve me and I learn.

Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.

I wonder what Franklin might think of Google or Wikipedia? Even so, I offer a nod of gratitude every time I notice that small sign in Franklin.

But this Sunday drive was quickly punctured by another roadside scene.  At one of the many dilapidated service lots was a group of white teenage boys sitting and standing atop of several cars. They were cheering with their fists in the air to the seemingly infrequent Sunday drivers like ourselves. Leaning against one of the cars was a large hand-painted sign with purple letters: TRUMP.

I asked my husband to turn on the news. Did something happen and we were blissfully unaware? We couldn’t tell. The day before was Earth Day. There were gatherings for the March for Science events across the globe, albeit with different sorts of placards, posters, and cheers. We had jauntily joined one such march for about five blocks down Central Park West on our way to the wedding.

What were these boys up to? Did they have nothing better to do on their Sunday? Like pick up trash on the roadside?

My mind slid into judgment. I went right to catastrophizing as I flashed to scenes of clean cut blond boys in uniforms. The Nazi’s paramilitary youth movement. Quite a leap, I confess. But I am of German heritage and the geographic legacy percolates up from time to time.

Without freedom of thought, there can be no such thing as wisdom – and no such thing as public liberty without freedom of speech.

The boys were exercising their free speech and I had to give them that. But the scene really bothered me. It seemed out of place. Maybe it was their fists in the air.

It is the working man who is the happy man. It is the idle man who is the miserable man.

Whatever is begun in anger ends in shame.

I hoped my girls never dated one of those boys. (Oh, my mind again.)

That I’m writing about it two months later on the eve of Independence Day is testament to my irritation and my untethered stream of consciousness. I’ve been meditating on it, working with the difficult thoughts mired in fear, judgment, and implicit bias. I’ve been investigating my imagination with kindness, as recommended by my meditation teachers Tara Brach and Jack Kornfield. I have been noticing the content of my mind as if I were standing on the outside looking in. “Oh, how interesting,” I tell myself. Then I wander and wonder. Would I feel the same way if the sign was for another politician or public figure? For a cause to better humanity or the planet? Or, that the gathering was instead made up of black boys? Muslim boys? Boy Scouts? Veterans? Or girls for that matter? Or, any combination of demographics and personal characteristics? My mind began to play a mix-and-match combo game. A hornet’s nest of uncomfortable feelings swept in.

Honesty is the best policy.

The roadside scene flared up for me recently when I attended a meet-up about encouraging more women public speakers and how we can better promote ourselves, lest we be mired in endless keynotes, panels, and conferences populated with men. “Male and pale,” noted one of the organizers. I thought of the group of boys in Franklin. I thought of the Founding Fathers.

An investment in knowledge pays the best interest.

A part of me wishes we had pulled over and had a conversation with these boys. Who were they? What were their names? Why were they out there on the last day of spring break? Why do they like the current president? What does he represent for them? What do they stand for? What do they want to do with their lives? Or, maybe it would simply be about their cars or what they will do when school gets out for the summer.

A conversation would at the least make some sort of connection. A bridge toward understanding.

I will never know the answers to my questions. If the opportunity arose and  I were by myself, it’s unlikely I’d have a chat with a group of teenage boys on an empty roadside holding that particular sign. Yet, I do know a little more about my fears and biases. “Male and pale” stuck for me in part because a series of images and events conspired at the same moment: fears of the current political climate, patriarchy, adolescent idealism, group think, recollection of a holocaust, my heritage, my values, my daughters’ wellbeing, a beautiful wedding, and a march for science.

The doorstep to the temple of wisdom is a knowledge of our own ignorance.

I try to catch myself before getting trapped by judgment.  I slow down my breath. This seems to give enough space so I can begin to respond in a thoughtful way—to my own internal life and to what sort of actions I might take—like having courageous conversations, taking social action, or nurturing our daughters to be good citizens and make wise choices.

That little roadside plaque in Franklin now serves as a new reminder:  we are all rooted by place and time—if only we’d stop for a moment to be open and curious. And maybe even a little more kind.

Keep up to day about my book, The Kindness Cure: How the Science of Compassion Can Heal Your Heart and Your World.

Resources

Franklin, America’s First Public Library

Quotes from Ben Franklin

Photo Credit

Eugene Triguba

On Turner’s Pond: A Walking Meditation

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On the eve of the first day of summer I took a walk with my dog Leo. I’m not the dog walker in the family even though I should be (Leo was my idea), but I needed to get some head space and so I drove over to Turner’s Pond. Leo is getting on in years and twice around the pond seems too much for his short legs. We decided to give it the ole college try.

I edged around the first bend full of maples and oaks to a clearing. Cumulous clouds were bursting forth like cotton candy at a county fair. My mother used to tell me and my sister that when the sky turns bright pink the angels were busy baking cookies. This always made me happy as a child.

It still does.

This sky was pretty enough to take a picture. Alas, I had purposely left my phone in the car and was now feeling a twinge of regret. With a new mission in mind to get it I picked up my pace, while eyeing the ever changing hues. Please stay still.

I raced by a family. They were rather striking for their stature and number. Two parents and four boys of various ages. The older boy was close to being a teenager and the youngest, about 4, was on his red bike and mightily leading the pack. They could be from some Scandinavian country, I thought.

My four-legged companion was petering out. I decided to give Leo an out and let him sit in the car. I took the second lap around rather briskly with my cell phone in hand. Could I catch the sky’s dusty rose hue?

It was too late.

Why do we need to document such moments anyway, I chided myself.  I slowed down and welcomed the breeze. Breathe in. Breathe out. My mind was flitting back and forth from appreciating the pond life to being lost in memory.

I observed something else that warmed my heart as much as my mother’s words about cherubs and a craving for warm cookies. I came upon a young couple who had set up portable hammocks among the birch trees just over the water’s edge. They were facing each other and quite animated in conversation. They paid no mind to the nocturnal insects, to the bellows of bullfrogs, or to my presence.

Hammocks. That took some planning. I felt soothed by the waning sounds of their voices.

I finally came to the opening at the far end of the pond where the geese and duck circle each other and a random dog inevitably chases them off. It happens every visit. This time two lumbering white retrievers had their fun. The owner and I exchanged a laugh. Poor Leo. He missed it.

And I missed my chance for the photo op. They sky quickly paled in the twilight. I headed back and came across the Viking family again. This time the mother, father, and the two older boys were tightly nestled on a short bench. Shoulder to shoulder. They barely fit. The littlest one poked a stick in the pond and the other child was skipping a stone. Like the young couple, they were deep in conversation looking out over the water.

Cozy.

I could hear that they were American. I think this surprised me — to see a family all together at dinner time rather than dispersed at some sport field or immersed in technology. That this family was so intimate, and in nature no less, made me pause. I felt a bit voyeuristic.

They also gave me hope. I’m not sure for what. Maybe just that nature is always there to restore us. And if we can appreciate this gift, as the couple and this family seemed to, then maybe we can be good stewards of each other and our planet after all — no matter the color of the sky.

 

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Photo Credits:
(c) 2017 Tara Cousineau

Hammock:
Nicole Harrington

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