kindness matters

sometimes, hope will find you in the grocery store

I'm still needing time and space to be still, but something happened early this past week - and I wanted to share it with you.

I needed to pull together a meal. (Something no one tells you when you reproduce is that your greatest source of stress may not come from major life events, but from needing to find a way to be human while caring for the everyday, ceaselessly recurring needs of the humans you love. I'd like to do something about that. Anyway...)

As I wandered the aisles of the grocery store, on a mission to locate some rice flour to fry cod (I promise you, it just might beat a well seasoned breaded chicken thigh), a gentleman offered me a sample. His eyes were kind, a ball cap sat loosely on the crown of his head, and his salt and pepper beard tugged at something in my heart. As I sit here writing you these words, my body can remember sensing a gentleness about his humanity within the first few milliseconds of our interaction.

(Now, let's be clear. I was on a mission. So much of what I can identify as I pen these words tonight, did not consciously register to me in the moment.)

I paused, and deliberated for a moment. I love some good crunchy chips, but depending on the oil that's used, I can find myself fighting inflammation for hours and days (if not more) afterwards. Based a quick scan, I knew it was likely a no. There were a number of things I needed to move through that afternoon, and I just couldn't risk it. So I tried to find a way to say no and thank you as gently as I could in that passing moment. His eyes smiled at me, mine smiled back, and my mission continued. (There were seasoned fish and homeade fries (to be coated with the aforementioned rice flour) waiting to be placed in bubbling oil back at home.)

A few minutes later, I found myself standing nearby, as I was trying to source a non-irritating (just because it isn’t cows’ milk DOES NOT mean it can taste like water?!)) milk alternative for a gluten-free yellow cake I'd decided to make (because I was hungry, and the thought of baking a cake makes me and at least one of the humans I live with quite happy). The gentleman with the salt and pepper beard came near to speak with me. My mind was so on mission, and so not in a place of thinking that anyone, anywhere was noticing much of anything about my choices, that it took me a few tries to begin to comprehend what he was saying.

I placed my hand on my heart. Tears came to my eyes. (They're springing again right now.)

He took time out of his day to thank me for being kind. To tell me that he had been working for hours before our paths crossed. To quietly remark on how so many people were gruff or harsh or dismissive as they walked past that day. To let me know how much it meant that I'd stopped for a moment to acknowlege him. To consider what he was saying.

His kindness caught me completely by surprise. He thanked me for being kind.

He told me to never change.

He lifted my heart. Perhaps my very soul.

He had no idea the kind of week, summer, day, year, past few years it's been. He could not have known how many times I've found myself wondering whether I am foolish for choosing to be kind. For choosing to see people, to listen, in the face of being dismissed, disrespected, or misunderstood.

He could not have known that it was his kindness that was encouraging me. That his words will be with me for years to come.

And I found myself thinking of you. Of us. Of this space we share.

That's what I want to create more of.

More space, more room for us to discover how to be kind, to listen, to see and care for ourselves, and each other. At work, at home, with ourselves, with friends, in boardrooms, in meetings, in unexpected and difficult conversations, in moments when our weariness is searing, and hope feels fleeting.

One moment of kindness can shift everything.

I'm not sure what's next. But the gentleman with the salt-and-pepper beard helped me to understand that I need to keep going. To not give up. To stay in my story and make choices that heal, rather than harm.

Things are coming to the surface as I take this time to be still. I think I need a few more days to continue sorting things through. But in the meantime, I keep thinking of you and this space we share.

And the gift I was given, while pushing my cart down a supermarket aisle, I now give to you.

You are seen. You are valued. Your choice to be kind, to see humans, to pause, to take a second or two to listen, to be present, to be with yourself or someone else, even in passing, matters.

The gentle parts and pockets of you are what make you strong. Your kindness is a light that lifts.

Never change.

sending care.