Are compassion and empathy out of fashion? In this post, Karen Richards gives a shout out for random acts of kindness.
Half-term and I am waiting at a bus top, in the centre of Shrewsbury, with my granddaughter, Nel. She is staying with me for the regular school holiday sleepover, with Nan and Granddad and her Telford cousins. But before that sleepless night of sugar fuelled frivolity, we sneak a morning together, just Nel and me, and visit Paws Cafe, where we have languished on deep leatherette sofas, drunk coffee and cola, eaten cake and spent a feline filled hour with the many cats that live there; nonchalant but friendly, indifferent yet seeking the attention of the many hands that reach out and stroke them, we leave relaxed and smiling and ready for the journey home.
There is no queue at the bus stop and no sign of a bus, either but a woman in a wheelchair, ensconced below the awning of a nearby shop, shouts out cheerily to passers by. She talks to babies, cooing and reaching out a hand to touch them. She comments on the weather and wishes people a nice day. Every so often, she asks if anyone has any change. No-one has, but she persists. People carry plastic these days. Whatever happened to cash? I listen with my back towards her – my sight is firmly focused on the approach of the midday traffic – and slowly gather the drift of her story.
Still no sign of the bus. “We must have just missed one”, I tell Nel, apologetically. I’m not quite sure why I feel the need to apologise for something out of my control but I am sorry and concerned, too – I so want her to have a nice time.
The schedule for the rest of the day starts to niggle in my brain and I begin to rearrange future events in my mind to make the day work as planned. I have left my husband, who is particularly unwell right now, in the capable hands of my daughter but she will have to leave him soon, to get on with her own plans. There is an anxiety somewhere in my chest. I notice it, I embrace it, I become internally still. Out of this turning towards the worry comes a more settled state and then practical solutions start to dart from my head into my hands: text messages are sent, reassurances received. It is all fine. I look up the street in the direction that the bus will travel and mutter more apologies to Nel, who probably hadn’t factored this long wait into her vision of time spent with Nan. She is fine, too; alternating between texting photographs of the cats and chatting to me about school.
And all the while, the woman in the wheelchair, sits underneath the awning and calls out, “I need seven pounds for seven days.” I park my concern about the late bus and getting home and listen, without turning to face her, while she explains to a passing shopper that there is a homeless shelter nearby but to gain entry she has to raise seven pounds for seven days stay. The passer by is polite, “I hope you get it” she says and leaves without depositing any money in her cup.
My mind less clouded by worry about getting home, now, I remember that I have a small change purse in my bag, kept for parking payments, supermarket trolleys and ice creams, in the park. I take it out and Nel and I exchange a glance, our thoughts are aligned. “Would you like to give her this?” I ask and bypassing the crumpled five pound note that has previously been stuffed , hurriedly between the seams, I take out a two pound coin and hand it to Nel. She smiles and nods. The woman thanks her, says “bless you” when she receives it. But, it is not enough. It is not merely maths, my heart knows it.
Surely she will raise the rest by nighttime, I think. Still, I face the direction that the bus will travel and ponder the five pound note, secure in my bag. I really want to give it to her. It is my natural inclination but I am fighting it. I can feel the imprint of fear in my chest. I listen to the fear and the sound of the woman’s voice, explaining again and again why she needs to raise seven pounds for seven days to a constant stream of people who wish her well but do not give her what she needs. I don’t give her what she needs, either.
I take a few moments to breathe and, contrary to the busyness around me, settle into the quiet of meditation and I ask myself, ”Why?” I look at those fluttering feelings of fear and remember the young girl that I once was: the fresh faced adolescent who gave without hesitation; who responded to disasters by raising money from jumble sales and raffles; who gave her pocket money, without a moment’s hesitation, to anyone who needed it; who listened to people’s troubles; who sat on a grass verge with a dying pheasant and stroked its wing but who slowly got a reputation for being too kind and then, into adulthood, picked up on the subtle feedback, from society, that somehow kindness is synonymous with weakness and that to give freely is naive and demonstrates a personality that is not able to take tough decisions – as an employee too gentle to be effective (I have debunked this myth many times) and a mother too soft with her children for their own good (my adult children are upright, kind, talented and wise).
Our true nature is kindness, pure and simple, but non of us is immune to the cynicism of those that we come into contact with, throughout our lives. Maya Angelou said, “It takes courage to be kind”. Those words are true more so now than ever. It does not seem fashionable to care. For those who do, it takes a certain amount of courage to go beyond social conditioning and respond to the needs of those around us. For, “Tenderness and kindness are not signs of weakness and despair, but manifestations of strength and resolution “ says Kahlil Gibran.
On that day in late February, I open up my little change purse, take out the crumpled five pound note, smooth it out a little and hand it to Nel. She knows what to do. The woman thanks her and then shouts her thanks to me, too.
“I’ve got it!” she cries as she turns her wheelchair in the direction of the centre of town “I’ve got my seven pounds!”
The bus arrives. Nel and I go home.
“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.”
— Dr. Seuss