When it comes to love and kindness, the little things are really the big things

If I asked you to name your most meaningful experiences from the past 12 months, you would, I suspect, start filing through your brain for extraordinary events. You would tell me about the weddings you attended, the holidays you took, the babies you met for the first time and the promotions or professional awards you scored. You would not, I suspect, mention the hug you gave a workmate that she really needed but could not find the words to ask for, the time you got the bus driver wait for someone who was running behind, the money you donated to a charity or the delighted smile you received from your grandma when you popped over for a cup of tea.

We tend to think that the milestones and the firsts are the most meaningful moments in our lives, so we cherish those memories (and for good reason). We tend to disregard the brief moments of connection that don’t change our lives irrevocably, but carry layers of meaning we don’t perceive right away. I believe – and I’ve said this many times – that the little things are really the big things.

There used to be a forwarded email doing the rounds (remember the days when we used to forward emails instead of retweeting or sharing on Facebook?!) by an anonymous woman who described how her boyfriend always waved to strangers when he’s driving, even if they look at him like he’s a weirdo. When she asked him why he did this, he told her that he’d read stories by people who had attempted suicide; some had said that if they’d been acknowledged by someone else they wouldn’t have wanted to end their lives. For that reason, he was committed to extending warmth to everyone he saw, to make sure no one felt invisible or insignificant. This is a very small act of kindness, but a very powerful one.

Of course we should celebrate the big stuff, but I wish we could do a better job at recognising the successes that really reflect our job in this lifetime – the times we give love to others, and received it with gratitude. One of the best things that happened to me last week was an out-of-the-blue phone call from a friend in the US who knew I’d been going through a rough time, so wanted to check how I was going. I doubt that was a big deal for her, but to me it meant the world.

Brené Brown writes: “Joy comes to us in ordinary moments. We risk missing out when we get too busy chasing down the extraordinary.” Sometimes in those ordinary moments, we’re a conduit to other people’s joy – and we may not even realise it. To me, that is the very definition of extraordinary.

I hope you create and experience lots of little wins this week. 

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I'm very sorry for your loss. How can I help?

In February I wrote a letter to a Canadian woman I had never met. I had seen an appeal on social media by the woman’s daughter asking people around the world to send letters of hope and well wishes to her mother who was nearing the end of her struggle with pancreatic cancer. Because I do volunteer work at rest homes I have seen how much a simple handwritten letter means to people who are suffering and feeling alone, so I put pen to paper.

Sadly, a fortnight ago I found a message in my ‘other’ inbox on Facebook (which I seldom check) from this lovely woman’s daughter, letting me know her mother had passed away the day before my letter arrived. She attached a photo of a wall (see below) covered with letters from around the world, and said that it had brought her some comfort to know that so many people cared so much.

Once I got over my annoyance that it had taken me three days to post my letter (!) I realised that a beautiful thing had happened in this Ontario town. In a time of immense pain, this lady was able to derive a small measure of peace from small but powerful acts of kindness by complete strangers. It was a heartwarming thing to bear witness to, as well as to have participated in, in a very tiny way. Of course, no wall of letters can protect her from the unrelenting ferocity of grief but perhaps this visible reminder of the power of hope can provide fleeting moments of shelter.

This got me thinking about the ways we can help people as they grieve. I’m not talking about strangers here, I’m talking about the people we care about. It’s heart-wrenching watching someone dear to you in absolute agony over the loss of someone dear to them. What do you say? It’s hard not to fall into well-meaning but ultimately useless clichés: “Let me know if there’s anything I can do”; “Call me if you ever want to talk”; or the woefully inadequate: “time heals all wounds…” It’s so difficult to know what you can do that will actually help.

There are Cheryl Strayed quotes for these situations, as there are for every emotional quandary. A man wrote to Cheryl (aka ‘Dear Sugar’) asking for advice on how to support his partner as she grieved the death of her mother. Nothing he did seemed to help, he wrote, and it was tearing him to pieces seeing her in so much pain. Cheryl’s response explained that we have a tendency to want to rush in and offer advice or practical solutions when someone we care about is suffering. But what counts, she says, is not *how* we show up for that person, it’s simply that we *do* show up for them, again and again and again. We keep in contact. We let them cry. We listen. What comes from our heart is more important than what comes from our mouth. Anyway, that’s what I took from Cheryl’s response. Here’s what she actually wrote: “It feels lame because we like to think we can solve things. It feels insufficient because there is nothing we can actually do to change what’s horribly true. But compassion isn’t about solutions. It’s about giving all the love that you’ve got.”

Yes, it is. Thanks, Cheryl.

 

The 'letter wall'.

PS: On a lighter note, I got chocolate smeared all over my keyboard in the process of writing this post. Totally worth it. Happy Easter, everyone.