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Posts Tagged ‘kindness’


 
 
It is kindness that moves her hand
to flip the switch on the hot pot,
and somehow a movement
that’s merely a flick is transformed
into an act of great love. It is kindness
that helps her choose the mug
she thinks I’d like the most—
not too small, not too big,
not too clunky. Perhaps the one
with pansies. Perhaps the one
that was dad’s. There is kindness
in the way she unwraps the tea bag,
my favorite earl gray, the bergamot
floral and strong. Kindness in the way
she pours in the soy milk,
the kind I like best, organic,
unsweetened, something she would
never drink herself but will always
have on hand for me. And so when
I wake in her bed and she tells me,
I’ve made you a cup of tea,
I know she is also saying
you are so precious to me.
I taste it in every sip, how warm it is,
how generous, the black tea so bright,
the milk so creamy, so smooth. 
even with no sugar, so sweet.

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                  for Eduardo Rey Brummel, on Earth Day
 
 
I walk on the long dirt road
with fat bumblebees
and dark red rocks,
not to distract myself
from you in your death room,
but to bring you with me
into this miraculous day
with it wild iris just beginning
to push through the earth
like curious green tongues
and its patch of buttercups
blooming right through me
all waxy and yellow and bright.
Far away, your heart is erratic
and your breath is slowing.
Far away you are becoming
less flesh and more mystery,
less the man who wrote
uplifting quotes on the lunch board
and more whatever it is
that drives the willows to blush,
whatever it is that causes the crows
to caw, then hush, then caw again.
You who called me Hermana,
you showed me how to be more kind,
and now you grow within me,
an essential part of my biome.
What gift more precious
do we have to offer than kindness?
I don’t know how it happens,
but the day is more beautiful
because I carry you with me—
even the thorns seem
to call for my honest attention,
even the leafless oaks,
even the dry stream bed
waiting for rain.
 

Dear friends,

If you know my friend Eduardo and did not yet know about his stroke and his recent blood infection, I know this is not easy news to receive. He responded to almost all of my poems here on this blog with such thoughtfulness and support. One of the most kind, generous people I have ever met.

If you would like more information, you can find it on his caring bridge.  

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The Small Stuff


There is kindness in the way
he goes to four stores until he finds
the pink and purple tapers I asked for.
Kindness in the way he folds back
the sheets on my side of the bed
when I’m late to come to sleep.
Kindness in his hands
when he rests them on my shoulders.
Kindness in how he fills the hot pot
with water in preparation
for the next time I make tea.
And there is in me wild gratefulness
for such kindness,
the kind beyond the grand gesture,
the kind that arrives so quiet, so humble
it could almost be overlooked,
the daily gesture that says I see you,
I know you, you matter, I’m here.
The kindness so small it can find its way
into a heartache so big
and somehow tip the scale
toward hope, toward love.

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Saving Grace

I didn’t even see
the slender red salamander
curled in the middle
of the country road,
but Brad stopped to kneel
beside it and told us
if you pick them up
by the tail, they will lose
their tail—an attempt
to distract a predator
while the rest
of the body escapes.
So tenderly, he brushed
the small amphibian
into his open palm,
then gently placed it intact
in the wet grass beside the road.
If this day were a novel,
I’d say the morning walk
was foreshadowing.
Everywhere we went
there were hands
that opened in kindness—
to greet, to serve cake,
to hug, to wave—
as if everyone agreed it matters,
the way we treat each other.
How quickly we can fall apart
when threatened.
How easily, sometimes,
we are saved.
 

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with enormous thanks to Kristen
 
 
In this story, the grave keeper
is a woman named Kristen.
She plants grass seed
where soils have been disturbed.
She pulls weeds by the roots
instead of poisoning them.
She learns the birthdays of the dead.
When a mother comes to sit
by her child’s tombstone,
the grave keeper gives her space,
but as the mother leaves,
she offers her a quiet smile, a hug.
Kristen knows the name of the child.
In this story, when the mother
leaves the graveyard,
dead flowers in her hands,
she is filled with no less grief,
but there is something generous
alive in her now, too,
soft as the new grass that thrives
around her son’s headstone,
loving as the grave keeper’s voice
when she whispered, Happy Birthday.
When the mother tells this story,
she weeps every time.
It’s not for sorrow
tears slip from her eyes.

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Aftermath

Those seeds you planted
in me with your words—
all through the night they rooted,
grew stems, sprouted leaves.
By morning, I’m in full bloom,
my thoughts a rebellion of petals,
a mutiny of beauty
where once only shadows spread.
All day, your words unfold
in layers of purples and unruly golds.
I like it when people stare—
everywhere I go, I share this:
the aftermath of your kindness.

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at the end of a day
crowded with kindness and joy
one perfect, ripe plum

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Now when I walk through the market,
I think of how someone else here
beside the stir-fry cart and the tie-dye tent
has just lost a beloved
and is hiding tears behind sunglasses.
Not knowing who they are,
I try to treat everyone with kindness.
Meanwhile the day is beautiful
for everyone, no matter how broken,
how whole our hearts. It gathers us all
in a grand blue embrace.
Part of me resists calling it a miracle.
The other part calls it what it is
and strolls through the miracle
of Friday morning surrounded by arugula
and strawberries, muffins, lilies,
and all these other fragile hearts,
all of us saying excuse me, good morning,
how are you, I’m fine.

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how completely the love of others
has made me who I am. How the work
of their hands is more me
than the swirls of my own fingerprints.
I am the project of love,
the product of compassion,
the sum total of kindness
and sympathy. Of course,
the cruelty, too. Of course,
the ugliness, the shame.
But it is love that rises in me,
like yeast in the living bread.
It is love I’ve received
that stands when I stand,
love that responds
when you say my name.

*

Friends, I have to tell you I went to the most powerful poetry reading today. Organized by a local high school girl, there were high school girls, teachers and community members who read in support of Shatter the Silence. Poems by Joy Harjo, Maya Angelou, Audrey Lorde, Ani deFranco, Marge Piercy and more … and it was so deeply moving to see the courage, the engagement, the support for each other. Conversations are happening now I never dreamt could happen–about empowerment, deep listening, meeting what is painful and celebrating what is good. There is support in the school from teachers and administration to have these conversations. It was absolutely heart-opening and soul nourishing and I am so amazed by this generation of young women. Change is happening, real, beautiful, just, fierce, loving change. 

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Thank you for the pep talk.
When your teacher asked you
to record messages in the phone,
you could not have known
one day your innocent words
would reach this woman in Colorado
and I would sit in my car
and stare at a mountain and press 4
to listen to children laughing
and press 3 to hear a room full of kindergarteners
shouting YOU CAN DO IT,
and it would make me weep.
I imagine you do not yet understand
how something so beautiful
could make a person sob—
a complex, but very real emotion
we don’t have a word for in English.
But perhaps you are already learning
of the ripple effect: How kindness
brings hope. How hope opens us.
How being open can make people cry.
My friend Paula explained it to me this way.
That’s what friends do—
they share the truth with you.
Oh, young friends I have never met,
I thank you for the ripple,
for the way it has recharged in me a tide
so deep that currents leak out.
Thank you for restoring the great inner ocean
that sometimes turns desert, goes dry.
Thank you for reminding me,
pwease, do something you wike,
something that inspiwes you.
I remember now. Oh bless these salty tears.
I remember.


*

If you, too, could use a pep talk, or even if you don’t need one, call anyway: 707-873-7862

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