One year when I was a student in journalism school, it was announced that my class would be visited by one of the country’s most prominent journalists. Days before her arrival, the visit was cancelled. No reason was given, and our professors were tight-lipped. And then one day in early spring, news came that she had died of an illness she’d lived with for years and kept secret.
I remember a quote attributed to her: We must be kind, because we don’t know what other people are carrying around inside them.
Ask the hard questions, yes, as the journalist did. Have difficult conversations, because you care. But recognize the human in the being across from you.
I am a flawed human being, but I happen to like myself. Or at least tolerate myself. I expect people to cut me slack.
As you see yourself, I will try to see you.
I believe I am motivated by the best of intentions. I will assume you are, too, unless you prove otherwise. For proof I will set the bar high. If you go over it, you’re done. But I’ve never seen anyone go over that bar.
I detect you have some blind spots. It frustrates me that you can’t see them. Oh, that’s why they’re called blind spots. I acknowledge I must have them, too. If there’s a malady without a self-cure, it’s obliviousness. I promise to pause and consider what I’m not seeing, and ask questions, and listen to the answers. Well, I’ll try.
My head is full of thoughts and I am always in the grip of some emotion. I imagine the same is true of every person I meet on the street, every person on the bus, every person whose image greets me on Microsoft Teams. I will assume you have the same rich inner life I do, and that there’s plenty going on behind your neutral expression.
I might ask after the health of your cat. I might remember the names of your kids. I might ask about your cold. I don’t score high on the empathy scale; it’s something I have to work at. For me empathy is not a personality trait but a practice. It’s not what I am, it’s what I do. Empathy is being mindful.
I will try to be mindful.