Coming out of the restaurant she told me, “I love your hair! You look so sassy and smart!” The thank yous were still tumbling from my smile when she said, “But I guess that comes from the inside, doesn’t it..” My heart was smiling too.
Now, I consider myself pretty good at giving compliments, but this was something! She took “beautiful inside and out” to a whole new level. And she seemed as happy as I was, to give it. Bravo to the lady outside Martina’s Restaurant.
My mother was the first to teach me how to give a compliment. (And just by being herself, she gave me ample reason to want to.) She also taught me how to receive it, as the gift that is given.
It’s curious, we wouldn’t do it with a regular gift, refuse a birthday present let’s say. We wouldn’t put our hands out and say No! So why do so many do it with a compliment? “Oh no, not me,” or “not this old thing,” they’ll say, while backing themselves away. When really, thank you, is all that is needed. That is the reciprocal gift.
I’m still receiving this offering in the morning mirror. (Never underestimate the power of a compliment.) And I think the bar has been raised. So I challenge myself. I challenge you. Today, let’s give the compliments freely. (Even to ourselves.) And accept them with joy — so much joy that we have to bundle it and give it away again. Would that make us sassy? I don’t know, but it would make us smart!
I often use the word she when making a card. Some have asked, “Who is this she?” “All of us,” I reply, “possibly even me.” I say possibly because I’m not always there yet, but it’s where I want to be, who I want to become. So I “she” myself into being.
Change is rarely simple. And it can be frightening, this unknown territory. We want to know “what happens when…”; “what happens if…” But we aren’t always given the answers. Rarely even. What we’re given is the light coming through the crack of the door, and a choice — to let fear stop us, or to keep growing. Sometimes it becomes a space to let things go. Sometimes a pathway to move through. And the strongest of us — this she — is not afraid to do either. I am sometimes her. Each time I give her a voice. Write her. Paint her. The doors become a little less frightening. Even welcoming. And I become a little more she.
It’s what I wish for all of us. To be a little less afraid. A little more open. They’re only doors after all — a passage to possibility — to becoming anything, anyone!
Schools had many names for it — we called it bombardment — and indeed it was by definition “a continuous attack.” The rules were fairly simple.Two teams separated by the line in the middle of the gym. A ton of red rubber balls — thrown at each other until no one was left standing. I don’t know if it was a lesson in aggression or empathy, or just to work off our excess energy before the afternoon Humanities courses. I loved sports, but I never liked this game. To win, (and I’m not even sure what “winning” was) you had to dish it out a lot harder than you received it. And maybe it’s silly, but I didn’t like the sound of rubber hitting flesh. Especially by my own hand. So I threw it out in the way I wanted to receive it. Was it winning? Not by definition, but I could sit next to the girl in the following class and know it wasn’t me that left the “Voit” mark on her thigh.
It’s time for me to make new greeting cards. In today’s world of speed and technology, I like being a part of the act of kindness that still takes a slow hand. A card picked. A message written. An envelope addressed. A stamp adhered. Sealed. Posted. Sent. And when creating the messages on the cards, I think of not only what I’d like to say, but what I’d like to hear. (I hope I remember that in my daily conversations.) Before the new card is even printed, I have sent it in my heart and mind, many times.
This one came easily — this “…because we’re friends.” And I know I’ve been blessed with the kindness of friendship — a bombardment really. Wishing the same for all, this is what I’m throwing out there — this friendship, as we walk the hallway on our way to Humanities.
