Compassion. I think of blue-violet for spiritual strength and pink for the heart. Online dictionaries use more than 40 words to define compassion. My father used 12: never judge another man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes.
This phrase has hovered over me like an invisible angel, urging me toward the critical balance between understanding someone else’s pain and teetering into co-dependence or fear. The trick—so tricky indeed—is in understanding compassion’s first mandate: thou shall not judge. The second mandate is to understand that the long arms of empathy can reach around me when I need them.
I was a twelve-year-old girl, and spent time watching adults and trying to live from behind their eyes. On my bus rides to school, I would pick a person and imagine that I could see through her eyes, hear through her ears, and feel the sun on her skin. It was my small way of learning to “walk in another’s shoes.”
But by 1963, when I was fifteen, my belief in compassion was shattered as America struggled to find the compassion in its own national heart. There were assassinations—Medgar Evers and President Kennedy—the bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham and murder of four girls; televised scenes of fire hoses and German Shepherds as Southern bigots attacked civil rights protestors; and George Wallace’s cry of “segregation forever,” as he blocked the door to the University of Alabama. This was the year of the great March on Washington with Dr. King. But the politics of the times, not unlike those of today, belittled compassion. Empathy, it seemed, had gone with the wind.
Then there was Evelyne (not her real name).
As a high school sophomore, Evelyne was more than six feet tall, almost a full 12 inches above me. She played hockey and had muscular arms like my father who, by the way, was a brick mason. Her almond colored face had pock marks and lumps that looked as if she’d been beaten many times by fist or stick; but her eyes were large and deep brown, and, on a good day, she would smile and her face looked soft and welcoming. Evelyne was also a bully, and the day she confronted me was not one of her good days.
To say that the prospect of fighting her scared me to my very core is no exaggeration. It was all rather ridiculous; a clear case of the fox and the hen; David and Goliath; Bambi and Godzilla. I remember those brown eyes widening with disbelief as she towered over me, lowering her face into mine, as my mouth issued the challenge, “Come on!” Everyone around us laughed, but I never broke eye contact; not once.
I think I learned in that challenge that compassion was not just for others, but for my own self. It would be easy to run, or allow myself to be beaten. But really, in addition to learning to live behind others’ eyes, I had to learn to live behind my own. I had to accept my own strength, acknowledge my own right to self-protection and safety. This was the compassionate thing to do. It is a life-long lesson.
In a move that surprised us both, Evelyne laughed (well, it was more like this wheezing-growl thing as she showed her teeth), turned to her friends and said something to the effect of “It would be mean to beat up a crazy person.” Then she and her buddies walked away.
Over the years, I have been advised that empathy is our natural instinct. Perhaps Evelyne just thought I was the most ridiculous thing she had ever seen. But perhaps she, the sad victim of who knows how much abuse herself, had a moment of compassion. I will never know.
What I do know is that we are at another critical moment nationally. If we can just keep at it, just keep at it; tone down our judgments, pull back the rhetoric, stop the polarized threatening and the bullying; walk a mile in each other’s shoes. Walk a mile in each other’s shoes. Walk a mile in each other’s shoes. We may just find compassion again.
Sala
Warrior
So, who is a warrior?
My last post generated some one on one discussion. In ancient times, it was easy to recognize a warrior. Skill and courage were the identifiers. Armor and weapons were the reward. A real warrior was honored for having the heart to do battle. I was reminded of this while talking to a friend about bullies, of all things. The root term of courage is cuer, a 14th century Latin term for heart. This means that in order to be a true warrior in one’s life, a person must approach each circumstance with heart. Recently, I’ve been studying a beautiful text on this very thing with a group of friends, and wouldn’t you know? It was about the courage to live from the heart. Fighting alone doesn’t take heart. Any angry animal can fight. But heart, yeah, that makes a warrior. Then, why does this seem easier said than done?
In continuing this conversation, my friend and I ventured into what it means to be a compassionate warrior and how that applies to how we treat ourselves. So, then, (of course) we found ourselves discussing bullies. They come in all types. There are intellectual, school yard, and employer bullies. There are lawyers, robo-call marketers, and anonymous phone call bullies. There are certainly political and religious bullies. The planet is full of them.
We were trying to determine what makes a person a bully, and we decided that intention is what makes a person a bully. The intent to dis-empower another person by fostering feelings of fear, weakness, shame, and unworthiness or to undermine another’s self-confidence and foster feelings of hopelessness and powerlessness makes a person a bully.
We continued to talk (it was long conversation), and I saw that we were barking up the wrong tree. The real question is not about bullies. The real question is: who is a warrior? And then my friend said something to give me pause: She said “A bully cannot bully without our permission.” By extension, this means that a warrior does not give her permission to be bullied. Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”
So, who is a warrior?
When I hung up the phone, I thought about this. I thought, ”I am the compassionate warrior I’ve been waiting for.” Years ago, I received a “gift” in the form of a blessing written on a slip of paper. It was from someone I respected highly, and the word on the slip of paper was “warrior.” Later on, I received a gift from someone else that was a necklace made of Amazonite. This is a stone that is said to bolster self-confidence and self-worth. I was beginning to sense a strong message. While my teenage confrontation (see last post) was a beginning in being a compassionate warrior for myself, learning to live as a warrior is a life-long commitment.
In today’s world, the fighting turf has changed. Bullies are sophisticated, waving scriptural texts, law books, flags, and even job lay-offs as threats. All are designed to do one thing: foster feelings of fear, hopelessness, and unworthiness. We can take heart and treat ourselves compassionately; become compassionate warriors on our own behalf, shift with the turf, and fight with new rules. Rule number one: a bully cannot bully without our permission.
Take heart. Size ‘em up; take ‘em on.
I invite you to join the conversation. Stay well.
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Posted in Commentary, Creative nonfiction, Inspiration, Life Stories, Reflection, Writing
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