Before you know what
kindness really is
you must lose
things, feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in
your hand,
what you counted and
carefully saved,
all this must go so
you know
how desolate the
landscape can be
between the regions
of kindness.
How you ride and
ride
thinking the bus
will never stop,
the passengers
eating maize and chicken
will stare out the
window forever.
Before you learn the
tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel
where the
Indian in a white
poncho lies dead
by the side of the
road.
You must see how
this could be you, how he too was someone who journeyed through the night
with plans and the
simple breath
that kept him alive.
Before you know
kindness
as the deepest thing
inside,
you must know sorrow
as the other deepest
thing.
You must wake up
with sorrow.
You must speak to it
till your voice
catches the thread
of all sorrows
and you see the size
of the cloth.
Then it is only
kindness
that makes sense
anymore,
only kindness that
ties your shoes
and sends you out
into the day
to mail letters and
purchase bread,
only kindness that
raises its head
from the crowd of
the world to say
it is I you have
been looking for,
and then goes with
you every where
like a shadow or a
friend.
~Naomi Shihab
Nye~
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