Dear Torri,
Before leaving for breakfast with my friend one morning, she received a call. I sat and listened, starving. (I’m always “starving,” though.) I could tell it was serious. She did more listening than talking plus she spoke very kindly but firmly. I loved watching and listening to her: I know she has a big heart, but I don’t usually get to see her in action.
She always tells me stories. For example, on her way home from work one night, she saw an elderly woman sitting by a tree on the side of the road, piqued. Of course, nobody stopped to see if this woman was alright except my friend. The old woman had walked too far in the heat and couldn’t make it home because of her age and frailty, so my friend drove her.
She doesn’t tell me these stories — and she has a lot of them to tell — for any type of recognition, although, of course, I spoil her with praise every time. She tells me because, when she tells me about her day, these moments invariably form a part of it, along with her magnanimous decency and casual heroism. She honestly doesn’t think anything of it, though.
For a couple of years, I would stop and chat with Bobby each morning on the way to my daily, coffee-shop writing appointment. He “lived” on the corner across the street. Other than his homelessness, I considered him merely another acquaintance. We talked about what anyone who saw each other every day would talk about — the weather, how’s work (mine), weekend plans? I missed him when he wasn’t there, like any friend.
I don’t consider myself special, either. In fact, I consider myself a failure. I could have and should have done so much more for Bobby than I did. Why didn’t I? I thought about it, but it felt like something I couldn’t do. I told myself, I didn’t know how to help him. Lately, I have written a lot of letters like this — it doesn’t make this one any less special, though — because this feels like something I can do.
To be honest, even this exhausts me. If you commit yourself to this process, you have to assume the burdens of the people you write to; it doesn’t work any other way. You must empathize — wear their pain to understand it first, then help them get out of it next. I couldn’t possibly understand the burden that you and others like you carry who actually help people instead of just writing them letters.
it looked like a little part of the soul of everyone they had helped had become a part of their own…
I watched people I knew who did what you do slowly balloon. They looked like they had filled up with hot air, first gradually, then more quickly, as if, eventually, they would burst. Of course, it stemmed from very ordinary things — sleeping too little, eating and drinking too much to cope. I remember thinking, it looked like a little part of the soul of everyone they had helped had become a part of their own soul over time.
It gave me pause and still does, about helping others in any serious way, but something in me, like something in you, can’t look away, either. We do the things we do because we have to, because we doubt others will if we don’t; so we care for other people, on behalf of other people. I can’t tell you not to do it any more than I can tell myself not to do it. I think I can give you only one piece of advice, which applies to me, too.
Tend to your own needs the way you attend to those of others. You probably treat strangers with greater kindness than yourself, so treat yourself like a stranger sometimes, if you must, to get what you need. You know the pain people show is a fraction of the pain they have; why do you think you’re any different? You think you can “handle it,” but you know not everyone can manage on their own, not always. Accept what you give; it’s only fair.
It takes more time than you think for it not to feel odd anymore, though; I know. Recently, I saw a video on the internet of a woman hugging her friend. The friend resisted the hug, but you could see on her face, when she relented, how badly she wanted and needed it. She absorbed the love of the other person; you could see it. I once fought what I wanted most, though not anymore. I think we give what we want. However, don’t love others as a way to love or to avoid loving yourself.
As I get along, the more I think nothing really matters except the needs of those around us. Not merely loving them, but caring for them, also. If joy is hugging someone who needs it, then happiness is when hugging that person pleases you, also. We must seek both if we wish to give both. We cannot give what we do not have. One is essential, the other very nearly so. It is not selfish, either; when healthy, we can do the most good.
Torri, I wish you the ability to help as many people as you can and the satisfaction that you did so.
Sincerely,
David