ON THE MARK: Compassion is where you look

Lately, I’ve been searching for compassion in our public discourse. Actually, I’ve been longing for more discourse, period. The kind where people listen carefully to each other and honor the rights of each to hold differing points of view, even when they strongly disagree on values or courses of action. Instead, our ability to engage with each other across class, race, gender, political and philosophical divides seems to be deteriorating.

I find it elating when conversing with someone who feels free to express her or his points of view, including how passionately or lukewarmly they hold them. I recall a friend telling me that in the heat of the Clinton/Trump electoral contest, she sat beside a Trump supporting businessman whose rationales ran totally counter to her own. But they managed to talk about the Clinton/Trump election for hours on a flight to Europe without rancor, each intrigued by the other’s reasoning.

Many of our great spiritual leaders and philosophers have lived compassionate lives. Christ often gathered and lifted up poor people, prostitutes, and foreigners, saving his dissent for the wealthy or those abusing political or religious power. Mahatma Gandhi organized against tyranny, both in South Africa and India, embracing non-violence and welcoming all comers. Martin Luther King, greatly influenced by Gandhi, preached and led non-violent civil rights marches through the South. But he also lifted up the poor, the despised, and the beaten down. In our current era, the Dalai Lama, the spiritual leader of the Tibetan people, leads both spiritually and politically.

When I was a child, our grade school Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet taught us much about compassion. Not just through instruction, but by their own example and their gentle responses to the inevitable scraps kids get into. They spoke strongly about their beliefs, but were tolerant of our questions, skepticism and disagreements. They encouraged us to inquire and think for ourselves.

It’s hard to be compassionate towards others, including animals and even machines, that misbehave. But sometimes the most outrageous behavior is a yelp for help. And it’s sometimes hard to be compassionate towards yourself. British scholar of religion, Karen Armstrong, in her book, Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Live, writes an entire chapter on “Compassion for Yourself.” Her chapters include “How Should We Speak to One Another?” and “Love Your Enemies.” I have to admit having a hard time with the latter.

Books have helped me ponder compassion and work on it as practice. A staple is Being Peace

by Thich Nhat Hanh, the Vietnamese Buddhist monk who opposed the Viet Nam war. The book includes a long prose poem, “Please Call Me By My True Names.”

PLEASE CALL ME BY MY TRUE NAMES

Don’t say that I will depart tomorrow—

even today I am still arriving.

Look deeply: every second I am arriving

to be a bud on a Spring branch,

to be a tiny bird, with still-fragile wings,

learning to sing in my new nest,

to be a caterpillar in the heart of a flower,

to be a jewel hiding itself in a stone.

I still arrive, in order to laugh and to cry,

to fear and to hope.

The rhythm of my heart is the birth and death

of all that is alive.

I am the mayfly metamorphosing

on the surface of the river.

And I am the bird

that swoops down to swallow the mayfly.

I am the frog swimming happily

in the clear water of a pond.

And I am the grass-snake

that silently feeds itself on the frog.

I am the child in Uganda, all skin and bones,

my legs as thin as bamboo sticks.

And I am the arms merchant,

selling deadly weapons to Uganda.

I am the twelve-year-old girl,

refugee on a small boat,

who throws herself into the ocean

after being raped by a sea pirate.

And I am the pirate,

my heart not yet capable

of seeing and loving.

I am a member of the politburo,

with plenty of power in my hands.

And I am the man who has to pay

his “debt of blood” to my people

dying slowly in a forced-labor camp.

My joy is like Spring, so warm

it makes flowers bloom all over the Earth.

My pain is like a river of tears,

so vast it fills the four oceans.

Please call me by my true names,

so I can hear all my cries and my laughter at once,

so I can see that my joy and pain are one.

Please call me by my true names,

so I can wake up,

and so the door of my heart

can be left open,

the door of compassion.

https://bolstablog.wordpress.com/2011/12/09/true-names/

Our media isn’t much help. Television and movies lean heavily towards portraying violence, narcissism and dysfunctional relationships. A British TV series, available on Netflix, that models compassion beautifully, Call the Midwife, probes how a group of young midwives, housed in a convent and working in the tough 1950’s East End of London, work around poverty, dysfunctional relationships, and ignorance to build strong relationships with each other and solve daunting problems with their clients.

It’s hard to tolerate hateful speech, derogatory put-downs of others, and dismissive gestures towards values and beliefs I hold dearly. But then I think of a very charitable view my good friend Julia shared with me many years ago: “Most people are doing the best they can.” Now that is compassion.

Ann Markusen is an economist and professor emerita at University of Minnesota. She lives in Red Clover Township north of Cromwell with her husband, Rod Walli.