Eye Contact

A couple of years ago, when my nephew Hans
was recovering from surgery, he wondered aloud,
"What the heck is wrong with people
who refuse to make eye contact?"

I am proud to see that none other than Maya Angelou (above)
agrees with my response to him (below):

Dear Hans --

Keep on striving for that eye contact and don't worry about those who don't acknowledge. A few will and it will make your day -- and theirs. Years ago, when email was first a thing, your dad [my oldest brother, Dave] and I had a correspondence going about this same topic.

He was up in Pittsburgh, KS, at the time, and I was in Philly. Our plan was that he would walk around campus all day civilly nodding to all who crossed his path, and I would do the same in my neighborhood -- which was typical behavior for us anyway, but this time we would keep track of how many would respond with eye contact. The disappointing result was -- very few! Sometimes not a single person in an entire day!

What's wrong with them? Somehow it just seems to pain many people to acknowledge that they are surrounded by fellow travelers on the planet. Something has made them afraid and tight in their hearts. But don't ever stop trying to share that smile! I'm still at it, and soon your energy will return and you'll be back at it too!

XOXO, Aunt Kit

Post Script from Dave:

"And it didn't stop me from continuing to nod in open acceptance
and truly enjoy the occasional return. Hang in there Son."

****************

Post Script from Tony ~ 2019

Small Kindnesses

I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying.
And sometimes, when you spill lemons
from your grocery bag, someone else will help you
pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress
to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,
and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,
have my seat,” “Go ahead—you first,” “I like your hat.”

Danusha Laméris