The more I feel like I’m coming back to life, the less I want to say.
Partly, the new cocktail I’m on is still making me a bit stupid. While writing seems to make sense for the most part, my face-to-face conversations are quite comical. Thankfully, my doctor is helping me work on that adjustment.
I wonder about the different aspects of my personality. I didn’t learn how to be personal with my kindness. I have performed random acts of kindness, I let people in front of me in the grocery line, and many others things, but never for recognition. I would give my last dime to someone in need. Because it’s part of who I am.
Empathy and compassion? I have tons of it. Kindness with a personal touch–when a person gives of themselves and knowing the perfect thing to do–that’s a bit elusive to me. The tiny personal thing that makes a huge difference in the lives of others.
That special personal act of honoring or making someone feel special.
My brother loved his guitars, and had several. When his fingers became too numb from diabetic neuropathy, he gave a guitar to our oldest, who shared his love of playing the guitar.
On a visit my husband took to Seattle, our oldest son, daughter, and my husband decided to visit the grave sites of my brother and dad.
As the three left the grave of my brother, our son placed a guitar pick on the top of my brother’s gravestone.
Our daughter puts flowers on the grave of my sister. She does it for me.
That’s the kindness I lack, but it doesn’t mean it has to remain that way. As I continue on my journey of learning to be kind and respectful of myself, I hope the rest falls into place.