Another week wanes. June is sneaking through the back door. Nearly one-half of this year has slipped through the net. We can’t catch time. We can only immerse ourselves in it, and flow along.

There’s no news about Sophie. I called yesterday and today and was told the report hadn’t come in yet. Drat. Now I have to wait until Tuesday to find out if this is benign. Her belly is healing up nicely, and she’s back to her regular quirky, perky behavior.

This evening I’ve tended to job tasks — setting up final tests for our students. I also tinkered with my art page, neatening the photo edges and adding borders. It looks pretty nice, I think.

I’ve been devouring books lately. I have a voracious appetite, and perhaps a bit of a compulsion to remain absorbed in words, a story. Lately I’m reading mostly memoir, biography, or fiction, though soon I plan to start Peter Kramer’s recent book.

Meanwhile, we have our good days and bad days. I’m not speaking only of the “royal we,” but of we who reside in the household. Grief has made us fragile. A small tension can jolt our equilibrium. I’m irascible; my edges protrude, I’m angry about certain things (sometimes I’m just angry but don’t know why), and I’m finding little compassion within. We don’t have much to spare for ourselves, for each other, or for the needs of other members of our tribe.

Still, I read the following with interest, and was heartened:

Compassion has been advocated by all the great faiths because it has been found to be the safest and surest means of attaining enlightenment. It dethrones the ego from the center of our lives and puts others there, breaking down the carapace of selfishness that holds us back from an experience of the sacred. And it gives us ecstasy, broadening our perspectives and giving us a larger, enhanced vision. As a very early Buddhist poem puts it: “May our loving thoughts fill the whole world; above, below, across — without limit; a boundless goodwill toward the whole world, unrestricted, free of hatred and enmity.” We are liberated from personal likes and dislikes that limit our vision, and are able to go beyond ourselves.

This insight is not confined to Buddhism, however. The late Jewish scholar Abraham Joshua Heschel once said that when we put ourselves at the opposite pole of ego, we are in a place where God is. The Golden Rule requires that every time we are tempted to say or do something unpleasant about a rival, an annoying colleague, or a country with which we are at war, we should ask ourselves how we should like this said of or done to ourselves, and refrain. In that moment we would transcend the frightened egotism that often needs to wound or destroy others in order to shore up the sense of ourselves. If we lived in such a way on a daily, hourly basis, we would not only have no time to worry overmuch about whether there was a personal god “out there”; we would achieve constant ecstasy, because we would be ceaselessly going beyond ourselves, our selfishness and greed.

–Karen Armstrong, The Spiral Staircase: My Climb Out of Darkness

There is someone in my life for whom I am struggling to find compassion. And, while I may write thoughtfully on this blog and provide numerous illuminating quotes, I remain hobbled by my own ego and selfishness. Posting this material here is my praxis. Surely with enough repetition, I will heal and re-shape my response to the world, and to this person.

Bill Bryson, in his book I’m a Stranger Here Myself: Notes on Returning to America After Twenty Years Away, wrote a compelling address to a graduating class. All of the speech was notable, but two parts grabbed my shirt collar and shook me.

Take a moment from time to time to remember that you are alive. I know this sounds a trifle obvious, but it is amazing how little time we take to remark upon this singular and gratifying fact. By the most astounding stroke of luck an infinitesimal portion of all the matter in the universe came together to create you and for the tiniest moment in the great span of eternity you have the incomparable privilege to exist.

For endless eons there was no you. Before you know it, you will cease to be again. And in between you have this wonderful opportunity to see and feel and think and do. Whatever else you do with your life, nothing will remotely compare wiht the incredible accomplishment of having managed to get yourself born. Congratulations. Well done. You really are special.

Ah, Bill, how I wish ye lived on my shoulder to whisper this whenever I forget. But let me not neglect an equally important point. Bryson continues:

But not that special. There are five billion other people on this planet, every one of them just as important, just as central to the great scheme of things, as you are. Don’t ever make the horrible, unworthy mistake of thinking yourself more vital and significant than anyone else. Nearly all the people you encounter in life merit your consideration. Many of them will be there to help you — to deliver your pizza, bag your groceries, clean up the motel room you have made such a lavish mess of. If you are not in the habit of being extremely nice to these people, then get in the habit now.

Millions more people, most of whom you will never meet or even see, won’t help you, indeed can’t help you, may not even be able to help themselves. They deserve your compassion. We live in a sadly heartless age, when we seem to have less and less space in our consciences and our pocketbooks for the poor and lame and dispossessed, particularly those in far-off lands. I am making it your assignment to do something about it.

Again, the reminder is a worthy one. What about you? What one thing, however small, will you do — today — to better the world? One small action will have a positive impact. Yes. It really will. Ah, you wonder what it is I’ve done? Well, today I ordered books to give to my ten students at the end of the year. (The fourth graders will get The Cricket in Times Square, and the fifth graders will receive Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH.) I also wrote a check to support Modest Needs. I’ll see you that and raise you one act of kindness.

I highly recommend you get your hands on this book. Bryson’s puckish, astute views on life and his ability to poke fun at himself make me hope he continues writing for a long, long time to come.

As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them.

–John Fitzgerald Kennedy

Every girl should have a mother, I think, not the sort of predatory monster sketched out and whined about in pop-psych books designed to cop a chunk of the bestseller trade, but an ordinary mother like mine, flawed but serviceable, who will hang your kindergarten plaque in her kitchen and teach you to sew an invisible hem in your skirts and stay up watching a late movie with you both because she likes you and because she likes the movie. She may, like mine, take some of her responsibilities too seriously, especially in matters (not entirely unrelated) of politeness and sex, and in this way cause you a good bit of unnecessary teeth gnashing and sleeplessness. But unless, unlike mine, she’s some kind of nut, you’ll learn to interpret the clamp of emotional hands on your spirit as one of love’s shape-shifting signs and to pry her fingers free without breaking them or the heart they clutch.

At the same time, every girl should have a not-mother, a woman who has, in every sense, no stake in you. If you’re a bad child, no one will blame her. And she has a much narrower interpretation of badness than your mother, anyway. Almost nothing you do seems to strike her as bad. A lot more of what you do strikes her as funny. Like when you build a “cat house,” you solemnly tell her, for sleek, striped Minnie. Or when you lather yourself lavishly with the expensive soap from S.S. Pierce shaped exactly like a lemon, with a lemon’s maddening pungency. She’s under no obligation to warn you that certain words “aren’t nice” or to exhort you to thrift. She’s under no obligation at all. That’s what a girl needs: a woman who’s free to love her without fretting whether she’s going to grow up to be all right.

–Nancy Mairs, Remembering the Bone House: an Erotics of Space & Place

All I know is that people never penetrate the veiled consciousness that earns me the label “dreamy” (though it isn’t dreaminess unless life itself is, after all, a dream). Places do. I can establish a direct relationship with the slant of sun across a rug, the smell of blueberry bushes or mud flats, the scratch of sand inside a wet bathing suit, pale creamy oatmeal in a blue-and-white bowl, hot and sweet. These things speak to me as people do not.

–Nancy Mairs, Remembering the Bone House: an Erotics of Place & Space