However, a good friend shared a gift with me recently and left a kind note as balm to my soul. So my goal during the rest of March, as we move towards Easter and a rededication to a better self, is to become less of a critic and more of a healer. May I share several ways towards kindness I’m planning to work on?
The Non-Critic, Lessons From a Piano Teacher
My piano teacher was a non-critic. When I played my hard-practiced piece for her at one lesson (even knowing that both of us had heard my mislaid notes), instead of bringing them to my attention, she focused on two sparkles she had found. “Marie,” she said, “that grandiose opening was particularly played with drama and I surely liked it when you did the trill with such accuracy. In fact, I would like to hear you play this piece again.” Her willingness to let me redo what needed redoing without undoing my ego usually allowed me to play the second time with more accuracy and skill.
She made me shine because she chose to shine me. And, yes, she sometimes corrected me, but after such kindness, the careful correction seemed merited and was more easily accepted. This repeated kindness has been remembered for all the years I was her student and through all my subsequent mishaps at the piano, both private and public. When I mess up, I can hear her voice telling me about the good at the beginning of the piece and the special interpretation at the end. “You did a great job with that complex chord” seems to ring in my soul. And thus, I want to be more non-critical like Mrs. Tonks.
The Un-Critic, Lessons from a Conversation
Everyone liked Mrs. C. She seemed liked a southern belle without the accent and to be in her presence was to be loved. She wasn’t the victim of criticism very often because of her pleasant personality, but heard it coming from the mouths of men and women quite frequently when she was socializing with others. When poison spat forth, especially when a certain gentleman of some distinction in the community was caught philandering his morality, she put the rumors to bed (no pun intended).
She simply, when such gossip began in her circle of conversation, chose to remember how this same gentleman had gotten up in the middle of the night to aid her family when serious illness had struck, how he had counseled her son when he was drifting afar; and finally, how he had raised an upright and intelligent daughter who made him proud on every side.
The wind always turned when Ruth was around. It wasn’t that she was excusing actions she didn’t approve of; it was that she chose to also bring out the scales. She chose to balance the criticism she heard with a good dose of another view, the perspective that chose to also see the gold in a soul. And so, I want to be braver like Mrs. C.
The Anti-Critic, Lessons from a Zipper
Mary Ann was a small girl in my fifth grade class. We didn’t particularly like her because she seemed timid and backward, but one day I learned from her that when others criticize, you can be the ultimate tutor by your own anti-criticism. It was a small matter, really. Her cousin, who was in our same classroom, had left his zipper undone after a trip to the bathroom. We whispered viciously around the room about it, laughing softly because the teacher was gone and because it seemed glorious to find fault. When the whispered comments reached her ear, she deftly and firmly rose, much to our surprise, and walked to her cousin’s side.
After a quiet plea, they departed from the room and returned with the zipper up. Silence filled our classroom as we dropped our heads in reddened shame. Not only did she defend her own, but she taught me, even when I was nine, that criticism can be stopped in its tracks by self-initiative. And therefore, I want to be more proactive like Mary Ann.
All these faces of kindness are from my past. Some of these people have gone to their reward, but their willingness to counter criticism with various forms of kindness come again and again to remind me that to criticize is to kill the soul, whereas to be kind is to heal the same.
Why, oh Why, Lessons from the Silenced Horn
Finally, I must speak of my second mother. She came into my life with marriage and was in close proximity during most of my adult life. It was she who profoundly silenced my previous encounter with the incessant why from an unkind peer. You see, before her influence, in another time and place during my young adult life, with a dominant friend at the university, I had been subjected to the why question again and again. It was like a constant horn blast to my heart. Why did I wear my hair that way? Why was I walking today instead of using my bike? Why did I wash the dishes with a rag instead of a sponge? Why did I wear the brown shoes when black would have looked so much better? The why, why, why always hurt. It just seemed so unkind.
Then Mom came onto the scene of my life’s play. She never seemed overly curious nor asked why I did what I did. She didn’t seem to worry; she just trusted. If I liked to wear my brown shoes, she commented that brown seemed to bring out the highlights in my hair. When she found I used a dishrag instead of a sponge to scrub my sink, as was her habit, she thought it a grand option. When she saw me with a different hairdo, she likened my creativity to that of a mentor she knew I adored. She was kindly, through and through, and I knew I was safe in her presence.
The Yellow Tulips, Lessons from the Anonymous
Oh, I want to be kind, generous, and giving. I want to eliminate criticism from my head, my heart, and my soul. I want to be more zealous to see the golden and ignore the dross. I want to stand for all I can find that is glorious and let the sordid fall unnoticed. I want to be like the one who left yellow tulips on my porch one gray spring morning with a simple note of definitive praise and gratitude. For me, it is those who shine my soul that have special place in my memory. And the good they did for me then, still shines me up today!
©2010 Marie Calder Ricks/www.houseoforder.com
