You often say, “I would give, but only to the deserving.” The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pastures. They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish.

-Kahlil Gibran

I grew up on the Ohio River in Louisville, Kentucky. The house where we lived, and my parents still live, was not too far from the River. I moved away from the River when I was 18. I returned at the age of 39. My time away taught me that I had learned many lessons from the River. In this daily passage, Nepo draws from Mencius, saying, “just as water unobstructed will flow downhill, we, given the chance to be what we are, will extend ourselves in kindness.”

What I learned about kindness from the River

Kindness is powerful.

I learned about the River’s power at a very young age. Floods crested over major roads and destroyed homes in it path. Ice halted the traffic of barges and boat shipping goods across the country. Bridges of huge expanses of steel allowed for movement across the River’s shore. The River’s power is felt everyday. The power of kindness is felt everyday, too. The small acts of kindness between strangers. The huge acts of kindness that save lives. Acts of kindness known and unknown. Acts of kindness change our world. I have read empirical evidence that supports the idea that the chemical make-up of our body changes for the better (stress hormones are reduced, for example) when acting or experiencing kindness. That is power.

There is a sound to kindness.

When I think back to growing up on the River, there are distinct sounds that create memories. A steamboat calliope playing. A barge horn blowing. Dam locks opening. These sounds are truly unique. These sounds put me immediately at the River’s edge. Kindness has a sound, too. Kindness sounds like children’s laughter. Kindness sounds like a cat’s purr. Kindness sounds like the deep breath of a real hug. Kindness sounds like a mandolin, to me. Happy. Bubbly. Quick.

Kindness flows.

Standing by the River, its flow is unmistakable. In the winter, the River flows at the speed of ice and slumber.  In the spring, when the winter snow has melted, the River rises and the flows with a fierce intensity making way for new life. In the summer, the River moves at the speed of sunshine. Relaxed. Not in any real hurry. The flow of fall is more pageant speed. The brilliant trees wave their leaves and the River’s flow celebrates. Kindness flows, too. The flow of kindness ripples. The flow of kindness multiples. The flow of kindness is hopeful, optimistic, and positive. The flow of kindness takes unexpected twists and turns toward gentle surprise.

Kindness is home.

The River has always meant home to me. Wherever the direction of my life has taken me, the River has always been home. It is constant. Unpretentiously real. Beautifully humble. Magnetic in the truest sense. I am drawn to it. Kindness is home, too. There is something reflexive to kindness that if I allow myself to get swept away in kindness I breathe it in like I do home.