Developing our sympathetic compassion is not only possible but the only reason for us to be here on earth. – George Saunders
I’ve never really had a hero before, but I realized the other day that George Saunders is mine. Saunders is a writer and teacher, author of the Booker Prize–winning novel Lincoln in the Bardo, and a ton of other brilliant work, including my personal favourite, A Swim in the Pond in the Rain. In this profoundly wise, surprisingly funny, and endlessly useful masterclass on reading and writing, Saunders talks about writing in a way that deeply resonates with me and my work as an editor. But what has always struck me most is how unstintingly generous he is, how he can manage to articulate specific, practicable ideas about writing without ever sounding, well, like a pretentious dick about it.
Once I found out he’s a regular meditator, it all made that much more sense. He recently gave an interview to The New York Times, in which he talks about kindness, writing, and meditation. The interviewer mentions a commencement speech Saunders gave at his alma mater, Syracuse University, about the value of kindness. The talk went viral, turning him into, as the interviewer half-jokingly says, something of a “secular saint.” Saunders, naturally, rolls his eyes at this, and clarifies that he isn’t some paragon of kindness, but a fallible human who fails to be kind all the time. This is probably what I admire most about Saunders: he understands kindness as a practice, not an end. He talks about coming to realize that kindness is not about niceness so much as it is about awareness—being aware of, and truly present with, another person.
Which brings us to this month’s theme at CEC: compassion. The root of the word means “to suffer with.” We are all overwhelmed these days with stories of suffering, and it can be almost unendurable, trying to keep in mind the suffering of all those who are enduring war and persecution and injustice. But I don’t think that having compassion means we should suffer, too. Shinzen Young defines suffering, in his charmingly nerdy way, with this equation: suffering = pain x resistance. If suffering comes from resisting whatever is happening, then true compassion is about being present with the pain of others, acknowledging it; it means, perhaps, focusing at least as much on the “with” as on the “suffer.”
What’s the point of having compassion for someone else’s suffering—shouldn’t I just try to alleviate it? What about trying to have compassion for someone who causes suffering to others? While it might seem impossible to have compassion for some—say, a tyrannical world leader wreaking havoc on democracy—the effort to cultivate that compassion doesn’t mean what they’re doing is okay. Compassion doesn’t mean condoning, but it does start with trying to see the humanity in everyone.
What’s happening in Minnesota right now is a compelling example of compassion at work: neighbours seeing neighbours suffering, acknowledging that suffering, and stepping up in ways that are genuinely heroic. Bringing groceries to those who are afraid to leave their homes, coordinating rides for detainees, and defending the vulnerable, sometimes with their lives. Awareness and compassion go hand in hand, and equip us to act in the world, sometimes—most powerfully—against injustice.
Heroes and villains aside, I’m most curious about the people who forget to choose kindness in the course of their day—me, you, and George Saunders included. Why do we forget to choose kindness? Well, for me, it’s often because I’m in a rush. That person is taking soooo long in front of me in line! Don’t they know that I’m a busy person with things to do? Or, even more often, it’s because I’m feeling hurt or scared or judged. That driver nearly ran me off the road! He must hate cyclists. Or he’s an asshole. If I try to have compassion for that person, by remembering that they’re likely absorbed in their own thoughts and troubles, I’m not saying it’s cool that they nearly killed me, but that it’s understandable that they weren’t thinking about me, the same way I wasn’t really thinking about the other pedestrian when I was rushing down a crowded, unplowed sidewalk, or when I spoke thoughtlessly, or was sarcastic when a friend needed sincerity.
And here’s the toughest move for me: trying to have compassion for that person, too, the self that doesn’t always choose kindness, that isn’t always aware, that fails every day to be their preferred self. That person also deserves compassion. In those moments when I can generate compassion for myself—to love what I find unlovable—I increase the measure of compassion in myself for others, too.
Having compassion doesn’t mean being nice, which has a kind of flattening effect, but being kind, which begins with awareness. What do you need? Maybe it’s just for someone to listen. To be present with you when you are in pain. What do I need? Maybe it’s the same thing: to listen to myself. To be present. To be with whatever is happening, even—maybe especially—when it hurts.
This month, we invite you to cultivate compassionate ways of being with our fallible selves and imperfect others, and perhaps find some solace in the practice.
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