I love this little chapter that I am moved to share here from Bearing the Unbearable. Joanne Cacciatore's personal story of the death of her infant daughter Cheyenne is woven through this heartfelt gem of a little book. In "Kindness Projects," I feel deeply validated in both my own loss and also how I am able to remember my twin brother in an ongoing way ― one which both makes a positive difference and keeps John alive in my heart. Such a gift this is.
Yes, it has been over 45 years since my brother's suicide. And the journey of grieving is without end. While the rawness has lost its intensity, my love for John has not. I will always love and miss my "womb-mate," as my twin used to refer to us. And I also continue to hold John close in my heart ― and this often includes when I reach out in kindness towards another human being or animal or the Earth. Many times ― as I hand a dollar and granola bar to the homeless person on the corner, avail my support and compassion and love to friends or family in need, as I march or rally on behalf of refugees or any marginalized people or the planet, or any other expression of compassion and caring ― I often repeat to myself that this act of kindness is in memory of you, John. In memory of you, my beloved brother.
The ways in which we can extend ourselves in caring and compassion and kindness, anonymously or not, toward others ― and in memory of those we have lost ― is endless.
And then, all is not lost. Instead, pain becomes wisdom, loss becomes giving, ruptures become connection, and death adds something to the life of another. As Dr. Jo wisely states, "Suffering endured becomes compassion expressed." And I am filled, not just with grief, but rather also with deep gratitude, tenderness, compassion, caring, wisdom, and love. Blessed be. 🙏💗 Molly
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| At a rally on behalf of refugees |
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| With my brother, John, 1953 |
It was December 24 ― a long five months since Cheyenne's death ― and I had mustered the courage to walk through the aisles of Toys "R" Us, snotty tissues in my coat pockets, buying random toys for random children, dimly imagined. Walking up and down the aisles, surrounded by babies and young children, my body was seized with emotional pain, and I want to sprint, wailing, from the store. But I didn't. I took my finds to the checkout and paid for them.
Later that day, I wrapped each gift, carefully, and placed them in a large, white garbage bag ― like the kind I used to collect dead leaves fallen from the cottonwood tree ― and, again, I wept.
I didn't have a plan for distributing the toys. I only knew that from being with my pain, I would also be with my love for her.
So I packed up my car and headed out, getting onto the freeway. I'd intended to go to the children's hospital but ended up at a local Head Start program. I didn't actually want to see the children, so I gave my garbage bag of gifts to the center's director.
Word of the Kindness Project spread through the bereaved community.
On July 27, 2011 ― the day we would declare International Kindness Project Day ― more than 10,000 people around the world united to make use of free Kindness Project cards to engage in random acts of anonymous kindness in memory of a loved one who had died.
Since then, more than 2,000,000 acts of kindness have occurred globally in the United States and abroad ― in Romania, Australia, Paraguay, Bermuda, the Netherlands, Spain, Mexico, New Zealand, Chile, Italy, Malta, and more ― through the Kindness Project.
One couple anonymously paid for meals at a restaurant in memory of their son.
A woman randomly wrapped a twenty-dollar bill around a Kindness Card and left it for a stranger to find.
Another made handmade dresses to ship to Haitian children in memory of her daughter who'd died twenty-four years earlier.
A couple paid for the adoption of sixteen dogs in memory of their sixteen-year-old son and left seventeen potted flowers next to random cars in memory of their seventeen-year-old daughter.
One person went to a bookstore and bought a stack of her favorite childhood books, then gave them to the cashier to give away to random children in memory of the daughter to whom she would never read again.
One mother and her four-year-old daughter delivered bouquets of flowers to people in nursing homes in memory of their respective son and brother and of the girl's grandparents.
One person anonymously tended to her ill neighbor's yard in memory of her nephew.
Another bought coffee for the person behind her in line ― which set off a ripple of kindnesses that lasted through several more other people as each paid for another.
Regarding her experience of engaging in Kindness Projects, one woman expressed a sentiment I've heard from myriad others: "I am thankful that I can finally see beyond my grief and still be a light in the lives of others, thanks to my son, who showed me how to love."
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While grieving the death of someone loved will last a lifetime, if we are able to remain close to our original wound, honestly, being with it and surrendering to it, we can experience a kind of transcendence, a transfiguration. Meaningful moments arise in continuous rhythm. Our hearts are completely, lastingly broken open, turned outward toward others, even others quite unlike us.
We begin to realize oneness in an undeniably personal way.
When we cannot hold in our arms our loved ones who've died, we hold them in our hearts. This is being with grief.
When we cannot look into their eyes, we tender their vision of compassion where it's most needed. This is doing with grief.
In every moment without them, we do all we can for others. This is compassion.
Nothing is more mysteriously central to becoming fully human than this process.
― Joanne Cacciatore
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