Joanne Cacciatore: Kindness Projects ― and Another Way That I Remember and Honor My Brother

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

At a rally on behalf of refugees

With my brother, John, 1953

 

Kindness Projects

 

Our loss, our wound, is precious to us because it can

wake us up to love, and to loving action.

― Norman Fischer

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.

This is not how I planned it to be.

It's not what I wanted.

My world, shattering over and over every single second, seemed unbearable.

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. 

She thanked me.

I didn't want to be thanked.

I didn't want to be recognized.

 

If I could have just deposited the toys outside the front door, that would have felt better to me. 

Still, I allowed her expression of gratitude to wash over me. It turned out, the director told me, there were six boys and eight girls that day in the center. 

I went to my car and didn't start it. I just sat there and wept.

_______

That Christmas Eve experience had such a great impact on me that I started doing more things, always anonymously and each time remembering Cheyenne.

One day I was at a shoe store, and I overheard two parents talking about which one of their four or five children was going to get new shoes. They were back-to-school shopping, and while they all needed shoes, the family could only afford one pair.

I thought of Cheyenne, and how we might have been shopping together that day.

Stealthily, I found the store manager and gave him enough money to ensure all those children would get new shoes. If there was a balance on the gift card, I asked that he give the balance to the parents. I wrote Cheyenne's name on a little piece of paper and handed it to him along with the money ― and left.

In bringing Cheyenne into that present moment, in the space between my suffering and that family's pain, her love was alive in the world.

I kept doing these things.

Each time I engaged in a random act of generosity, and I noticed how healing it was for me.

That was the birth of the Kindness Project.

________

The Kindness Project had become a hallmark of the MISS Foundation. We printed a thousand cards that said this:

 

THIS RANDOM ACT OF KINDNESS IS DONE IN

LOVING MEMORY OF OUR BEAUTIFUL CHILD.

 

That first thousand were gone within a week. 

We printed more cards, in different languages.

We printed cards for other relationships from bereaved siblings, spouses, and grandparents to aunts, uncles, and friends. Those cards looked like this:

 

THIS RANDOM ACT OF KINDNESS IS DONE 

IN LOVING MEMORY OF 

 

________________________

_________

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."

________

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

 From Bearing the Unbearable: Love, Loss, and

the Heartbreaking Path of Grief

https://www.amazon.com/Bearing-Unbearable-Love-Heartbreaking-Grief/dp/1614292965