“Maybe kindness begins in the quiet space where we finally stop racing.”

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Where Kindness Really Starts

It’s hard to have kindness and love and peace and joy in our lives when those things don’t exist inside us first.

This blog is about kindness — and I can tell exactly how well I’m living up to that standard the minute I get behind the wheel of my car.

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The Driver in Me

I’m not a driver in the Chronicles of Nascarnia. The green light isn’t a green flag. Every stretch between traffic lights isn’t an invitation to put the pedal to the metal.

And heaven forbid I’m second in line — I don’t need to demonstrate how well my horn works a microsecond after the light turns green.

Drafting is what I do at work, not in the car. Tailgating should just be for parties.

Apparently, I’m not going to convince another driver to go faster by trying to look inside their trunk. How do I know this? Because it doesn’t make me go faster when someone else does it to me.

In fact, it makes me slow down. Brake check? Really tempting.

Doggone it. That’s not very kind. But it all just makes me mad.

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The Real Me Behind the Wheel

That’s when I realize: I’m only as kind as I am when I’m in the car. That’s when the real me comes out.

I can suppress my temper at home or at work. I can be nice, play nice, say the right things. But put me behind the wheel, and all bets are off — my car temper emerges.

I don’t know if it’s the anonymity, the isolation, or the power of having more than a ton of steel and glass under my control, but my temper’s on a hair trigger.

There’s no such thing as kindness on my radar once I’m on the streets — the mean streets.

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The Root of It: Selfishness

I become selfish. Completely and utterly selfish.

And isn’t that the root of so many of our failings — even our sins, if you want to call them that?

We get so self-absorbed that putting anyone else above ourselves feels impossible. Our focus is so narrow and inward that sacrificial kindness seems abnormal instead of natural.

We’re selfish with our money, our time, our affection, our sympathy, and our opportunities. Even when we have the option of giving something away that costs us nothing, we tend to hoard it.

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Small Ways to Give More

Let me give you some examples — small ways I know I hoard kindness, even though I could easily give it away.

• When I pass someone on the street, do I smile and say hello or avoid eye contact?
• Do I learn the name of my server at a restaurant and go out of my way to be kind to them?
• Do I talk to people in line at the grocery store?

I do now. I make myself. I’m an introvert, and it’s not easy, but it’s getting easier — it’s becoming natural.

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A Story About Jane

The other night I stopped at the window of a car outside a restaurant. A woman in her 80s sat with a man who looked to be in his 60s — maybe her son.

We started talking. Her name was Jane. “Plain Jane,” she said with a grin. She was delightful.

We chatted for a few minutes, and I told her there was probably nothing plain about her.

We all went away smiling — and I even cured her hiccups, which was a bonus. (It works for everyone but me, apparently.)

I’m sure I made a little difference in their day with that small act of kindness.

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Stepping Out of the Race

So what’s the best response to my car temper? Maybe it’s the same thing I’ve done with this blog — step out of the argument entirely.

That same instinct — to win, to prove I’m right, to be first — shows up elsewhere too.

I’ve chosen not to engage in the political fights and the vitriol. I still care deeply, but my voice isn’t going to be part of the noise. I refuse to add words that could be twisted into hate, no matter my intention.

I’m just stepping out.

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Kindness Begins Here

And maybe I’ll do the same with driving. When I feel myself getting anxious and angry, vying for pole position, or tempted to brake check the — um — blessed person behind me, I’ll step out of the race.

I’ll disengage.

As soon as I can, I’ll pull over until the temptation passes.

I don’t know how successful I’ll be or how long it’ll take, but I’m committing — to you and to myself — not to be a driver in the Chronicles of Nascarnia.

Maybe that’s where kindness begins: in the quiet space where I finally stop racing.

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