A Kindness Martini

I read a New York Times article recently about the importance of treating myself with kindness and compassion in the new year; I’ve read such advice before, and it strikes me (as I’m sure it does others) as a kind of embarrassing, indulgent resolution. What form, exactly, should kindness to one’s self take? Nightly ice cream? Weekly facials? Lunch box notes of encouragement? Although I find the outlines of showing compassion to others pretty distinct – listening, patience, forgiveness -- the precise form self-kindness should take remains a hazy one for me, not unlike some expressionist art I can’t seem to get a grip on. I know both have intangible value that I should recognize, but my mind remains stubbornly closed. Resolving to practice more self-compassion also has the tinge of privilege, a first-world problem for those with too much time on their hands and not enough dirt under their fingernails.

Perhaps self-kindness should best focus on activities rather than the fuzzy and unpredictable realm of feelings or the unmistakable selfishness of indulgence. I will choose to ride a bicycle through a beautiful environment rather than inside a gym because the former will more likely create joy in mind as well as body, thus a useful and practical act of self-compassion. I will avoid people or situations that create anger and stress (perhaps I should permanently mute the nightly news broadcast or have a trusted friend redact my newspaper). I will choose activities more likely to create meaningful joy, like writing to or calling an old friend, as opposed to those that create a temporary high, like buying new boots. That will be quite challenging – ahhhhhh, new boots. 

My father is a role model for me in this regard; in his retirement, he excelled at creating both joyful and practical experiences for himself as well as those he loved. Spending an afternoon watching a baseball game with him, or an old western, or reading together while Mozart played, was pure magic. He didn’t skip his indulgences, either: one martini before dinner and champagne after. A year before he died at 97, my husband pointed out that dad had reached the enviable anniversary of having been retired longer than he had worked as a high school English teacher. Doing precisely what one loves with those one loves best, while burdening no one, is self-compassion practiced and perfected.