A Foreigner Called Kindness

“That’s a nice thing you are doing there,” they say, my pack open and ready to deposit trail trash within. It strikes me as a cavalcade of tourists pass me how that sounds in my head, like praising a toddler for cleaning up after playing with their toys. The past few years have left me hollow, unable to appreciate the compliment I suppose. For those folks, walking past while I shove a discarded plastic poncho into my pack, it must be akin to a bear sighting. Who picks up after themselves? Another asks if I found any money on the ground, my own thoughts sardonically wanting to say “Is money that important that no one would be kneeling otherwise?” Yet it never leaves the mind, a intrusive thought of gremlin intent. There is more then enough kindness to go around and share, baggy eyes and five o’clock headache non-withstanding. I decline to indulge in a petty retort when pettiness is currently running around on it’s second term, foghorn in hand and spite upon their lips. It’s a part of why I get up laden with trash, rain continuing to fall, but with a pleasant expression. In times like this, you have to show the kind of world you want to live in through your own actions. When I stopped by the river, just gazing, tourists would stop and look as well. Bearing witness gives power, and provokes observation for even a moment. As others pass, I watch birds fly to the river rocks for chirping and exploration, the only witness to the antics of winged wonders. They too need someone to bear witness, know that hearing them is appreciated. Living to the ideals of bringing the tired, poor, the huddled masses to a place where they can find comfort and community. Right now those foreigners are called Kindness, and we need as many as we can get.