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The Saturday of Labor Day weekend I was late for the family party. I blame my GPS. There were two streets in the same town of the same name and it did not tell me that.
Thus, instead of acres of horses and chickens I found myself in a suburban residential neighborhood. I'd been to my cousin's a number of times before and with my shrewd sense for the obvious, I knew that something didn't look right.
I called my sister, she repaired my mistake, and I was late for the party.
Of course, it was good to see everyone and I enjoyed mingling with an extended family that I don't see very often.
My Goddaughter was in from Canada. Don't think I'd seen her in three or four years. Had a brief and pleasant visit.
Chatted up my cousins from Colorado, cousins from Chicago, cousins from New York. Yeah, families get around.
Over fried chicken and salad I got into a discussion with my sister and brother-in-law about work/life balance. I had gotten back at about midnight the Thursday before from a training trip to Ohio and told them that I needed some brain rest and would not even be checking my email from that Thursday night till Tuesday morning.
(If you wonder if I made it the four days...I did.)
And then I went for a stroll.
I walked down by the barn that my brother, sisters and I used to play in as kids when we visited. We'd climb the ladder into the rafters and plop into the piles of hay below; chase cats, pet horses.
As I was deep into my musings, pondering the games of yesteryear, my cousin's daughter came up to me holding a hen. Yes, she was holding a very content chicken in her arms.
The girl's name is Liliana. She's a smallish 13 years old with a bright face and a matter-of-fact way about her. I'm not sure if I had ever met her before. I know I've seen her at a few events over the years, but I don't believe we've ever interacted at all.
She asked me if I wanted to pet the chicken. Odd for me, but ok. I dabbed a few feathers with my fingers.
"This chicken is blind in one eye," she offered.
"Really," I said. "And how do you know that?" The way chickens gander about I really did wonder how you could tell one was blind in one eye.
To answer me, she turned the hen's head, pulled away the feathers from one of its eyes with her thumb and said, "See?"
And I did see. I'm no farmer, but that eye did not look right.
"That's too bad," I said.
"Yeah," she said. "But then we all have something."
And I do believe my head exploded. The simplicity and the profundity of her statement knocked me sideways.
We...all...have...something.
She continued: "I have Asperger's and I'm addicted to cuddling soft animals."
"Well," I hesitated for a moment, caught off guard by her brazen honesty. "There could be worse addictions right?"
"Yeah, unless it takes up too much of my time."
And off she went, this thirteen year old girl, chicken in hand, to slack jaw her next victim.
And I thought about what she said. We all have something.
We do, indeed.
The seeds of compassion are sewn in empathy. And empathy begins with us having a realistic look at ourselves.
The next time we judge harshly the person next door, in the other office, in the next cubicle. The next time we look too quickly askance at those we acquaint.
Indeed, the next time we judge ourselves too harshly.
Maybe we should pause a moment and remember the philosophically astute and practically instructive words of a precocious thirteen year old.
After all, truer words have never been spoken: We all have something.
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