Bleeding Hearts

This is a story which, I must admit, is not easy for me to tell.

It may not be a smart idea to expose your vulnerability. But, hopefully, the feeling of release to be gained in the end is worth the daring.

Some people are firmly ruled by intellectual principles. Others operate mainly by emotional reflection. Still, many of us toe along the line that demarcates these two distinct behavioral extremes.

It was a hard day for me a few weeks ago. I had no money even for simply going out to a park and was waiting for a friend who promised to come and pay a certain sum he owed me. So I stayed home and spent the whole time on some insignificant chores.

Late that morning I had breakfast of instant oats and a piece of banana. I was still full by midday, making lunch not very necessary. I was trying to hold on to the last 100 pesos I had. A good meal was easy to get as soon as my friend arrived, anyway.

It was getting late in the afternoon and still no sign of my creditor friend. By dusk, my stomach was already hinting for food. Then, at last, my friend called — he was stuck somewhere on an errand and would come to me only the following morning.

On that note, I decided to go down to the carinderia downstairs of my rented place. The little money I had was more than enough for a modest supper. Perhaps there would even be some amount left afterwards, for another piece of banana in my next oat meal breakfast.

Coming down I saw this woman from the neighborhood who had just given birth the day before. She was standing by the road, close to their shanty, carrying her tiny infant. I wanted to approach her but hesitated when I noticed she was talking in a hushed voice to her bigger child. I didn’t want to intrude, although I was close enough to overhear.

“Hipon lang, kay diyes ra man ni atong kuwarta,” she told the kid. Ten pesos worth of salted krill for a meal, for a whole family of eight. Presumably, they had the rice ready to go with it.

I was concerned about the nursing mother; what nutrients would she pass on to her newborn with a meal like that? Not to mention that her own body also needed good nutrition to recover from the ravages of childbirth.

My hand, as if acting on its own, dug into my pocket. Then I reached for the mother’s hand and slipped the hundred-peso bill in. She stared at me, a bit surprised as she felt the money in her palm. Her head drooped, tears welling up in her fatigued eyes.

I patted her arm and quickly left before she could say her gratitude. She didn’t have to; it showed all over her face. Besides, I was really getting hungry and thought of fixing myself a cup of instant oat meal back upstairs.

It is not true that the kindness we give out always gives back good feelings for us. At times our kind deed can bring self-doubt on our part. It can make us question our own emotional shape and capacity for sound judgment.

I couldn’t sleep that night. What if my creditor would not come and pay the following day? Why did I pick up somebody else’s cross when my shoulders were already slumped with my own?

It demands a certain spiritual perspective to be truly comfortable with every kind action we take. Otherwise, we will at times doubt the appropriateness of our behavior. At worst, we will feel we are being gullible, if not idiotic.

So we try to validate our soft side by discussing it with people we trust. People whom we think share our view of things. Or, at least, people we know to be open-minded and objective.

A friend was kind enough to listen when I needed to talk my puzzlement out. I told her the story. “Bleeding heart,” she muttered, words that I thought were said in contempt.

“Yes, it was stupid of me,” I acquiesced

“No,” she added quickly, perhaps sensing my self-disappointment. “You did right.” She explained that kindness is a good thing no matter the surrounding circumstances.

“And oat meal is good for you,” she joked. “It’s healthy.”

I was fortunate to have had someone to prop me up and appease my confusion. She was one whose sensibility and sensitivity I could never question. I trusted her, because I knew she herself had a “bleeding heart”, too — a heart equally vulnerable and, thus, fully capable of sympathy for another.

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