the compassion curriculum
Updated: Aug 19
if only
It’s raining this morning. Buckets and buckets of glorious, ground-soaking rain. It’s a delightfully fierce rain. A deeply nourishing rain. The kind of rain that feels like it could wash the whole world clean if only it would pour for long enough.
As I sit here with a blank page before me, I’m not sure what I’ll write about today, only that I know I must. There’s a pressure that builds when words start damming up somewhere inside, and I feel that tension today. What is it that wants to be spoken, shared, and emptied out to the soothing soundtrack of heavy raindrops? I feel it rising, demanding an energetic release out into the ether where it can perhaps bring some balance to the soul sickness that seems to currently reign.
quieter than usual
It’s been a quiet year for me, and I’ve spent a lot of time voluntarily alone and doing my best to avoid most all gatherings in order to maintain my inner peace. Some people find comfort in company, but I’m at the far opposite end of the spectrum. Solitude—especially solitude while in nature—is what recalibrates and feeds my soul. And 2026 has been a year for much, much soul tending.
It’s also been a year for another large, unexpected, and overwhelming undertaking. I’m no stranger to giant projects, and this particular one launched with a simple dead hedge back in March (the first and the second). My girls and I built our first one, a project that somehow—and with startling speed—morphed into the enormous job of clearing our entire property of invasive plants so that we may turn it into a native habitat for the birds and other critters that share it with us (here). As stewards of our land, we've steadfastly forged ahead through the heat, humidity, and bugs of summer to bring our dream to life.
It’s been hard (hard) work. Physical, exhausting, sweaty work. Many days it seems as if there’s no end in sight, and the endeavor hasn’t been without some inherent risk, as evidenced by the rose thorns embedded in my swollen fingers, poison ivy rashes, and scratch-myself-raw chigger bites that plague me even as I type. Clearly, not every plant and animal is pleased with our vision, and my first encounter with chiggers wasn’t a pleasant one. I sincerely hope it was my last.
But while challenging, it’s also been intensely satisfying, rewarding, and cleansing work that’s made my body and spirit strong again. It’s work that’s brought me crazy joy, wild enthusiasm, and deep love for this planet we call home. And perhaps most importantly, it’s work that makes me feel as though I’m actually making a difference. This difference may only extend to the boundaries of our small two-acres plot, but what I’m doing matters to the plants, birds, and bugs that live here. I can feel, in each space that we clear, a sense that the Earth is able to take a deep and refreshing breath again. Restoring order to a land that’s being overtaken and silenced by invasive creeping vines has given me a fleeting sense that I’m not completely powerless. I have some semblance of control in a world that seems to have, yet again, gone stark-raving mad.
our biggest flaw
I remember writing something very similar to that during the days following the murder of George Floyd and amidst the roar of the pandemic. Sadly, it wasn’t all that long ago. Is this tendency to so frequently lose our way the biggest inherent flaw to being a human? We stubbornly refuse to expand our hearts, instead succumbing to the illusion that we must shrink our worlds down to include only ourselves and our loved ones in the narrow-minded belief that it’s a life-or-death case of either “us” or “them.”
This fearful belief leads to a blindness where we then ruthlessly divide, conquer, and suppress in a way that seems wholly and shockingly inhuman. Homo sapiens may have the intellectual ability and capacity to create both awesome (and terrifying) things, but clearly we’re not the superior species. We could never claim that distinction when the most basic of all things seems to elude so many of us. The more our collective compassion shrinks as our collective greed grows is the biggest indicator to me that we’re dangerously, perhaps disastrously, off course.
I will hasten to add here that I don’t actually believe we hold the potential to reach a utopia here on this planet. Perfection within the human race feels unattainable, and I don’t ever see Earth morphing into a “paradise” for us bipeds. What I do believe is that Earth is a school of sorts, and a rather brutal one at that. If we want an easy ride, there must be another planet we gravitate towards because it sure as hell ain’t this one. I feel that we only dare to journey here when we have certain lessons to learn or skills to hone that can only be cultivated in an atmosphere of violence, mistrust, and fear. Forged under pressure, so to speak, we hold the potential to become diamonds. Why must it be so hard? I haven’t a clue. Except that—spiritually and emotionally speaking—I don’t think humans are the brightest bulbs in the bunch. Which is to say: we likely make things much harder for ourselves than they need to be.
It’s this very atmosphere of darkness, however, that I believe we’re supposed to personally conquer and rise above, each in our own way, each on our own individual journey. While we may never create an Eden, I do firmly believe we’re capable of tipping the scales in favor of goodness, decency, and kindness. Even if more of us than not were truly loving beings, there would still be plenty of nature-induced calamities, individual crises, and other personalized pop-quizzes to come our way. And if our goal is to leave here with at least a passing grade, then I hope we have some hardcore extra credit coming our way because we’re going to need it. Instead of rising above the violence, we seem hell-bent on creating more.
have we forgotten?
Like so many others, back in February the story of Nancy Guthrie consumed and horrified me. What kind of a person(s) would terrify and kidnap an old woman? For God’s sake, she was eighty-four years old! Generally speaking, our society seems to have forgotten the decades of accumulated wisdom that can come with age (potentially, of course; after all, despite the pressure, some choose to remain coal). Instead of venerating our elders, we quietly push them away so that we can forget that we too will grow old. That we too will wrinkle, shrink, and gray. That we too will die. And as if that tucking away isn’t bad enough, for some of us, elders represent the easiest of prey. We dismiss them, swindle them, and apparently if it suits some of us, we’ll even kidnap them for the all-mighty dollar. Who needs respect when you can have bitcoin? Who needs honor when you can become a millionaire?
It sickens me to think of Nancy that night, feeling safe inside of her safe home, drifting off to sleep in her safe bed, while outside danger methodically stalked her. I find it particularly cruel when crimes are committed against the elderly and the young, and so as the weeks passed, I hoped desperately for answers. When the answer finally did come, however, it was wrought with confusion. Someone was “bad” enough to kidnap Nancy, but also “kind” enough to tell her family once she had “accidentally” passed? Someone was cruel enough to terrify and overpower a much-weaker elder, but then nice enough to apologize for how the nightmare unfolded? I mean, they could have just held out for the money and then disappeared into the night. They'd done it once, they could do it again. Seriously? What is going on here?
I accept that dichotomy is a reality of life, but my brain wrestled with this particular one. No one knows who kidnapped her as of this writing, so no one knows why this horrific scenario played out. Clearly, they never intended to murder her despite their earlier threat, but they were greedy enough to sacrifice her happiness for theirs. Mental trauma and emotional scars be damned. Had she survived, would she ever have felt safe or slept soundly again?
My mind scrambled, uselessly, to make sense of it all. Were the kidnappers driven by desperation? Perhaps like many of us, they had no health insurance and they or a loved one were drowning in medical bills, driving them to do the unthinkable. Were they mentally ill and craving the attention that comes with negative fame? Or were they merely deluded into thinking that money would ensure their happiness and power in a diseased world that seems to promise that? After all, it’s the message we’re getting brainwashed with on the daily. Those with money reign, while the rest do their best to simply get by. And those with money take what—and who—they want. If so many of our leaders and revered behave this way and get away with it, then how can we expect our children to act any differently? We need far better role models if we want to create a happier ending to our story.
you ugly
I used to condemn myself harshly, thinking that I judged people based solely on their looks. What I didn’t realize for many years is that the reason some people appear ugly to me is because of their energy. When I see a person and my first thought is “damn, that’s an ugly human,” I almost always come to find out that it’s because they’re ugly on the inside.
I'll admit that Bill Cosby completely duped me, but for the most part my energetic radar is dead on. So it’s rather terrifying for me to look around and see so much ugly staring back. We’re in a virtual epidemic of ugly, and I don’t know how much longer until we voluntarily reach for the cure. I know what the cure is—compassion—but it isn’t a medicine that can be forced down one’s throat. It must be willingly taken, and we seem desperately far away from that.
While I have to believe that we’re all born with an inherent ability to feel and express compassion, I also believe that the happenings of life have a tendency to smother it—and sometimes all too quickly. As children, we see too much, hear too much, and experience too much negativity to keep that flame alive into adulthood. Sadly, while I believe it’s certainly possible to teach an old dog new tricks, I also believe too many of those dogs aren’t interested. Those old (and often ugly) canines are perfectly content with the bag of tricks they’ve already collected. Why add in something dangerous like compassion, kindness, or God forbid, love? That might just ruin everything.
I’m currently in the process of trying to undo the damage done to my property due to my ignorance. If we’re smart, then we hopefully do better as we know better and I like to think that while I’m an aging dog, I’m learning new tricks all the time. I can usually forgive myself for the not knowing, but sometimes that ignorance has sad and irreversible consequences. I’ve come across countless dead trees that were powerless to resist the creeping vines that slowly and steadily girdled the very life out of them. Others were unable to stop the thorny tendrils that used their branches to reach towards the sky and steal all of the sunlight for themselves. Death was everywhere, thanks to my ignorance, and there’s no undoing that.
It would have been far easier and spared many a tree if only I'd kept up on it all from the beginning rather than having to undo decades of damage already done. I hate to say it (prove me otherwise, please), but those ugly, old dogs are “the damage already done.” They’re stealing all of the sunlight and viciously squeezing the very life out of anything that stands in their way. They show zero interest in learning any new tricks, and so it seems to me that our solution doesn’t rest with them. It's like trying to convince the bittersweet to stop squeezing the life out of my cherry trees; it would be a complete waste of time, and we don't have time to spare. Our solution, I surmise, rests with the generations to come.
yet to be ravaged
If we want to turn this sickness around, we obviously need to refocus on the children. The children whose beautiful faces have yet to be ravaged by greed and power. I can’t be the only one who thinks this way, so why aren’t we teaching compassion as a basic and required subject in our school curriculums? In terms of health and happiness, it ranks higher in importance than virtually any other subject taught in our schools. And yet… where are the courses on tolerance and basic human decency? As ridiculous as it may sound to the old and stubborn dogs, I vote that some of my tax dollars fund that. Fund public school courses that teach children how to be more compassionate and loving human beings, not just smarter ones.
I was going to say that this isn’t rocket science, but maybe to some it really is as complicated as that. Where to even begin teaching something that doesn’t have a textbook to accompany it? I homeschooled all three of my girls, and these types of lessons were woven throughout our every day. If I were to organize a structured compassion curriculum similar to the unstructured one I taught to my girls, it would have to span all the years of education and grow with the kids as they did. The end goal would be to send more of our young ones out into the world with hearts full of love, ready to challenge the injustice, greed, and imbalance of power they encounter around them instead of simply compounding it.
lesson 1: true power
I’d begin young, while the seed of compassion still glows strongly in most of us. For the initial and most basic of lessons, I’d make it fun and invite my daughter in for a little show-and-tell. She’d bring two things with her, the first of which would be her pinned bug collection (every bug, without exception, gathered once already dead), so that we could all admire a myriad of really cool bug forms up close and without fear. The second show-and-tell item would be her monarch brood so that we could next admire the monarch in all stages of development. My daughter would explain how she’s doing her part to help the suffering monarch population and how much she loves her temporary bug tenants. We’d time it just right so that my students would be able to watch the exciting release of a newly birthed butterfly or two as they took to the skies for the very first time.
Fully primed now to realize that not all bugs are “bad” or “scary” just because they look differently than we do, the kids and I would then study spiders, butterflies, moths, bees, beetles, worms, caterpillars, and any other insect that struck their fancy. I’d let them marvel over the awesomeness of spider webs, the magic of metamorphosis, the hierarchy of a beehive, and the mighty strength of an ant. We’d watch honeybees gather pollen and caterpillars munch leaves. We’d learn which bugs we actually need to avoid for our safety, and which ones we don’t.
And then to wrap up this first course in developing compassion, I’d release creepy-crawly critters of all kinds into the classroom. Calmly handing out cups to the kiddos, I’d demonstrate how to gently catch the bugs. Instead of killing them simply because we’re bigger and we can, I’d teach them to capture and release our bug friends, respecting all of life. I’d let the wee ones taste the satisfaction that comes with having strength and choosing to use it kindly. This, I would lecture, is true power.
lesson 2: true kindness
From there, I’d stretch the concept and we’d kick off our socks and shoes and head outside. Walking through the soft, green carpet of grass, I’d encourage them to notice how it makes them feel, to notice how the earth grounds and steadies them. Hugging the tall, strong trees, I’d encourage them to close their eyes and notice how it makes them feel, to notice how the trees cleanse them. Smelling and admiring the flowers, I’d encourage them to notice how they make them feel, to notice how the blossoms cheer them. And later, staring up into the endless nighttime skies, I’d encourage them to notice how the stars make them feel, to notice how the vast darkness calms and reassures them.
My lecture would continue on, helping them to see that our planet is a being that lives and breathes just like we do. A being that can be healthy or sick just like we can. And just like the creepy-crawlies that share it with us, Earth deserves our deepest respect, kindness, and compassion, too. As we filled our (biodegradable) trash bags with the garbage we collected, I’d let the children taste the goodness that comes from doing their part in maintaining the health of our planet and how she thanks us with clean air, fresh rains, healthy soil, and abundant sunshine. This, I would lecture, is true kindness.
lesson 3: true respect
For the following lesson, we’d visit a local nursing home, perhaps weekly for the duration of this particular course. When my girls were young, around the holidays a group of us would visit a local nursing home and sing Christmas carols and play the piano. I’d encourage my students to do something similar, and after we’d provided a bit of entertainment, we would visit some of the elderly who were up for company in their rooms. I’d encourage the students to listen closely because the residents had much to tell them about how different the world was when they were young. Had much to tell them about their experiences, their lives, their wins, and their losses.
The students would begin to see that these white-haired folks had much wisdom, knowledge, and often humor to share, but many of them were also lonely. Just because they were old didn’t mean that they no longer needed someone to listen, to visit, or to care. They are a valuable and necessary part of our society and should be honored as such. I would let my students have their eyes opened to the opportunity right in front of them to hear history and stories straight from the lips of those who lived it. I would let my students experience the happiness in their hearts as they gave of their time to bring comfort to an elder among us. This, I would lecture, is true respect.
lesson 4: true humility
As they grew, my lessons would increase in intensity and I’d introduce them to Mary Todd, a member of my family. Mary Todd is a 13-year-old hen that spends much of her time inside with us now simply because she prefers our company (and we hers). I’d tell them the dramatic story of how smart she is by once outwitting a fox that killed several of her friends, and what a miracle it is that she’s still here with us today.
I’d explain that Mary Todd is an independent gal who doesn’t like to be handled—after all, she is no toy—but how she loves to hang out and carry on conversations with us all. I’d demonstrate how she watches me closely, with head tilted and the unmistakable gleam of intelligence in her eyes, while I talk to her. Never one to rudely interrupt, she waits until I fall silent before she then replies with her soft clucks and purrs. I may not speak her language, but we fully understand, love, and respect each other.
As the lesson continued, I’d remind them to always remember the intelligence of this bird and that we’re animals just like she is. And just like us, Mary Todd has a life to live—a life she loves so much that she fought off a fox and countless other predators to keep on living it. Just because she doesn’t speak English doesn’t mean she doesn’t have thoughts or feelings, and I’d make sure to tell my students how Mary Todd has taken care of her sisters when they were sick and dying and needed her protection and strength.
I would make them aware that they could choose compassion with their forks as well as with their words and with their thoughts. I would explain truthfully about the factory farms where their meat comes from, and the decimation of our precious forests. We’d talk about accumulating methane gas and the pollution of water, land, and air. Of course I fully realize this particular lesson would probably get my funding yanked by an irate parent or two (or twenty) because many get quickly defensive about the subject, but I’d do it anyway because it matters. It matters to the animals, to the planet, to ourselves, and to our future.
If making this kind of compassionate fork-choice wasn’t possible—and I realize that many children won’t yet have the power to control this aspect of their lives even if they wish to—then I’d at least fully educate them on the subject. And I’d teach them to, each and every time, silently express their deepest gratitude for the life that was taken to sustain theirs (and this includes the plants ♥). To remember that other creatures matter just as much as we do. In this lesson, I’d let the adolescents savor the inner peace that comes with recognizing the spirit inside each and every one of us and making the intentional choice to honor it with compassion and respect. This, I would lecture, is true humility.
lesson 5: true compassion
As the lessons continued to increase, I’d bring the teenagers on a field trip to New York City. We wouldn’t be there to take in a Broadway play or a show at Madison Square Garden, but to walk the city streets. To bear witness to the homeless, the addicts, and the mentally ill as they go about their daily struggle for survival.
I would tell them the story about how I once used to judge others. How I viewed depression, anxiety, and all sorts of “shortcomings” as mere human weakness. “Suck it up” was my motto, right up until the day I developed panic disorder. I’d explain that, gratefully, my circumstances allowed me the necessary time for my healing, but that not everyone has that same luxury or that same kind of unwavering support. Instead of judging and condemning our fellow humans for what we may potentially view as failings, I would guide my students to find a way to relate to those they saw around them. We would spend the afternoon volunteering in a soup kitchen, and I’d let them taste the joy that comes from helping others. This, I would lecture, is true compassion.
lesson 6: true maturity
For my final series of lectures, I would teach my students to take their now honed tools of compassion, kindness, and love and turn them directly on themselves. Life is hard and can wear a person down, so we need to extend the same kindnesses towards ourselves that we do to others. We all make mistakes; it’s important to both learn from them and also to forgive ourselves as we strive to do better next time. And when things get too heavy as they inevitably will, I’d teach them how to frequently step away from the onslaught of TV, social media, politics, and all of the other loudly clamoring voices in order to refresh their spirits.
They would already have learned that Mother Nature is mighty at restoring balance, but I’d encourage each and every one of them to find a something that brings them personal joy. Sing, even if it’s off-key. Dance, even if you have two left feet. Run, write, sew, bird-watch, garden, cook, puzzle, play an instrument, or maybe even whip up a batch of soap (perhaps I’d offer that course as extra credit ;). I'd teach them that we can't pour from an empty cup and it's a deep kindness to both ourselves and others to refuel when we need to. I’d let my soon-to-be-graduates revel in the restoring power of self-love and self-care. This, I would lecture, is true maturity.
final exam: true success
And then, I’d send my students out into the world. I’d tell them that they now had a whole arsenal of tools at their disposal and the choice was theirs whether or not to use them. Up against the storms of life, if they could remember to reach for compassion, wield true power, true love, and true humility, then their lives would be happier ones. This, they would now understand, is true control and true success. And they didn’t need to kidnap any old ladies to earn it.
Would it change the world? I like to think so. I used a similar “curriculum” to homeschool my girls and they are each, without exception, compassionate beings. Unfortunately for us, however, we’re not there yet as a society. Too many of us choose to use our power in ways that break others down instead of building them up. We still pretend that humans who are different from us are beasts we can round up and treat with disdain, contempt, and cruelty. We still pretend that we’re not animals so that we may treat other animals in any miserable way we choose. We still pretend that living a plastic life of waste won’t harm this gorgeous planet Earth. Too many of us support inhuman practices, advocate for mind-numbing conformity, and relentlessly choose sides against each other.
We may never build a utopia, but we can certainly do better than this.
blessed solitude
So in the face of this constant violence and noise, I retreat to my solitude. I nurture my land as the living being that it is, with deep love and respect. I catch and release the irritating house flies. I eat my veggie burgers and warmly greet Mary Todd each morning. I donate my all-natural and plant-based soaps to multiple shelters and send Reiki to those in need. I drink in the sound of birdsong, lose myself in the stars, hug trees, and do my part to dream in a better and kinder tomorrow. I spend much time alone, tending carefully to the seed of compassion within me as the storms blow because I know it’s my salvation. It’s how I pass the course.
The world with all of its hard-hearted, masked men working under the cover of darkness still scares me, but I allow myself to be beguiled by the beauty of the blossoms, the berries, and the birds. I let the rain wash the world clean as I drink my daily dose of compassion for all living things.
Rest in sweet peace, Nancy ♥
.jpg)
.jpg)