#6 - The Shape of Kindness

He lived in a small flat above the cliff. A kettle on the stove. A window that watched the edge where rock meets water. When someone stood too near, he crossed the road. He offered tea and time. Simple moves. The kind that steady a shaking day. He’s gone now, though his legacy will last lifetimes.

Moments like that make you stop for a bit. You notice how a room can look awake even when no one’s talking. Someone’s phone beeps and the moment slips. A shoulder held high. I guess you can tell before a word is spoken when someone has lost their footing. The skin goes pale around the mouth. Hands won’t settle. You catch it in the way a person stands just off themselves. Funny how the smallest signs carry the heaviest message. You just see it.

Seeing has its own pull. You find yourself moving your chair a little closer. No plan. No speech. Steam lifts off the cup and the air sits calm. Presence lands heavier than any fix. You keep the room steady while anger or fear, sometimes nothing at all, passes through and out again. You know that feeling when the noise in your head finally drops and you can hear your own breath. Sometimes that’s all someone needs. Staying put while the tide inside turns. You stay with the silence a bit longer than is comfortable. Then longer still. So you wait. The chair does some of the work. The kettle does the rest.

Somewhere in us the older way still burns. Before coin, people valued warmth and connection. One person cupped the flame. Another threw on a log and watched the flame. My father used to do that in his own way. He’d sit with friends until the set of their shoulders softened. No drama. No name for it. He’d say, give it a minute, and he’d wait until the minute did what minutes can do. I carry those scenes without trying to. We all do. A mother who kept a seat free. A boss who stayed back while the last colleague found their ground. That’s how care travels. Hand to hand. Room to room. Year on year.

Maybe that was the knowing the man in the flat carried. He just showed up and the rest followed. A cup poured while the kettle did the talking. You learn from people like that without them meaning to teach you. There’s no lesson written anywhere. It’s held in how they stand in a doorway, how they leave room for you to get your balance back. And once you’ve seen it, you start seeing it everywhere. In small favours done without theatre. In the way time stretches when someone makes space for you to breathe.

Like love, kindness never runs out. Its only limitation is the number of hours in a day. Twenty four hours, and we try again tomorrow. What we guard becomes who we are. If we guard the warmth from the fire, there is always enough to go around. When we stop trying to connect, the room goes cold. You know this already. Most of us do. We just forget because the world talks loud and often.

Maybe it begins with one person. A face you pass. A cold silence you notice. You keep the kettle warm. You ask a gentle question and let it land without conditions. The reply might be a story. It might be a shrug. It might be a gentle hand. Either way the room softens. That is enough for now. The man in the flat would understand. Window open a touch. Sea light on the wall. Kettle settling back to still.

If this stirred something familiar, you’re not alone. In Australia, you can reach Lifeline 24/7 at 13 11 14.