A friend asked me to write a little essay about being astonished. Astonished? . . . My first thought was a glass of cool water. Drinking it. The mysterious and momentary sublimity of that. Its sensuous, animal satisfaction, its poetic wonder. And then, water itself. A miracle. What is the direct line from the Big Bang to my glass of water? And, then, the glass itself which I could not have invented any more than the  water. And then me, my evolved consciousness dumbfounded by water, the source of all life on this speck in the cosmos.

I look around my room. A phone, a computer, a refrigerator, an electric light, a radio. Nearly everything that makes my life functional and enjoyable could not have been invented by me. On the window sill is an exquisite moon shell. I think of the body of its creator—an ugly slug looking like a wad of beige bubble gum, secreting—tiny bit by tiny bit—a work of perfect art that echoes the shape of galaxies, beginnings and endings, a swirling cosmic plan beyond comprehension. What is the determinant, genetic connection of the snail’s need for protection with its magnificent aesthetics? Does it intend to astonish?

The first art show I had in Maine—almost fifty years ago—was drawings entirely of moon shells, accentuating their transformative metaphor as womb of life and cave of mortality.  

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A few days ago I found this quote from Walt Whitman: “As I stand aloof and look there is to me something profoundly affecting in large masses of men following the lead of those who do not believe in men.”  If leaders do not believe in men, what do they believe? I suppose Whitman means they believe in the utility of men, an expendable resource to be leveraged for power—as followers, as soldiers, men who have no individual dignity except in how they may be coerced for another’s power. In whatever manner they are led, it’s unlikely to involve kindness. More likely fear, racism, fundamentalism, supremacy—emotions that are like nose rings on a tether to jerk people one way or another like heifers to market.

Kindness, though, kindness astounds me. Strangely, people need reminding to be kind in the same way little kids do to tie their shoes. That failure trips us up. Mr. Rogers famously said, “There are three ways to ultimate success: The first is to be kind. The second is to be kind. The third is to be kind.” The success of our relationships, healthy communities, and engaged societies depends on kindness and the reciprocity of kindness. One might think that kindness would be hardwired into us by evolution as a necessity of survival, because each act of kindness—like a moon snail secreting its shell, calcium molecule by calcium molecule—builds a beautiful edifice of trust.

So often, however, our leaders—especially today—justify and signal permission for cruelty rather than encourage kindness. Isn’t that astonishing—that leaders choose destructive and exploitative self-interest over generosity and wisdom? And many followers seem to relish cruelty as though they’ve been restrained their whole lives from attacking, denigrating and humiliating others. It’s an astounding responsibility for leaders to choose between coaching kindness and releasing cruelty because kindness and cruelty inevitably design the future.

The fact that kindness deepens its author’s identity and dignity is mirrored by the recipient. Actor and receiver bond to each other as surely a hydrogen and oxygen bond to make water.

Water is the source of life, kindness the act that sustains it. Don’t you think there must be a direct line from the Big Bang to an act of kindness?