LOVE DOCTORS WITHOUT BORDERS

Kindness: a language the deaf can hear and the blind can see.

— Unknown

VAL

In my carefree years of student travel, skipping across the globe like a smooth stone on the surface of the ocean, I learned there was one item more essential to any trip than sunblock or a phrase book: a compassionate heart. Being possessed of a jovial and generous nature helped at every border crossing and the language of kindness was understood in every culture. It required no class time to master and delivered the equivalent of a "get-out-of-jail-free card" whenever derailed communications begged forgiveness. When you think you're asking how much a plate of rice and beans cost, but in fact are offering to buy the poor guy's pants, the value of a smile and a light heart are a price above rubies (or rupees).

One summer, while exploring San Pedro, a small village on Lago Atitlan in Guatemala, I was the recipient of a random act of kindness that left an indelible mark. I had already delayed my departure from the lakeside village — I couldn't bring myself to break orbit — so I stayed on to take in an all-day concert in a field of sun-baked grass. When it was over I began the 10-minute walk back to my cabina along a dark trail, head ringing with happy rhythms and voices. Out of the still night came a low growling as a pack of crazed dogs circled. They lunged at me; their saliva trickling down my shins. It was easily one of the most terrifying moments of my life. I was sure I was about to be knocked over, pounced upon, and ripped to shreds. As they formed a crescent, pinning me to a nearby fence, I inched toward the gate, slipping through it to the safety of a shack on the other side. I banged frantically on the door. A grizzled señor answered my distressed pounding and, seeing the frothing dogs in the distance, pulled me inside. He said nothing and I said nothing. Instead, he gestured toward his bed, a wool blanket on a piece of plywood resting on two cinder blocks. I left the next morning. I don't think we exchanged a single word.

Kindness is indeed a language of its own, though its vocabulary is often composed of silent human gestures. These articulate moments, though unuttered, still communicate deep connection and caring and have the power to transcend beliefs, customs, and protocol. But how do we cultivate it? Consciously live it? This chapter offers anecdotes that suggest you explore the following options: be open to every possibility, be experimental, refuse to take yourself too seriously, commit daily random acts of kindness, embrace the joy of doing so, and prepare to receive kind acts as well.

Consider this example. After the tragedy of September 11th, hundreds of Americans gave blood to aid the wounded (so much of it, in fact, it couldn't all be used) — evidence of our capacity to do good in a world plagued by an ailing environment, war, disease, and poverty. But it was news of the non-Muslim Americans who stood guard over mosques that registered an even more profound act of love. This gesture shone like a brilliant sunrise after a long, dark night: it acknowledged differences in culture, honored our human commitment to abhor all acts of violence, and banished the specter of terrorism that haunted our most sacred spaces. That this deeply compassionate act was so unexpected only amplified its significance.

While the growth of global movements