(This is especially for people who've had trouble with self-esteem [TS, I'm looking at you right now], and for people who don't think they can correct someone without being a bad guy [ahem, HM].)
Compassion can be calling someone on their bullshit, in a kind and loving way.
Example:
I go into the office, and the fellow I'm meeting with is playing a video game on his iPhone. I tell him it's rude to play a game during our meeting. He apologizes and puts the phone down. Later when I'm leaving, he makes a point of apologizing again and thanks me.
For those of you who don't know me from my mouse years, I have a history of not sticking up for myself. I had every right to expect that during our meeting I would have his full attention, and it was not acceptable for him to divide his focus with a game. I acted correctly by speaking up. The fact that I just went ahead and did it, as opposed to sitting there and being annoyed (or worse, sitting there and feeling invalidated), is a pretty big step in my self-empowerment. So hooray for me, but where's the compassion part?
I made my feelings known, but I did so without accusation. I was not being judgmental or criticizing, I was not angry, and I hope my tone of voice was mild. I told him he did something wrong, but in a loving and gentle way.
I have memories of being lovingly and gently corrected when I was little; the Hot Sauce Lesson in particular comes to mind.
I have memories of being lovingly and gently corrected when I was little; the Hot Sauce Lesson in particular comes to mind.
When I was little I got into everything. Kipling would have said I was "full of 'satiable curtiosity." I clambered onto countertops, opened doors and drawers, and twisted the tops off of jars and bottles. I also liked to taste the foods and drink in those jars and bottles, so my folks had to keep a weather eye on me. On one occasion I got into the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of hot sauce. Before I got the chance to get the top off, my father took hold of my hand, looked me in the eyes, and said gently and softly but very firmly, "No." He took the bottle out of my hand, and said, "I'm going to explain why when I say 'No' you should pay attention." He put the hot sauce bottle out of reach and poured a glass of milk. Then he told me to hold out my finger. Wide-eyed and not slightly intimidated, I stuck out my finger. Dad put a teensy drop of hot sauce on it. "Okay, now you can taste just that tiny little bit." I put my finger in my mouth, and at once my eyes got as big as saucers. Dad saw my face, handed me the milk, and said, "Here. Drink this; it will help." I did as I was told, and the fire on my tongue eventually died out. When I finished the milk, my father said, "See how that tiny drop was so hot? That's why I told you 'No.' I didn't want you to burn your mouth. Now if I say 'No' to you, you'll know to stop, because it's important and I'm trying to protect you." I nodded solemnly, the sensation of heat still in my mouth.
What a fantastic lesson, right? Instead of yelling or making a fuss, he taught me with lovingkindness. There's your compassion right there, buddy, and I was admonished in a way where I wasn't made to feel small, or bad, or naughty. He wasn't mad at me. I hadn't disappointed him or hurt his feelings.
So the moral of the story is: it is possible to stick up for oneself and admonish someone while still remaining compassionate.
