Listening to the Generous Spirit Within

Reflections on applying a time management tip to generosity

Trees aglow with early fall oranges and yellows flashed outside the window as the train rumbled its way north toward Newark. When we hit a bumpy stretch that made the words swim on the page and my writing devolve into illegible scrawl, I set down my poetry book and pencil.

My mind drifted to the time management book I’d finished listening to the day before: Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals by Oliver Burkeman. I contemplated again how achingly brief 4000 weeks sounds, grateful that poetry would play a prominent role in this week of the 4000 or so likely in my lifetime.

Burkeman asserts that instead of accepting time as something that simply is, humans often perceive it as something to be instrumentalized for a future end, such as earning a credential to get a promotion, or in my case, immersing in poetry for three days to grow as a poet and bring back insights, writing prompts, and lesson ideas for my colleagues and students. Too often, this future focus keeps our attention ahead of where we are, distracting us from the moment we’re in.

When people view time as a resource to be used, they also feel pressured to use time well, with the common yardstick being some kind of outcome or output. I’m certainly prone to this transactional relationship with time. As the train rumbled on, I resolved to more fully embrace the finitude of my existence and keep more of my attention on the present.

Another idea from Burkeman’s book lingered too, flickering like a fish in shallow water. He shared that he has practiced the “two-minute rule” for ages: if a task would take less than two minutes to complete, it’s more efficient to do it than to add it to your to-do list. Recently, he ran across similar do-it-now advice about generosity from Joseph Goldstein, co-founder of the Insight Meditation Society: “Whenever you have a thought to be generous, just do it.”

Whenever you have a thought to be generous, just do it.

I remembered times I’d let an impulse to write a thank-you note, drop money in a busker’s guitar case, volunteer, or donate fade. I also recalled times I’d taken action. I didn’t regret those actions. Not following through? The excuses were flimsy at best: I didn’t have time, or at least not time to do it right, didn’t have cash handy, didn’t know enough about the charity, or the moment had passed. I wondered how many generous impulses might have fizzled before I’d even noticed them.

Somewhere between Wilmington and Newark, I resolved to pay closer attention to my generous impulses and see what I learned.

An opportunity arose as soon as I stepped into Penn Station. I hadn’t had supper, and the train was an hour late getting to Newark, so I was relieved to see Home Slice Pizza still open. As I walked up to the counter, a thin, grizzled, elderly man shuffled toward me and asked me to buy him a slice. I was hungry, he was hungry, and it was easy enough to order two slices instead of one. Moments later, I placed a warm brown paper bag in his outstretched hands. He turned and walked away, and I walked toward the exit, pausing briefly to eat my slice before requesting a Lyft. My hunger was satisfied, and hopefully, his was too.

After I got settled in the hotel room, I looked up the source of Goldstein’s quote, finding it in Gail Andersen Stark’s book, Creating a Life of Integrity: In Conversation with Joseph Goldstein. It’s the first of nine steps that he outlines for “working with generosity”:

1. Whenever you have the thought to be generous, just do it.

2. Notice what happens next. What feelings arise? What thoughts arise?

3. Then pay attention as you give. What feelings arise? What thoughts arise?

4. Finally, after you have been generous (or after you have not been generous), investigate. What thoughts arise? What feelings predominate?

5. Try exploring other arenas, other ways to be generous. Make a list. Every day there is some way of being of service to others.

6. Pay attention to everything. Look closely for subtleties, for that which is not at first apparent.

7. Ask: What is the motivation underlying this moment of generosity?

8. Then — this is important — watch throughout the day for what undermines the motivation.

9. Have fun with this. Remember: awareness doesn’t have to be grim.

I was more interested in learning about the impulse for generosity already inside me rather than seeking out external suggestions, so I decided to omit #5, at least for now. I’d had an impulse in the train station, and I’d followed through. I hadn’t paid very close attention in the act of giving. Not much had happened, but I hadn’t expected much either. Giving felt good.

The next day, I had a different kind of generosity impulse.

On my walk to the poetry festival, I stopped for a cappuccino at a coffee shop and stayed for an hour to sip, write, and watch people passing by. As I gathered my things to go, I asked the barista whether a piece of mixed media art on display was by a local artist. He said it likely was but he didn’t know who, then asked where I was headed. I told him about the festival. A wide grin lit his face as he told me how much he enjoyed poetry and that he’d written some himself. We exchanged handshakes and names. When I encouraged him to attend a free reading that evening, he said he had to work a shift at his other job. I wished him well, and he wished me the same.

My first stop after I picked up my festival badge was the bookstore. Although I’d promised my wife I wouldn’t buy any books, I found that promise slipping in the first aisle. American Journal: Fifty Poems for Our Time, a pocket-sized anthology featuring a variety of contemporary poets leapt into my hands. Then, moments after I’d settled into my auditorium seat and started to read, an impulse crashed over me. Buy the barista a copy. I put down the book and pulled the schedule out of my backpack. If I slipped out during the Q&A and hustled, I could make it to the bookstore, the coffee shop, and back before the next session.

Doubt dampened my generosity buzz. Would he think I was some wacky old lady? What if he didn’t like the book? Would it be a waste of money? What might I miss in the Q&A? I checked in on my motivation and intention. Did I expect anything in return? No. Why did I want to do this? Because having this small piece of the poetry festival might make him happy. And it would make me happy. I followed through.

“Strength in generosity,” Goldstein observes, “develops and manifests in much happiness. There is happiness in planning the generous act, happiness in the actual giving, and happiness in reflecting later on your generosity.” I can attest that this impulse, which had a brief element of planning to it, sparked happiness in all three phases.

Throughout the trip, I stayed open to these impulses, some of which people declined, like when I offered my unopened yogurt to a mom who told her toddler he couldn’t have a yogurt because the hotel’s cooler was empty (she shared hers with him instead). Others were accepted, like the bagel I bought for a tall, wizened woman after the person ahead of me in line pretended not to hear her request. When I’d purchased pizza for the man who asked for a slice, I got him the same kind I’d ordered for myself. This time, I asked what kind of bagel she’d like (a toasted everything bagel with butter). I was learning.

Eventually, I began putting small bills in my pocket so I’d have cash handy when I felt drawn to give it to someone, such as a woman beautifying her surroundings with the rise and fall of her ethereal voice.

My last exchange was with a woman who sat down on the bench beside me in the Penn Station waiting area, spreading out an oddball assortment of books and DVDs in her lap, older titles like The Sopranos. She asked if I wanted to buy any of them. When I declined, she asked if I’d buy her a bagel and coffee. I gave her $5. She gestured toward the items in her lap, “Don’t you want to take something?” I said no.

As she stood up, something felt off. It took a few minutes, but as I reflected on what had happened, I realized that refusing to take an item kept the generosity on my terms instead of hers. Whatever difficulties life was throwing at her, she’d responded by reselling books and DVDs to make money, much like folks who resell bottled water outside ballparks. Why had I said no, not once, but twice? Because I didn’t want something extra to carry and didn’t want to inconvenience myself by taking something I’d then need to donate to a thrift store at home. I’d given her money but withheld a more complete generosity.

I’m home now. As I continue to act on my impulses to be generous, I’m striving to do so in ways that honor human dignity. Whether it’s making eye contact, smiling, shaking hands, stopping to talk for a spell, or accepting an item offered, there are more generous ways to be generous than what my initial response might be.

What else did I learn from these moments?

• I’m a more generous person than I often allow myself to be.

• Giving feels good. I knew this, but these moments reminded me.

• There are many ways to be generous. Giving money is one, but taking time to do something generous in word or deed is often more meaningful, perhaps because it usually takes more time.

• Generosity has a lot to teach me.

• Being more generous amplifies my gratitude for the generosity I receive.

Let me offer an example for this last point. When I checked into the hotel after waiting in a long line, a kind clerk named Tim moved my reservation from a room on the street side to the river side. Because of his generosity, I got to witness a stunning sunset the next evening. As I gazed at the orange-guava clouds, an answering warmth rose inside me.

A stunning sunset over Newark and the Passaic River.

When I returned from the festival on the last night of my stay, Tim was back on duty. I thanked him again—and showed him a photo of the unexpected gift his generosity had given me.

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Here’s a poem for your pocket until the next post: “When Giving Is All We Have” by Alberto Ríos.

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