Last week I was scrolling through my Facebook feed when I came upon something disturbing. There was a dog that needed a new home because his family had decided to do some traveling. People were sharing the post like crazy. But that's not all they were doing.
They were calling the dog's family terrible names. They were accusing them of heinous, reckless behavior. They were spewing some of the ugliest vitriol I've read online. And, as sad as I was for the dog - and I was very sad for him - I was sadder for the world. Because we are consumed by our own rage. And we don't even see it.
People who know me know I'm a softie and a champion for dogs. I can't imagine any scenario whereby I'd give up my own, so it's hard for me to wrap my head around this family's decision. Although I said nothing, my first reaction was also one of anger and disbelief.
But I've noticed something about myself lately: Whether I'm watching the news or driving or waiting on line or trying to figure out how my TV works, I move with lightning speed from frustration to irritation to rage. Maybe it's the political climate or my age or a sudden uptick in annoying people and mystifying electronics, but compassion - for myself and for others - is getting harder and harder to access.
So here's what I do when I find myself feeling unkindly toward someone I don't even know: I imagine them with a beloved dog or cat. This helps me see them not as irritant but as human, as a vulnerable person with real feelings and hopes and disappointments and dreams.
This is not entirely my idea. We're all probably familiar with the advice that, when someone intimidates us, picture naked. Recently, the actress Anna Kendrick was asked on "Sunday Today with Willie Geist" whether it was true that she calms her nerves by imagining the journalists interviewing her having sex. She didn't want to answer. "Yes" would be embarrassing to both she and Willie, and "no" could be taken as, "All but you, Willie," which would just be mean. She said "Yes."
Maybe we all need a trick to help us deal with people who annoy us or scare us, something that puts us in touch with our empathy and compassion.
At the end of the movie "War Dogs," Bradley Cooper, playing an arms dealer, famously says, "I'm not a bad man, but sometimes I have to ask myself what a bad man would do." This was how he helped himself take the low road.
It's a riff on the "WWJD?" refrain, popular years ago, which entreated people to imagine what someone of the highest moral character might do in a challenging situation; in turn, they themselves might do it also. It suggests that, if we can't find it inside ourselves not to trash and hack away at the perceived character flaws and failings of others, then maybe we need to step outside ourselves and ask what someone who CAN find it inside himself would do.
Over a decade ago, I answered an online call from an editor for submissions. I crafted my piece and sent it. A few days later there was, in my inbox, a letter belittling not just my submission, but me personally. The editor actually called me an idiot because I'd followed the guidelines improperly and said that I was in for a world of failure as a writer since I could not follow directions.
I didn't submit anything for a very long time after that. Even now, I never submit a piece of writing anywhere that I don't think about that editor's comments or flinch when I hit "send." So while vitriol and rage can change the actions of others, I doubt it helps anyone move forward. I doubt it helps needy dogs get homes or fledgling writers build their career or anyone move through the world with greater compassion or empathy or positivity.
So I'm calling on all of us who speak so eloquently and so urgently about world peace, about loving our neighbor and healing our divides, about working together for the good of the masses, to stop looking for what incenses us. To stop with the name-calling and the finger-pointing. Because rage is addictive. The more you have, the more you somehow want. And the less, you discover, it actually does for you.
Dana Shavin is the author of the memoir, "The Body Tourist." Contact her at dana@danashavin.com or at www.danashavin.com.