I recently attended a lecture in which most of the audience had gray hair to match mine. I did not know any of the other people attending, so I sat quietly listening to the conversations around me and waiting for the talk to begin. I heard snippets of many comments ranging from Sundays are not what they used to be to grandchildren who are following unapproved paths. I began to have an internal bet with myself to see if I heard anything other than mild complaints or criticisms of the current world in which we now live. I did not.
Then the speaker began. I sunk into her talk with interest, particularly when she began to speak about criticism. Her point was that the opposite of criticism is not approval or approbation or sanction. The opposite was … love. Does your grandson wear his baseball hat backwards? Just love him. Does your granddaughter listen to rap? Just love her. Is Sunday not the family roast-beef-for-lunch day of your youth? Love the day. But what really hit home was when I realized that I had not been surrounded by critical old people. That I had been as critical in my own self-righteous way as anyone. All anyone in that room needed, including me, was the love that sees through the detritus of the surface to the real person beneath. Just that and nothing more.