She compliments anyone, right away.
Yesterday, it was a nurse.
“You’re pretty.”
Then she smiled.
“I’m not pretty, but I was smart.”
Today, she noticed a caregiver walking by and called out,
“Your legs are long.”
“Bet you were fast.”
When the caregiver had gone, she turned to me.
“My legs were short.”
“I was slow. I hated sports day.”
“But I was smart.”
“You don’t have to be the best at everything, do you?”
She smiled as she said it.
Close one eye to other people’s flaws. Keep both eyes open for their strengths. And don’t step back to observe people—that’s no good either.
That’s what my 96-year-old teacher told me.
It’s true that we tend to judge others harshly while letting ourselves off the hook.
Does it come from insecurity, self-defense, or an instinct for self-preservation?
When we’re dissatisfied with ourselves or our circumstances, it’s easy to become critical of others.
But some people judge others harshly no matter how successful they are. Status, intelligence, and wealth don’t seem to make much difference.
Is it a way of thinking we’ve carried since childhood? Or is finding fault in others simply part of our survival instinct?
I still don’t know.
Even if I did, the urge to judge others might not go away.
Yet my teacher smiles gently and says,
“I just love people. Looking at their flaws with one eye is enough.”
There must be something in those words that I still can’t see.
For today, I’ll simply try to follow her example.
One eye for flaws.
Both eyes for their strengths.
“When someone says something unkind, think of them as a person to be pitied, and let it go. If you say the same thing back, it dirties your own heart. Keep your heart clean, and it shows in your face.”
That’s what my teacher told me.
It’s easy to say, but not so easy to do.
Unkind words.
Unkind behavior.
Letting it go is harder than it sounds.
Honestly, I wondered if she was simply born that way—someone naturally gentle.
When I told her it was difficult, she smiled and said,
“It’s hard at first, but if you keep trying, it starts to come naturally.”
That was a relief to hear.
My teacher is 96, yet there’s not a single worry line between her brows.
Her skin has a quiet glow. Her face is gentle, and quietly lovely.
She is living proof of what she teaches.
If it really comes down to how you carry your heart, maybe there’s still hope for me.
One day, I’d like to grow old with a face like hers.
Sometimes, I talk with a 96-year-old woman who used to be an elementary school teacher.
She has dementia and often tells me the same stories—almost always about her days in the classroom.
The other day, she said,
“I never scolded a child for poor grades. I praised them for the effort they put in.”
“Nurturing a child’s heart—that’s a teacher’s job.”
So I asked her, “How do you nurture someone’s heart?”
Without even pausing to think, she smiled and said,
“You don’t know that?”
“If someone is struggling, you help them.”
It was such a simple answer.
Even after I got home, her words stayed with me.
Can the heart grow through our actions?
Thinking about that, I found myself reflecting on the way she carries herself every day.
At mealtimes, if the woman sitting next to her dozes off, she gently says, “Wake up and eat your meal.”
When the woman starts eating again, she smiles and says, “Good for you. Well done.”
Then a caregiver reminds her, “Don’t worry about everyone else. Please eat your own meal first.”
Something clicked.
She has never stopped reaching out to the person in front of her.
Come to think of it, she often compliments me too.
“You have beautiful eyes.” “Your skin is lovely.” That sort of thing.
Decades have passed since she left the classroom. Her students grew up and moved on. But she just keeps doing it—naturally, without thinking.
Praise people.
Help people who need it.
Maybe it doesn’t have to be anything grand.
Just offer a small helping hand to the person in front of you.
Or say a few kind words when you notice something good about them.
Maybe that’s all it is.
At 96 years old, even with dementia, she is still the teacher she has always been.