Actions Speak Louder Than Words No Matter How Loud Your Words

Actions speak louder than words. I’ve run in to this truth several times this week. I think it’s a fitting motto for those of us who claim to be attempting to live life in harmony with the earth and our bodies. We can say all the pretty, socially acceptable things we want, but when it comes down to brass tacks, we are what we do.

I do believe that actions speak louder than words. In fact, I’m staking my parenting success on those words. My kids may say really (really) mean things to each other and to me. They may call each other awful names, threaten to hurt each other, and make all manner of snide comments about one another, but when they are out in the larger world (i.e. not at our house), I am relieved to see that they treat people kindly. They don’t throw things at people or slam doors. They don’t call people that annoy them “idiots” or make sarcastic comments. They swallow their frustration and their pride. And it always surprises me, though it shouldn’t by now.

They may scream things at me that will haunt me for days or tell me that I am the meanest mother in the world (or lately a “freak”), but when I observe them with other authority figures like teachers and coaches, they are respectful and obedient. They even seem to work hard to secure their praise. I’m not saying that my kids always treat me like the trash waiting to be dragged to the curb, just that for every nasty word they scream at me, there are thousands of kind words used on others (and occasionally me).

While I don’t appreciate being the verbal punching bag, and there are certainly consequences when it happens (apparently that’s what makes me a “freak” since other parents would never take away screen time or force their children to apologize), I am grateful that it appears my children are learning the lessons I am trying to hammer home. Their actions speak louder than their words. They may yell at me, but they will still complete their weekend chore. They may say they hate their sibling, but they will still share their after-game treat with them. They may scream that the homework is stupid as they settle down in the bean bag chair to get it done.

This motto has not been easy for me to embrace. I think words are important. I think they are powerful and dangerous and tricky. So I admit to overreacting to some of the words that come out of my children’s mouths. The learning curve on this one hasn’t been steep for me, but I’m getting there. Slowly I’m learning to be quiet and wait and see what they actually do. Sometimes they just need a safe place to vent. I do the same thing with my animals. If anyone ever put a hidden camera in our barn, they would deem me a lunatic. I talk to the animals, compliment them, and ask them questions. But sometimes I curse them, call them names, and complain to them. It’s a chance to vent. They listen to my ramblings with practiced indifference and it’s refreshing. I don’t have to own up to anything I’ve said because no one’s going to call me on it. Animals have only actions to communicate with, no words. I understand them most of the time. I know exactly where they stand and don’t have to try figure out why they said what they said.

As a parent, it’s difficult not to call my children on the things that come out of their mouths. I find myself letting some things slide and then blowing up over other things. And sometimes it feels like the kids are really feeling around for the limits. “I can say this and I don’t get a reaction, so how about this…”

When I flip the motto around and apply it to myself, I’m grateful. I truly hope that my actions are speaking louder than my words. I may be so angry I shake, but I will still feed my children a healthy meal. I will still do their laundry and drive them where they need to go and tuck them in at night with a quiet song and a hug. The millions of actions that I have done for my kids speak volumes. Hopefully enough to drown out the times I’ve said harsh things out of pride or been cruel in my effort to get my point across.

Sometimes it’s helpful to take a breath. I’m learning to say, “There will be consequences for this. I don’t know what they are yet, but there will be.” And then walking away instead of saying something I’ll regret later. It’s a nonstop juggling act this parenting gig. How much patience before you have to step in? How much do you tolerate before you have to act? Should you say something or let them figure it out on their own? I don’t think any of us get it right every day, or any given hour for that matter. I guess the best that we can do is the best that we can do. Take a deep breath. Be quiet. Let the words settle before you spring to action because those actions will always speak louder than any words.

We're In the Same Herd

Humans don’t hold the patent on meanness. Animals can be just as cruel. And depending on your view of evolution, maybe that’s where it originates. This morning I opened the barn door expecting to find a dead chicken and discovered that little Kernel (a pretty Buff Orpington who tends towards the broody side) was still hanging on. For reasons, unknown to us, the other chickens attacked and pecked out her eyes. I don’t lay very tall odds on a blind chicken. In order to survive, a chicken needs to be able to retain the whereabouts of her food and water. Sadly, this is beyond the capabilities of the average chicken. My daughter gently showed Kernel where to find her food and water and Kernel promptly forgot. (or maybe she’s just not interested)

Kernel’s plight saddens me, but what really breaks my heart are the endless stories of bullying and meanness amongst humans. We humans have brains. And we are capable of compassion, creativity, and logic. Why is it we don’t evolve any further along than my flock of chickens when it comes to how we treat each other?

There is no need to be mean. It does nothing but hurt the other person and poison your own heart. I believe it takes much more effort to be mean, than to be kind. When I hear my own children being cruel to each other, I admonish them that they are on the same team. They look at me, roll their eyes, but generally back off. Watching my youngest son’s game yesterday it was funny when three players wearing the same jerseys fought for a ball and ultimately knocked each other over, forfeiting the ball in the process. “You’re on the same team!” yelled a coach, shaking his head. Why is that so hard for us to grasp?

Just like the sports teams in the intramural league my kids play in, we are all thrown together pretty haphazardly from all walks of life. The only thing holding us together is the fact that we play for the same team. Humans have survived in a harsh world over time, not because we have brains, but because we have used those brains to cooperate and ban together. Without a community, no life would have taken hold in the original colonies. We need each other.

We have to believe we’re in the same herd. This morning when I was working my horse, I thought a lot about that idea. I learn much more from animals than books. This particular horse is a five-year-old sissy. He’s afraid to leave the other horses. He wants to be with his herd ALL the time. (Never mind that his “herd” are two geriatric ponies that avoid being within hoofshot of him) In the past month, I’ve been trying to convince this horse that we are a herd of two. I tell him this all the time, tapping him on the forehead and then tapping my heart, as I remind him, “You and me, we’re a herd of two.” I don’t really expect him to understand my words, but I think he senses my commitment. He’s learning that he is just fine when he’s with me, there’s really no reason to high-tail it for home simply because a branch cast a shadow or a squirrel shimmied up a tree. It’s not really that scary. Thankfully, he’s beginning to refrain from doing “stupid” things just because he’s scared without his herd.

I think we do lots of stupid things when we feel like we have lost our herd. Everyone wants to be a part of a herd. We may believe we are independent souls, but really we all want to be part of something. We don’t want to be alone. Even if our herd is just two. And once we find our herd, we consider others who are different, who are not a part of our herd, to be a threat. So we lash out. I think that’s one reason for unnecessary meanness. People are afraid of others who are not like them, who don’t belong to their herd. Somehow we need to begin to see that we’re all a part of the same herd. We play for the same team.

I think the other reason for meanness goes back to that old, wise adage – “monkey see, monkey do”. Truer words were never uttered. When we are children, we do the same thing that the other people in our “herd” do. If we hear adults pointing out another person’s differences, or complaining about others, we do it too. I think we as parents need to be incredibly careful when we talk about others, lest we set an example of judgment.

Children are watching us. They see the times when we are patient with the grumpy sales clerk, the inconsiderate neighbor, or the driver who forgets to signal. And they also watch when our frustration gets the best of us and we say or do things we shouldn’t. Monkey see, monkey do. If we go out of our way to be pleasant and kind, they will too. This sounds like a very simple, easy parenting philosophy, but I’m here to tell you, it ain’t. I growled at my youngest just this morning because he dawdled away the morning and never ate his breakfast. No big deal, but what am I teaching? I didn’t need to be mean, his stomach will point out his mistake by 10:00, no doubt.

And watching our talk about others is even harder. I recently found myself saying some pretty judgmental things about another adult, things that were completely subjective, and, in all honesty, unfair. My oldest son commented, “Wow, that’s pretty harsh.” Smack. I needed that smack to the heart. How do we learn to stop passing judgment? It is not possible to like, let alone, love, all the people in the herd that is our community. But we can be nice. We don’t need to be mean.

I don’t know that Kernel is going to make it. And I don’t know that we won’t lose the next weakest hen soon after. But they are only chickens (don’t tell my kids I said that) and they don’t know better. We do. We can choose to show how much we’ve evolved by watching what we say around our kids and demonstrating kindness at every opportunity. The anti-bullying curriculum the schools teach is great, but it doesn’t have a chance if children see a different message at home in their own herd.