Make them soup | Ammi Midstokke
I don’t always cry when I run, but when I do, it’s because I’m too cheap to pay my therapist’s hourly rate. Instead, I ask a friend to join me on a run under the guise of fitness, then steer the conversation toward whatever perceived calamity has struck.
These days, mental health running has become its own sport. Not because I lack resilience or have suffered some life-altering event, but because I cannot say no to requests to volunteer. It’s a problem.
I am not alone in this bizarre propensity to seek hope in service. At various events, rallies, board retreats and council meetings, the roles are manned by a collective of silver bobs and reading glasses. Give them a fold out chair and a reflective vest, and they are happy to contribute to a cause from sunup to sundown.
It’s not that they don’t have anything better to do. It’s that something must be done.
Were it not for them, we’d never achieve anything.
The volunteering population of the world is diminishing, while the demand is ever increasing. Where college applicants eagerly touted pages of their clubs and community service, these merits seem to have been replaced with how many followers one has on their social media accounts. The social and institutional value of service by youth continues to decline. Of all the ways in which they must differentiate themselves in a cutthroat race to get into student debt, and the subsequent cutthroat race to get back out of it, there isn’t time for volunteering.
Occasionally, I get a lecture from a low-volume-volunteer friend, in which they judge me for my lack of self-care (I guess because I cry while I’m running), and I judge them for not running themselves ragged in the name of a worthy cause or seven.
At a recent leadership meeting of several nonprofits and service organizations, we were asked what our primary challenges are. The vast majority said, “Capacity.” The need far outweighs the resources.
I have a hard time computing that. Some people are paying $100 for ice cubes from Greenland’s glaciers for their artisan cocktails in Dubai. Bezos’ “support boat” for his super yacht carries his helicopter. The resources are available, just not for everyone.
I can’t recall if I was crying about the carbon footprint of ancient glacier ice cubes flown to Dubai, my lack of a helicopter, or that I had three board meetings in the same week, but it was mostly likely the emotional response to someone telling me to do less.
Or as my wise grandmother would probably say, “Don’t do stressful things,” as if she didn’t serve family after family as a school teacher for 30 years, or raise children that were not hers, or support hospice and the cancer society with pies and time. Maybe it wasn’t called “volunteering” then. It was just the assumed kindness of civic engagement.
Studies show that service is a key marker of mental health, particularly as we age. Those who serve in a volunteer capacity show greater levels of positivity, social connection, and purpose. Serving can also reduce rumination and hopelessness. It can offer a sense of efficacy in a fraught world. But what about when we over-extend and over-commit ourselves?
When Mother Nature is being exploited and people are encouraging vigilante voyeurism (can you think of any other time in history where citizens were rewarded for tattling on their neighbors?), and my trans friends can’t figure out which bathroom is least likely to get them attacked or charged with a felony, how can I wave my white “I need a nap” flag? I am overwhelmed by the needs of the world. I suspect many of us are.
Even the commitment of volunteering can be daunting, so I won’t guilt trip readers into signing up to walk dogs at the animal shelter every week. There are other ways in which we can care for each other – a quasi care-for-the-hyper-volunteer-in-your-life program.
“I don’t need people to tell me to do less!” I choked while marching up a hill. “I need them to get me a massage or make me some soup!”
By and large, being of service is rewarding, but sometimes it is also being at a board meeting until 10 p.m. on a Monday night. Maybe that’s why, on the following Tuesday morning, my running buddy arrived with a jar of homemade taco soup and a book. Was there ever a more gentle nudge toward a cozy afternoon of rest?
The smallest things can restore my faith in humanity, and soup is one of them. Soup is the panacea for most ailments, from loneliness to hunger, from a flu to a flop. But because it cannot protect marginalized communities or organize health care or march at rallies, we must give it to those who can, so they are nourished and nurtured enough to do that important work.
If you don’t want to volunteer, that’s okay. Just make us soup.
Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammim@spokesman.com.