Many years ago I was strolling the French Quarter in New Orleans when I noticed the slow approach of a small, mule-driven flower cart. The man seated on the cart kept it close to the sidewalk, making it easier for passersby to stop and select from his buckets abundant with gladiolas, daffodils, and irises. Yet as dazzling as the flowers were, my attention drifted to the mule.

A feeling of appreciation suddenly came upon me not only for this particular animal but every beast of burden that has toiled patiently for humankind since the invention of the harness. I found myself hoping the mule was well treated by her keeper, even loved, as she hauled the flower cart without a sign of complaint in the hot midday sun.
These thoughts bubbled up in me: “Thank you for your service. I wish you a contented life.”

Just as the mule and I were about to closely pass each other along that bustling walkway, I in silent gratitude, she dipped her head and gently brushed my forearm with her muzzle.

Now, I’m no Saint Francis. Nor do I claim any Tarzan-like rapport with the animal kingdom. But if you have a pet or feel a kinship with animals you’ll understand that the mule and I connected. There was an exchange between us. An understanding. And I have a hunch about how that happened.

I was completely relaxed at that moment, pleasurably taking in the French Quarter’s lush courtyards, out-of-the-past facades, and strolling Dixieland bands. I walked with a sense of discovery, with no agendas or expectations (and, in case you’re wondering, no alcohol!). In that highly receptive state, my senses awake and heart open, I believe I’d glimpsed the essence of the mule. When we perceive essence, love is just underneath. I held a feeling of respect for this noble animal with wishes for her well-being, which to my utter joy she acknowledged. Message sent, message received.

Albert Einstein wrote, “Our task [is to widen] our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.” Many of us know and enjoy that sense of connection to which Einstein refers. We find peace and meaning in our relationship with our pets, a sense of kinship with the animal world, solidarity with the trees on a hike through the forest.

The expansive feeling of interconnection often ends, however, when it comes to our relationships with people. Our cherished animals and gardens often become the refuges to which we retreat from barking bosses, catty coworkers, or fang-bearing family members. It can be difficult to relate to, let alone feel generous toward those we find challenging.

The contrast is obvious. Animals don’t threaten our egos. They don’t press our inadequacy buttons or arouse our resentments and insecurities. People do. Unlike our four-legged friends, we are psychologically complex, capable of extreme cruelty in one moment and acts of stunning selflessness in the next. To be sure, the contradictions can be exhausting.

And yet, the invitation is always available to quiet ourselves enough to see the essential goodness in ourselves and, by extension, in others. Even if we can’t see it, we can make a giant leap in our humanity by assuming it’s there. From this assumption comes the basic foundation of respect on which all relationship skills are built—whether with those on two legs or four.

My strong suspicion is that at a very basic and profound (and unsentimental) level we are all connected. That doesn’t mean we must go around hugging everybody, stare soulfully into each other’s eyes, or trust that everyone is well intended toward us; discernment is a survival skill. But there is something—hope, perhaps—that arises when we consider that in all the ways that count we may be more alike than different and fundamentally decent despite our worst behaviors. What would it be like to act as if that were true?