This morning I woke with a lyric in my head. It was this: “Laughing at the stony face of gloom.”

I don’t know why it was there, nor why it kept repeating. But it did. I tried to place the song, but couldn’t straightaway. It was a Neil Finn lyric. That I knew. But from what song? I got singing a bit — in my head, then aloud — and slowly it came to me (more an “oh, right” batch of moments, less an “aha!” one) that the line was from a Crowded House song called “Instinct.” It’s a rather catchy pop song, one of the band’s “later” songs — before they disbanded in the ’90s, bowing out with a rousing, rip-roaring, heartfelt, tearful, and rather massive “farewell” concert at the Sydney Opera House.

At any rate. That lyric. That’s what I’m on about.

Why was it on my mind?

Likely because I’d had a rough pain day yesterday, and was in a foul mood — the sort you get when you’ve chronic pain and it feels like it’s pinned you down and hemmed you in. Some days, it’s a big fat bully that way. Thing with me is, after one of those days — sometimes marked by what I call “hospital” pain and feelings of hopelessness — I normally seem to bounce back the very next.

I’ll wake in less pain, and in a better mood. Excitedly, I get thinking things like: What can I read? What can I write? Sun’s out, where can I take a slow stroll? No longer feeling hemmed in, pinned down, possibilities, and generally happy ones, tend to surface.

And that’s why, I figure, I woke with that generally cheerful lyric bouncing about in my head.

When pain subsides, and the mind is quiet and clear again, yes, that is, to me, when it feels possible to get “laughing at the stony face of gloom.”

So, ear worm solved, I guess.

But then it occurred to me to wonder why I am drawn to such lyrics. Because I most certainly am. Happy, hopeful lyrics, mostly. Clever. Poetic. They are, too, often gentle and kind — or, at least, they feel gentle, and they come across, well, rather like a kindness … merely by being.

This makes sense to me. I am drawn, and have been since childhood, to all things kind and gentle. The world really needs more kind and gentle. I believe that now, likely more than I ever have. I crave all things kind and gentle. They help me through the hardest of days. They inspire me to write. They remind me to laugh. They bring me joy. They offer me comfort. And they help me sleep more restfully at night.

Like a miracle drug, essentially.

So, what sorts of things are these? (And what’s he on about, then?)

Well, books come to mind straightaway. Anne Tyler is my favourite author, The Accidental Tourist still my favourite book. I first read that book when I was a teenager, and I was spellbound. Anxious and floundering to figure things out, I found the book completely charming. Beautiful, hilarious, tender, and true, it also left me feeling oddly, wonderfully comforted.

I say “oddly” because, at the time, I really couldn’t have told you why I found it so comforting. I just did. And that was the wonderful part.

I remember reading a “blurb” on one of the flaps (inner, back, front, I can’t recall) of the eventually well-worn paperback copy I read (on city buses, in libraries, at the waterfront) to bits and pieces, and it essentially, if not precisely, said that Anne Tyler’s “eye on the world was a kind and gentle one.”

Just as the book did, that blurb stuck with me. Those words, that sentiment. And if you happen to be the excellent and prodigiously wise reviewer who wrote that blurb, bless you! Truly, thank you. That observation was spot on. And not only that, those words themselves tumbled about in my head and became something akin to a mantra. Better put, perhaps, I realized I wanted to see the world through “kind and gentle” eyes. And perhaps, to some extent, I already did. And maybe that’s why I immediately fell in love with Anne Tyler’s writing.

Actually, I’m quite sure it is.

[Quick aside: I wonder if Neil Finn has ever met Anne Tyler? Maybe he’s a big fan? Maybe she’s a big fan of his songs? I don’t know. I quite like to think they’d be friends, though. Friends — the gentle, soft-spoken, quietly brilliant type, both — and fans of one another’s art. I can see it. That’s actually a comforting thought.]

In Anne Tyler’s books, actually, she’s rather “laughing at the stony face of gloom,” isn’t she? I think so, in many ways. She never dodges the tricky, messy, unpleasant parts of being human. No, she takes them on, too. She never neatly paves over them. What she does in her stories, I think (as have many critics and readers), is focus on the smaller moments — the everyday moments, which are invariably the most significant moments — in life. How people react to hardships; how they cope; how they help one another. Her characters are flawed, like all of us. They also tend to be quirky, like most of us. They’re normally, in one way or another, charming and likeable, too. Basically, they’re all looking for something — or someone — as well. Without exception, they are very real and very human. And they tend to be kind and gentle people, too. Average folks. Unremarkable, really. Like most of us. But when you’ve finished reading about them, they stay with you. And you get to thinking about how remarkable their stories genuinely are.

That is Anne Tyler’s unmatched gift.

And so, where am I in what I’m on about?

Oh, yes. I crave things that are kind and gentle. The word “things” makes it sound sort of like I’m shopping for physical items, though. And I suppose that’s partly true. Because I most often find my “kind and gentle” fix in books, and music, and movies. In art. (In the “humanities,” if you will — “the stories, the ideas, and the words that help us understand our lives and our world,” as the University of Rhode Island defines them.) Moving, thoughtful, life-affirming art created by intelligent, tender-hearted, uniquely-talented people.

These are the sort of people I’m fond of, too. And usually, but not always, they are kind and gentle themselves. Most of my friends are like this, come to think of it. No coincidence, that.

Back to things a moment: On social media, I keep a sort of running list of movies I find clever and kind and gentle. And whenever I discover a new one, I post about it. I’m astounded by the number of people who write to me saying things like, “Oh, I loved that movie, too!” or “It’s one of my absolute favourites!” or “Wasn’t it just magnificent?!” These are movies I’ll add to my collection, so that I can watch them whenever I need that fix — which is regularly. And quite honestly, pretty much every night — especially at night, when I most feel the need to unwind and give my brain a rest.

A few films that come readily to mind: Mr. Holmes, Leave No Trace, The Accidental Tourist, Columbus, Bergman Island, Land, On Golden Pond, Arrival, and The Quiet Girl.

That’s really just a partial list. But those are some of my top my go-to’s, and absolute favourites.

They feel like loyal, cherished friends.

Books that have the same affect on me? Gosh, I likely could go on for days. But The Accidental Tourist tops the list. Still. And steadily. Honestly, I could choose any of Anne Tyler’s novels, though — and of course I own them all (multiple copies and editions, in fact) — and they would do the trick as well, quite nicely. Anne Tyler specializes in kind and gentle, you might say.

I find The Beginner’s Goodbye — Tyler’s twentieth novel, published in 2012 — almost equally as comforting as The Accidental Tourist. There are other books about grief I have found of great comfort — mostly non-fiction, though not all — and they would make the top 10 in this list, too: Levels of Life by Julian Barnes, C.S. Lewis’s masterpiece A Grief Observed, This is Happy by Camilla Gibb, and Maggie Nelson’s Bluets.

Add to those All My Puny Sorrows by Miriam Toews and Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s Gift from the Sea. Oh, and Stephen Kings’ Different Seasons.

With those books tucked safely in a suitcase, I could happily retire to a seaside cottage for a great many months.

I’d need some music too, though. So, I’d quite likely pack a small stash of records too — by Sarah Harmer, Neil Finn, Springsteen, the Dream Academy, Hothouse Flowers, Sting, Paul Simon, Sheryl Crow, Cowboy Junkies.

Music is a bit different than books and films, though, because there are so many individual songs I could slot into that “kind and gentle” category, a few tracks by Natalie Merchant come to mind — and this is where a mixed tape would do the trick wonderfully! But, good golly, that would have to be one long tape. Still, you get the idea.

And I get the idea that I’m not alone in craving all things kind and gentle. Now and then, we all love and need an affectionate hug, for instance. That’s a kind and gentle thing. As is holding the door open for someone, especially someone who might not be able to open the door so easily on their own. Having someone listen to you, really, truly listen to you — that is a wondrous act of affection, I think. We all want to be heard. Listening to someone attentively is an intimate, important kind and gentle gesture. There are so many “small acts of kindness” that aren’t really small at all. And they are some of the best things going, aren’t they?

I think so.

And of course, they aren’t just things but people, too. Family, friends, like-minded souls. I’d be lost without Ellie, my cat/companion, so I’d best add our beloved, mostly four-legged companions to the conversation as well. Although Ellie is family, and a dear friend, so perhaps she deserves a cashew-shaped category all her own.

Honestly, I don’t know where I’d be in life without, as I fancy them, all things kind and gentle. Without them, there would doubtlessly be precious little laughter, and the stony face of gloom would have its miserable, unbearable way.

So, gratitude! — immense and full-on and heart-swelling gratitude for absolutely all things kind and gentle. That is what I feel.

You might feel the same way, too.