Civility as Medicine of the Soul
As food can nourish—or destroy—the body, so our words and actions can nourish—or poison—the soul
A lovely member of this community recently told me:
“I hope you know that you stop and make people think—and this is what you were made to do, right?”
Her words meant the world. I want to keep offering most of this work freely, but paid subscriptions make that possible. If you find value here, I’d be grateful if you’d consider supporting it with a subscription—it helps sustain the work and keep it open to all.
Gracious reader,
This summer, our family spent time in Maine. One of the most memorable meals we enjoyed was a luminous breakfast at Sarsaparilla, a small new haunt just outside the quintessential New England town of Bar Harbor. I cannot recommend it enough if you find yourself in northern Maine.
The menu made me feel seen: congee, adaptogenic beverages, and broths rich in flavor and function. Everything was intentional, nutrient-dense, and quietly joyful.
While walking out to the terrace, I met the owner and mentioned how much the menu reminded me of a postpartum cookbook that meant a great deal to me years ago—The First Forty Days—a celebration of stillness, softness, and nourishment after birth.
“That book was really influential on our menu,” she smiled. Of course it was.
It made me think of the Greek physician Hippocrates, who is often credited with the adage: ‘Let food be thy medicine and medicine be thy food’. It’s a principle that quietly shapes how we eat in our home—not with strict orthodoxy, but with reverence. Whole, life-giving meals as a way of saying: You matter. You’re here. Your life is worthy of care.
But halfway through that glorious meal, I made the mistake of checking my email. A note had arrived from someone—its tone sharp, clipped, and immediately activating. I felt my body shift. Blood pressure rising. Shoulders tensing. I was suddenly nowhere near Bar Harbor—I was in the emotional quicksand of reaction, drafting imaginary responses in my head.
And then something surprising happened. The same thought I’d had about food—that it can either nourish or poison—rose up again, but about language.
Our words are also medicine. Or they are poison. They either restore us to wholeness—or erode it.
And so, I paused. I closed the email app. I took another sip of my herbal tonic and returned, quite literally, to the table.
This is a core theme of The Soul of Civility: that civility is not just a social nicety or a strategic tool. It is a form of care. It is not weakness; it is not performance. It is, at its best, a commitment to nourish both others and ourselves.
There are many instrumental reasons to practice civility: it builds trust, preserves relationships, lowers the temperature of discourse, increases the odds of cooperation. But the deepest reason is not practical—it is moral and existential.
Incivility doesn’t just degrade public discourse. It degrades us.
Civility, on the other hand, ennobles not only its recipient but also its giver.
The question I found myself asking that morning—and one I now carry into every room—is deceptively simple, but clarifying:
While I was eating a nourishing meal for my body, I reflected: what I’m about to say or do nourishing to my soul? Or is it poisoning?
It’s a question worth asking before we post on social media, before we respond to an email, before we correct a child, before we walk into a hard conversation.
Civility is not the absence of conflict—it is the presence of discipline and moral imagination. It’s not passivity. It’s power under control. It’s a refusal to let someone else’s tone hijack our integrity. Most of all, it’s a way to honor the humanity and inherent dignity in both ourselves and others—good for it’s own sake, full stop.
Just as we are learning, collectively, to be more mindful about what we put in our bodies—seeking organic, restorative, real food—we can also become more intentional about what we allow to pass through our lips in words and actions. We can become stewards of inner and outer nourishment.
As philosohper Simone Weil once wrote, “Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.”
What is civility, if not attention made visible?
So let us attend—to our food, yes. But also to our tone. Our timing. Our word choice. Our silences. Our willingness to give people the benefit of the doubt. These, too, are forms of nourishment.
Let our lives—our meals, our emails, our manners—be medicine.
Warmly,
Lexi
Join a Deeper Conversation on Civility This September!
