aloneness does not have to be bad.
i was at the checkout paying for some groceries earlier, when i heard a thud and a crack. turning around, a young man in waitrose uniform stood hovering over what was once a bottle of wine on display, but now a pool of red with a smattering of broken glass chunks. dismay was written all over his face, as he stared at the mess on the floor, frozen, hands slightly stretched out, as if willing for time to turn back and the mistake to be undone.
all around him, people turned to look. i held my breath: i could almost feel his shock, embarrassment, and helplessness. i tried to suppress my reflex urge to rush to his aid, to mop up that misfortune, to say a few words of comfort. i don't know why, but i didn't go forward to help. (i say this with a tinge of regret, some form of self disapproval at my lack of compassion, but i do not wholly beat myself up for this inaction) almost 30 seconds later, one of his colleagues walked up to him to offer a roll of tissue. i half expected him to stay and help with the cleaning up, but he simply turned and walked away, somewhat apologetic. was he wary of the embarrassment of being mistaken as the one who made the mistake? or does waitrose have some form of protocol that calls for the rectification of one's own mistake without assistance? highly unlikely. at this point, the young man had regained some composure and had started to wipe up the spilled wine. but, he looked so alone, among the bustling shoppers and unhelpful onlookers (including me) in the supermarket.
it must have been tough. as the cashier scanned my items and i watched him from afar, it suddenly dawned on me how real this world is, and how undefended we are in it. so often we have to shoulder unpleasant things on our own: to clean up after ourselves - bravely, calmly - is perhaps how we can grow and survive with strength and independence.
and hence i (grudgingly) applaud myself for being an ice queen today. of course i'm in no position to pretend to be this nurturing educator who moulds an individual with adversity. i suppose i need to apply this lesson to myself: know my mistakes, don't expect help, and stand tall. never stoop or shudder, even in face of censure - correct what can be done, and learn from it, with dignity.
all around him, people turned to look. i held my breath: i could almost feel his shock, embarrassment, and helplessness. i tried to suppress my reflex urge to rush to his aid, to mop up that misfortune, to say a few words of comfort. i don't know why, but i didn't go forward to help. (i say this with a tinge of regret, some form of self disapproval at my lack of compassion, but i do not wholly beat myself up for this inaction) almost 30 seconds later, one of his colleagues walked up to him to offer a roll of tissue. i half expected him to stay and help with the cleaning up, but he simply turned and walked away, somewhat apologetic. was he wary of the embarrassment of being mistaken as the one who made the mistake? or does waitrose have some form of protocol that calls for the rectification of one's own mistake without assistance? highly unlikely. at this point, the young man had regained some composure and had started to wipe up the spilled wine. but, he looked so alone, among the bustling shoppers and unhelpful onlookers (including me) in the supermarket.
it must have been tough. as the cashier scanned my items and i watched him from afar, it suddenly dawned on me how real this world is, and how undefended we are in it. so often we have to shoulder unpleasant things on our own: to clean up after ourselves - bravely, calmly - is perhaps how we can grow and survive with strength and independence.
and hence i (grudgingly) applaud myself for being an ice queen today. of course i'm in no position to pretend to be this nurturing educator who moulds an individual with adversity. i suppose i need to apply this lesson to myself: know my mistakes, don't expect help, and stand tall. never stoop or shudder, even in face of censure - correct what can be done, and learn from it, with dignity.