Columnists
How Does One Cope ...?
T. SHER SINGH
DAILY FIX
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
How does one deal with the daily onslaught of monstrosities committed around the world?
How does one see these on TV news every night and yet maintain some faith in human nature?
How does one carry on with one’s daily routine of ordinary life after witnessing the extraordinary acts of others?
How does one remain sane in an insane world, balanced in a world that often appears topsy-turvy?
How does one prevent oneself from burning with rage, smouldering in sadness, or freezing into perennial indifference?
I have found a way.
I look at the little acts of kindness and compassion, of goodness and selflessness, that surround us as well, and get strength from them.
It’s their oil that lubricates life, ensuring that wheels continue to move smoothly, and keeps the temperature down in our ordinary, uneventful day-to-day lives.
Ordinary acts. By ordinary people. Unrecognized. Unrecorded. Unobserved. Thousands of little gestures made in every neighbourhood, every community, where people live and work and play.
I recall how once, several years ago, my daughter - then, 15 years old - and I were on a vacation driving northwards, heading towards Cochrane and Moosonee. The latter lies at the southern tip of James Bay, which in turn sits, Florida-shaped, below the Hudson Bay in the far north of the North American continent.
En route, while still in the Temagami region, we veered off the highway one morning, following the lure of signs leading to an artist’s studio.
We found it a couple of miles down a country road running along the water’s edge. It was a house ensconced between a rocky shield and the trees on the shore of a shimmering lake.
The artist emerged from her home as we drove up. She took us to a tree house nearby which served as an art gallery. Her art was vibrant and passionate, but we found nothing that could match our wallets.
We thanked her, sauntered out to the car as she locked the door. We chatted in the driveway: she describing the friendly wolves of the neighbourhood, we talking about our meandering holiday.
“Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?” she asked.
“Sure,” we replied, and followed her into the house.
While she made the brew, she permitted us to drift around the rooms and view her husband’s art collection and her working studio. We admired the view of the lake and the woods through the panoramic window.
We went back into the living room and sat down. The clock struck the hour.
“Oh, it’s lunch time,” she piped out from the kitchen., “have you had lunch yet?”
“No, we haven’t, but we aren’t ready for it yet.”
“Rubbish!” is all we heard from her.
Twenty minutes later, we were sitting at her kitchen table devouring sumptuous sandwiches and tea.
A hummingbird appeared at the feeder on the window and performed for us in full view only a few feet away.
My daughter chuckled with glee - she had never seen a live one before.
Its airborne acrobatics charmed us endlessly over lunch.
Our host suddenly remembered a carrot cake she had baked the previous night. We protested. She insisted. We enjoyed it, while the hummingbird too continued to feast on its own fare outside the window-pane.
When we said our goodbyes, returned to our car and were about to drive away, she yelled out at us as she stood on her front porch and asked us to stop for a minute.
She then excused herself momentarily and disappeared.
She returned with something in her hand. She handed it through the window to my daughter.
“In memory of your first hummingbird. Enjoy!”
It was her own painting of a hummingbird in full glory.
We drove away, having just spent an hour or so with a total stranger - a person we hadn’t even known the existence of when we took the turn off the highway. A person we had no expectation of ever meeting again.
The sun was shining.
All seemed fine with the world.
Conversation about this article
1: Sangat Singh (Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia), May 08, 2012, 5:39 AM.
Let me share my own experience. As a planter we had a sprawling colonial bungalow amidst a variety of trees populated with birds of all colours and shapes. It was such a delight to hear them sing as if competing for an audition. Being a radio buff I would record their songs. Later on I would play them back on speakers and also put out some water and a variety of seeds. It wouldn't take long and the birds would assemble around and discover the nourishment. As a second stage of recording I would have a microphone placed there and this time they would now reward me by singing right in front of the microphone, to produce excellent recordings. It became a game. Every time some visitors wandered in and I would say: Would you like the birds to sing for you, and promptly played the recordings. The birds hearing the sounds would assemble around their familiar spot and be rewarded with seeds and water. I went on to photograph them too. On occasion I would have huge hornbills visiting too. But I couldn't cope with the bird watchers when the word spread that a crazy planter had trained birds to sing for him at will. They started to troop in and actually scared away my birds away.