Stumble

The old woman started across the street against a tough, cold wind rolling in off the North Channel from the Irish Sea. Partway through the intersection on the Falls Roads her forward advance was abruptly stopped by a sudden powerful gust. Clutching her purse, she stepped backwards, stumbled and toppled onto the pavement. She struggled to regain her feet. It was useless. Something was broken. Helpless and alone on the Falls Road.

Getting old isn’t for wimps. The quip has lost much of its irony recently. Drained of humour or even regret, it has become more a bald statement of resignation. With diminished strength and agility, we are more vulnerable to the forces of nature. More dependent on kindness. Reliant on empathy. Pride must give way to pragmatism.

Everything in our being urges us to endure. Yet the means to do so are taken away. Bit by bit. Over time. Until we lie in a crumpled heap on the Falls Road.

I must admit I have no insight into or guidance regarding the calamity gripping communities around the world. It is all so bewildering. And ominous. The headline of the Sunday London newspaper urges its readers to “Brace for the Surge”. Not so much advice than an alarm bell, that what ever this is, it is going to get worse.

Social media has been revealed as decidedly empty and pointless. My Twitter feed has descended into the relentless rantings of harping scoldmongers eager to share their personal virtue and disdain for others. The intensity of self-righteousness is so profound it is astonishing it was held in check for so long. To discover that folks had so much loathing for other’s shortcomings has been dispiriting. Suddenly it all comes gushing out. Shame is in flowering abundance while toilet paper remains scarce.

I shan’t go down this road. I know it comes from a place of fear. Of helplessness. The feeling that we should be doing something. When our bones were stronger. Our spirit more resilient. This is where religions are born. Where mysticism is steeped. We are encouraged to fall in line. To seek the shepherd.

Instead, I shall point my energies to the here and now. I will look for the humour and grace in the world around me. I will look for wisdom from the past.

There was so much death and loss in Belfast in the spring of 1918 that most folks weren’t aware that the Spanish Flu was stealing so many of its residents from around them. It wasn’t until June—after many thousand had died—that the influenza epidemic was properly reported.

Beef-flavoured tea was believed to ward off the disease— leading to a run on supplies of Bovril. The maker raced to restock larders and market shelves. Even when the flu roared back that fall, many thousands ignored advice to stay home, choosing instead to celebrate the end of war.

We learned a wee bit about our powerlessness as a species. About our vulnerability. In an age where few folks ventured further than the nearest town, the flu raced unchecked around the world. Then, as now, there were plenty urging repentance and promising redemption. Plenty pointing to the wayward direction of humanity as the source of this strain of infection.

Perhaps the old woman ought not have been on the Falls Road on such a windy day. Perhaps she could have better assessed the risk. Better, I think, to observe that there were folks ready and able to assist. A family who jumped at the opportunity to help—to share their home with someone in need. For eventually we all change positions. Fear won’t change this.

Let us be decent with one another. And find kindness amid the uncertainty.

rick@wellingtontimes.ca