I left the office today feeling relieved, it was the end of a Thursday, which means almost Friday, which means it's almost the weekend. Happiness. Not even the weather could ruin my weekend anticipation. So I thought. In fact the weather had a direct significance on my succumbed mood alteration, mere minutes from leaving the office. The subtle and subconscious observations of pedestrians, on their walk to their very own "almost Friday happiness" seemed to literally rain on my parade within the comfort of my dry car. Just as the rain started to get harder, my mood got heavier. Just as the last sun rays were demolished so were my happy thoughts getting darker to the point of being tarnished. The gentleman dressed in the colours of brightness was quickly becoming paler and duller by the wetness. His fast-paced walking couldn't keep up with my dry and arrogant car. The urge to stop and lend a helping hand of comfort was shunned by the cars behind me failing to feel the urge to do the same. Even if the drivers behind me thought to do so, they too were shunned by the driver behind them. All of us driving in this convoy of ignorance and selfishness. It was the next gentleman that brought the rain in my car - in the form of liquid salty streams down my cheeks. He peddled to his "almost Friday". He had the calves of hard-work, determination and consistency. Yet he was unable to keep up with my car. I passed him, wishing I had a bicycle shrinker and hot coffee to offer while he could sit in my unused passenger seat. It was not until I was brought to a stop with the other drivers, a stop in our single-minded, blinker-eyed lives, that he cycled in-between us with ease and skills of a New York mail delivery man, yet this wasn't a first world. No, it's third world Africa. By the time he swiftly cycled through our cumbersome money eating, environment destroyers, he was drenched apart from the black bin bag, he'd cut holes into for his nimble limbs and focused face. The bag wasn't there for his body. It was there to protect his meagre backpack. I cried harder. My mind wondered as to what could possibly be in this souls' backpack. What possessions was he so protective over and what possessed me to ever open my eyes to beyond my windscreen wipers.
The thing that possessed me is not necessarily a once off spirit of sorts. It lies dormant in all of us. It's the unseen connectivity between eye-mind-heart-soul that creates compassion, humility and subjection to reevaluate the bigger picture that is this world and its many lives. Count your blessings but don't forget to make others count too.
It's the drive home from work that reignites the connection, it's the humble face of the smiling petrol attendee, the person waiting at the taxi rank at 9pm hoping they haven't missed their last chance to get to their home after their long day, it's the working force of our country. It's the recognition of the low income low outcome people of any country that sparks the higher income higher outcome minority to delve out of their happiness to glimpse the other way of life, even if for a brief 20minute drive.
But is acknowledgment of awareness enough? It doesn't morph itself into an umbrella to shelter the cyclist on his journey home, however far or long it may be. It doesn't pay for the unseen cavity causing that smiling attendee pain and it doesn't ensure the taxi arrives safely at its destination.
So how does a mere 25 year old female solve the worlds issues without using up all the tissues in a self implosive manner? I had to snap out of my downward cry fest on the way home as it does no one any good anywhere. This I know. What I don't know is how to make it count.
Counting and then comparing one's' blessings to another is neither constructive or conducive to make any kind of change. On the contrary, it's constrictive - in terms of developing a surreal goal, based on developing a quick-fix, single solution and utopian thought of low effort high effectiveness. Sheltered yet educated, I sit here wanting the hunger problems fixed in Ethiopia, I want the refugees of the Democratic Republic of Congo to be able to go back to their homeland to live happily ever after. It's just not going to happen, not instantly at least.
