On a morning visit with a family, I noticed these two quotes hanging intimately near some family photos. One attributable to Churchill, the other unknown. They are cheesy in a self-motivational kind of way. But I have a thing for slivers of inspiring wisdom. And I do think they help in desparate moments, so here you go:
…
On another visit, I talked to a person coming to terms with old age, learning that one’s abilities change as time goes one: when one cannot walk or bend or stand or do the things one loves as one used to. It is a difficult transition, and I see it regularly. And still, people face it bravely. Having social connections helps I think, whoever they are: friends, family, loved ones. They help get us through, but we also need to open up them, which is hard itself (I know).
…
I was on a run this afternoon on what is called here in Modesto “The Virginia Corridor,” and the corridor itself is very pretty, especially on a cool, breezy Spring March day in Modesto. I like watching the people as they go by, or as I run by them. Crying children, packs and packs of dogs, couples, elderly individuals, skateboarders and the like. Some happy, some sad, all experiencing the vibrancy of life. It is nice to come up against difference: people speaking different languages with different styles. We all have a way we present ourselves. Part of the public space is seeing difference in a real way, in motion.
Sometimes, difference lends itself to conflict, though. Out of the corner of my eye, while I was running, I noticed a few bikers on the street: younger guys who were just riding around but who biked in front of a car on the road (intentionally or unintentionally, I am not sure). The woman driving the car kept trying to drive forward, but they confrontationally kept riding right in front of the woman, egging her on out of perceived slight.
At their age, they probably weren’t even thinking of how bad a bike-car accident could be and instead focused on some sense of honor. Everyone walking by, at this point, looked over, curious and startled tried to pretend to not notice anything (as we so often do), as the screeches from the speeding up-slowing car and the yells of the young men were pretty loud at this point. Fortunately or unfortunately, the woman found her opening, sped her car up loudly and drove quickly past the bikers (probably dangerously fast for a residential neighborhood), yelling something at them, to which they yelled something back. The bikers biked away, puffing up their chests. And while it wasn’t at all clear who was in the wrong (if anyone), a man walking nearby yelled something to the bikers: “Ever heard of Darwinism?” A funny way for that episode to end.
…
Last, I read a story about Kafka, which I am going to copy and paste here. I claim no authorship, but I just wanted to post it, along with the image that circulates with it. Neither are of my creation, but they are pleasant to read.
“When he was 40, the renown Bohemian novelist and short story writer FRANZ KAFKA (1883–1924), who never married and had no children, was strolling through Steglitz Park in Berlin. He chanced upon a young girl crying her eyes out because she had lost her favorite doll. She and Kafka looked for the doll without success. Kafka told her to meet him there the next day and they would look again.
The next day, when they still had not found the doll, Kafka gave the girl a letter “written” by the doll that said, “Please do not cry. I have gone on a trip to see the world. I’m going to write to you about my adventures.”
Thus began a story that continued to the end of Kafka’s life.
When they would meet, Kafka read aloud his carefully composed letters of adventures and conversations about the beloved doll, which the girl found enchanting. Finally, Kafka read her a letter of the story that brought the doll back to Berlin, and he then gave her a doll he had purchased. “This does not look at all my doll,” she said. Kafka handed her another letter that explained, “My trips, they have changed me.” The girl hugged the new doll and took it home with her. A year later, Kafka died.
Many years later, the now grown-up girl found a letter tucked into an unnoticed crevice in the doll. The tiny letter, signed by Kafka, said, “Everything you love is very likely to be lost, but in the end, love will return in a different way.”
Image from Jordi Sierra I Fabra’s, Kafka and the Travelling Doll
Bearer of Pity 