As a physically able woman I can't help but notice people struggling with heavy bags or shopping trollies on London Underground stairways. I've never learnt to drive so am used to heaving belongs on public transport, my arms dropping off with the weight, my shoulders aching with the effort of dragging a loaded trolly up steps. Fortunately I am strong enough to do this. Maybe, also, since my Mum died I particularly notice older or elderly solo ladies simply getting on with it, so after a moments observation I offer to help. At Stratford Station recently I assisted a woman navigating busy downwards steps with a trolly. Taking the trolly I lifted it with my right arm so it rested against my back, and the lady walked ahead as I descended the stairs swiftly behind her. When handing her the trolly, she said in an Irish accent, 'Thank you, you are a real lady'. The crowds were swarming around us and we parted, and I wished I'd had the opportunity for a quick chat. Being called a real lady brightened my heart with its old fashioned sound, I felt a harking back to her childhood and family values... and smiled inwardly.
One winter morning while waiting at the bus stop for the W14 I spotted a diminutive elderly woman dressed in black on the other side of the road. Leytonstone High Road can be difficult to cross for the fleet of foot, and this woman had a stick and was unable to rush. She patiently awaited her chance. I watched as a young woman stood beside her and crossed the road, I willed her to notice my lady but she didn't. So I crossed and asked if she needed help. Luckily this timed with a break in the traffic, and as we walked she placed her black gloved hand in mine. Her smallness, her trust, her need of assistance moved me, my eyes became wet and I felt a wave of emotion in my chest... for mothers, for daughters, for trust, for loss. On a later bus journey I learnt that her name is Rosina, and as I approached the bus stop on another occasion I witnessed a young woman with two small daughters giving Rosina and kiss on each cheek. It is wonderful to see that she is connected and known in our community.
Showing posts with label Love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Love. Show all posts
Saturday, 24 February 2018
Thursday, 8 January 2015
jim
Last weekend I went to Sunday Assembly, a godless congregation who's motto is live better, help often, wonder more. It's a heart lifting, soul connecting, life affirming hour, belting out songs in the name of good, we celebrate being alive. If you get the chance go, just go.
Smiley faced volunteers greet everyone at the door of Conway Hall and I immediately feel part of something. The hall was filling up fast and I found a seat next to an older gentleman and got settled in. Jim was his name, originally from the north of Ireland but in London for many years. He was lean, poorly dressed for the cold weather with a genteel face and enviable bone structure. He reminded me of my father who had ancestors in the north of Ireland. I told Jim this, and though we struggled in hearing each other with the bustle of the filling hall, I saw he was pleased and he patted my back lightly.
At the end of the assembly we turned to each other to say goodbye. He shook my hand and said, 'You think I am like your father?', and after a short pause, 'I would have liked a daughter like you.' We clasped each others hands, I was deeply moved and my eyes filled. We pushed our chairs to the side of the room and became separated in the crowd. I joined the mass of people heading for a cup of tea, blinking back tears and wondered if I'd see him again, also feeling that that was our moment, what had to be said was said. Where on earth do you go from there?
My own father has been dead for almost 25 years and his alcoholism meant we never got to know each other. He was rarely kind to me and never expressed pleasure in having me for a daughter and that's why Jim's words touched a nerve. It was amazing to hear a father figure say these words. Something to hold onto.
I've done a lot of work and have forgiven my father, he did his best. I keep the brave child me close and she still feels ouchy, the fact she feels is a miracle in itself.
Smiley faced volunteers greet everyone at the door of Conway Hall and I immediately feel part of something. The hall was filling up fast and I found a seat next to an older gentleman and got settled in. Jim was his name, originally from the north of Ireland but in London for many years. He was lean, poorly dressed for the cold weather with a genteel face and enviable bone structure. He reminded me of my father who had ancestors in the north of Ireland. I told Jim this, and though we struggled in hearing each other with the bustle of the filling hall, I saw he was pleased and he patted my back lightly.
At the end of the assembly we turned to each other to say goodbye. He shook my hand and said, 'You think I am like your father?', and after a short pause, 'I would have liked a daughter like you.' We clasped each others hands, I was deeply moved and my eyes filled. We pushed our chairs to the side of the room and became separated in the crowd. I joined the mass of people heading for a cup of tea, blinking back tears and wondered if I'd see him again, also feeling that that was our moment, what had to be said was said. Where on earth do you go from there?
My own father has been dead for almost 25 years and his alcoholism meant we never got to know each other. He was rarely kind to me and never expressed pleasure in having me for a daughter and that's why Jim's words touched a nerve. It was amazing to hear a father figure say these words. Something to hold onto.
I've done a lot of work and have forgiven my father, he did his best. I keep the brave child me close and she still feels ouchy, the fact she feels is a miracle in itself.
Tuesday, 6 November 2012
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