The things we do that only others see

THE 1999 novel Chocolat by Joanne Harris tells of a woman who moves in with the wind to a little French town. She is a sojourner and is quite unlike any of the people in that village, with her unconventional ideas and her disregard for meaningless traditions. Despite her fair share of prejudice and pain, she ultimately brings hope to a group of people who sees change and possibilities and a different world apart from their own.

The sojourner can be anyone. He is the teacher in a godforsaken place. Totally dedicated to his vocation but unappreciated. He is the doctor in a far-flung part of the earth. Totally dedicated to his calling but feeling trapped. He is the creative worker in a multinational company. Totally dedicated to his career but feeling empty and lonely.

Sometimes, I feel like a sojourner. It is as if I am in a particular place for a particular reason. Like the protagonists of the novel, Vianne Rocher, and her daughter Anouk, the road is never easy, the path is embedded with stones that need to be taken out painstakingly, one by one, so that it is smooth again.

In the course of it, weariness bears down, oh so strongly.

I have been here for a few years now. People ask me: "What do you think of Ireland? What do you think of the Irish? Do you miss your children back home in Malaysia?"

What can I say... should I just mouth the trite answers that are expected of me? Do I tell them what they want to hear or do I tell them the good and the bad, the joy and the pain, the fun and the sadness, the alienation and the friendliness, the rejection and the acceptance, the closeness of minds of a people who know no better?

There was this nice and elderly English gentleman whom I used to meet on the street where I live. He probably did not have many friends. But what struck me was that he never failed to talk to me whenever he saw me. He thought I was on a long vacation as I stayed on after the summer holidays and he continued to see me again in autumn and winter. He used to carry a bag slung across his shoulder. One day, I saw him walking without his bag. I stopped and asked, "Where is your bag?"

He was taken aback and said that he had left the bag behind. He must have gone home and thought to himself, why, this lady noticed that I carried a bag every time I went out for a walk. The next day, he saw me again from afar and waved merrily at me, holding his bag high up in the air, to show me that he was carrying the bag. After that, our friendship grew -- albeit circling around his health, his bag, my health and my bag. Finally I asked him whether he would like to come into my house for a cup of tea.

I wished he had accepted my invitation that day to come in for a cup of tea to escape the stormy weather. I wish I could have talked to him more. But I couldn't because John passed away and it broke my heart that I did not even know about it and I wondered if there was anyone at all at his funeral.

As I sojourn, I find myself in several very varied circles of good friends, maybe because I listen more than I speak, I reflect more than react and I empathise more than gossip and judge. A number of my friends have mentioned that they are glad I have come into their lives. I feel humbled by such an honour because of my own imperfections.

I am reminded of the story of the monk carrying two buckets of water from the well to the monastery every day. One bucket is perfect and the other has holes. The bucket with holes asks the monk why he continues to use it. The monk asks the bucket to look at the side of the road where the perfect bucket passes over and it is barren. He then points to the flowers growing on the other side of the road and says "See, these flowers are here only because of the water you sprinkle on them". 

As we sojourn, may our imperfections be the channels that allow our gifts and talents to flow to where they mean something to someone else.

Source: The things we do that only others see - Columnist - New Straits Times http://www.nst.com.my/opinion/columnist/the-things-we-do-that-only-others-see-1.490817#ixzz2uLvyqa00