My mother believes the people
of her family, grandparents, mother, father, herself and her children are nice
people. She doesn’t define nice but her descriptions are of gentle folk who
bother no one. I believe they would all act for the benefit of others.
Having said that, I could not say
that I see my mother as altruistic. Nor my father. His initial response to most
requests is negative, then he goes and finds a way to do what is asked of him. I
believe he is generous, generous in a way my mother is not.
It’s hardly surprising that I
don’t see myself as innately altruistic or generous. Nice, sure. The good man
my good woman believes me to be? Certainly; why not? I intend well. I do good
things. People say I have integrity.
My good woman feels ashamed of
her part in the recent bike accident that resulted in a broken arm. For a few
seconds she is on the wrong side of a bike path and an oncoming cyclist
collects her. We spend four hours in the hospital.
At the time of the accident I
do everything in my power to get it right: to be solicitous to the bloke I know
to be riding too fast and more than partly to blame; to not make the accident
site any more dangerous for other cyclists who happen along; to extract my good
woman’s bike and her from the swamp without further mishap.
I invest concern and effort in
her injury and insist on taking her to hospital. Aware of my lack of charity I
put personal concerns away and sit with her. I try to be conscious that I am
just there for her, that nothing else matters this afternoon.
A week later we talk though the
events and I am the one who comes out ashamed. I have been less than I tried to
be, less generous, less well-meaning. My patience fails to stay the distance in
that hospital corridor.
Some things do not come easily.
I try but don’t get there this time. There will be another time.
Rock on.
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