Yesterday I wrote an angry text. Brimming with pique, exhaustion, frustration, and aggression. I read it to my friends before posting it. There were several of us, and one of my girlfriends began to cry.
I don’t know why.
Everyone said it was not my text.
A day later I realized what was happening.
Whatever happens, I am a happy individual.
I have the good fortune of trying to be useful to the world. Useful through you.
Perhaps sometimes it does not come out like it should.
Perhaps our whole team has erred.
Perhaps it’s Sisyphus’ labor.
Sometimes it does seem we are doing everything wrong.
Perhaps we really are doing everything wrong.
It’s not possible to save the world. We’re just sand pebbles.
We’re helping in wrong ways and only get in the way. We bring diapers and a wheelchair for a disabled girl, only to have her drunk father sell it to buy alcohol. Or we bring medicine to a paralyzed girl in a coma which improve her condition to the point of coming to and realizing her situation. And a week later she dies.
Then you face self-doubt and endless unanswerable questions.
But we are trying.
And all of that is useful not only to those people whom we help.
It is also useful to us, myself, and all those who want to help.
I recently received a message by a nice young guy from the Crimean steppe. Volodya. He offered his old wheelchair with an electric motor. For Ira at the Slavyanoserbsk dormitory who writes poems and knits with her feet.
We came to a scattered village in a spot buffeted by winds from all directions.
We were met by a large Crimean-Tatar family.
Aunt Gulya fed Zhenya the tastiest of pilafs, while I got candy and tea.
As we were leaving, Vova, who became disabled for life following an unfortunate accident, asked us how we managed not to burn ourselves out?
Zhenya, without looking at me, had read my thoughts:
–Because of you–you and Aunt Gulya.
Volodya and nephews