Strength from Suffering
Though nothing can bring back the hourI was supposed to write my weekly blog article yesterday but I got caught up in my work. Today, I'm feeling a bit tired after another productive day. But I'll try to squeeze in an article here before dinner time.
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
- William Wordsworth
Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood
Still living my pandemic lockdown days here in Subang Jaya. I drove out of the house briefly to buy newspapers from the 7-11 store. The ample parking space available in the streets is a much welcome sight. This worldwide lockdown is like a great experiment for the entire planet. It's as if there's a gigantic knob that controls human activities and one day, we just decided to turn down its volume. Suddenly, the skies are clearer, the rivers are cleaner, the streets are emptied of cars and it feels like a better world--one that is more quiet and pristine. It's an ironic outcome, given the virus has infected vast populations, bringing death and despair all over the globe.
I am reminded of the world of my childhood when there were no computers and televisions. It was a quieter world then and I remember how much more time we spent in communion with nature and the people around us. As kids, we played outdoors in the bushes and rubber estates, all over the housing estate, moving freely in and out of our neighbours' place as if we were all one big happy family, scattered across many houses. There was always the sound of some kid practicing the piano ringing far and wide over the freshest of morning air and long happy holidays filled with indoor board games and outdoor adventures in the forest. Thinking about those times bring to mind some immortal lines from Dylan Thomas's poem, Fern Hill:
And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.
That's how I remember those halcyon days of my childhood. It is strange how a world on the brink of an apocalyptic pandemic brings back such nostalgic memories. As we reflect on our present day predicament, we shall, like Wordsworth, out of our suffering, find strength in what remains behind.
