In Appreciation…….. of the simple pleasures of life..

Zeena Singh For Eastern Mirror Sunday

Hello folks,

[dropcap]I [/dropcap]believe that life has so much to give if only we cared to give a little thought to the most minuscule of joys (which we’d find so much of) only if we’d stop looking at the looming discomforts and discontents.
So here I am, to share with you the simplest joys in my life as I have experienced some time in my life and those that I take as I face each day, at a time.
A BLESSING, COURAGE & BRAVADO

My pen today has a story to tell that has always held a special place in my heart. My wish is that it would touch your heart as it has touched mine. However, what it leaves you with is for yours to keep or scrap.
A Pair of brown Canvas shoes, Khaki Safari trousers and shirt, a pair of dark glasses, felt Hat and a limp, was his trademark.
His profession? A Master of all trades. He could tend a garden flower bed, plant a seed and nurture it, wash pots and pans sparkly clean. The floor he swabbed with precision and apparent ease. Chopping, cutting, cooking, fitted well into his routine. Errand Man and School escort, a faithful friend.
Never shirking his duties, he toiled with a sweaty brow, although carrying a song on his lips.
This is what I saw and liked, perhaps even what I understood … but my high esteem and deep appreciation for him lies in the unspoken, the silent.
For those hands that cleaned and sparkled, tended and mended, had ten stubs in its place as aid instead of fingers. His feet that walked errands and escorted, were but ten remnants of what were once toes.
Dark glasses hid eyes that had incessant tears falling involuntarily because they now were unable to blink; neither had he his home or family that wanted him.
Diseased, yes! Maimed! Disfigured! Spurned ! Recoiled from! Baulked at! This, his infirmity, was not going to be an impediment. He rose to his challenge. With his head held high he took pride in his labour, because in it he put his heart. Not once did he blame his malformed and misshapened tools. His ‘labour of love’ was to bless another with most of what he still could and with what he had whole.
In reflection today I keep cherished memories deeming myself blessed to have been associated well enough with the one who is the reason of my appreciation.
My memory is enhanced with a gift when I was 16, of a perfectly beautiful fan which had, woven and interlaced in it, the years he had taken care of my family and me since I was a baby; built with loving hands that were extraordinarily way above the average than any normal ones.

Feedback at zzeez_s@yahoo.com