Curating an anthology of random acts of kindness
"Seeing beyond the blind man". Sharing small moments that offer big hope.
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Sometimes we need to be reminded that even the smallest acts of kindness offer hope.
I’d like to curate these small acts into an anthology of moments we can share and return to. Not just for carers but everyone who’s looking for hope in our human-ing.
Whether you’re the person acting in kindness or the person receiving it, I’d like to hear your story.
Do your little bit of good where you are; it’s those little bits of good put together that overwhelm the world.” — Desmond Tutu
Seeing beyond the blind man by Victoria
We finished the hospital appointment. Tired but relieved, we decided to get a coffee from the small coffee shop while we waited for our taxi. I manoeuvred the wheelchair to a table, slightly apart from the rest. There were the usual stares. I don’t know what attracts the most attention these days: the masks, the wheelchair, or being Asian. Certainly, the combination of all three seems to guarantee an audience. The seating area was functional. It wasn’t set up for warmth or welcome. Practical and clean over comfort. Still, it was a restful spot in a busy city hospital.
I took Mum’s coffee back to our table and sat down. As I stirred in the sugar, I saw a nurse guide a tall man with his white stick to a seat. I tried not to stare. I marvelled at how he managed all his belongings. Two large bag straps criss-crossed his body. Saddled with his wide load, he sat with a sigh, reassuring the lady he’d be fine. She couldn’t see the concern on her face as she patted his arm and left.
Mum and I started to debrief about what the doctor had said. There wasn’t a hum of chatter around us. Conversations were stilted, stuttered and awkward. I could feel the tension between one couple, and hear the tearful anxiety from a woman near us. Their actions and faces spoke volumes
I saw the tall man get up. He’d disentangled himself from one bag and was heading to …the coffee shop? No, the toilets.
Mum was asking me something, so I turned away. The coffee lid was stuck again.
The guy was in front of the toilets, but the women’s. He was trying to feel for a braille sign. Why isn’t anyone getting up to help him?
One couple was obviously trying to ignore him and move away. Others were staring but immobile. These are the times I get frustrated.
I checked Mum was okay, got up and walked over to the man.
“Hi, Sir. Can I help you? I think you’re looking for the men’s toilet, but that’s the women’s?’
“Ohhhh thanks! Yeah, can you?”
We backed out slowly from the women’s toilet. He took my arm, and I guided him through the doors of the men’s toilet.
“Ok? I think you just need to step forward and the urinals are there”
“Thanks so much, Luv”
“No problem! Have a good day”
I walked out. People sitting around were staring into their cups of coffee.
As I sat down, Mum asked if the guy was okay.
I kept an eye on the man’s possessions until he navigated his way back to his seat. I think the most daring thing he did was leaving his things unattended.
I hold on to the hope that anyone would’ve done the same despite the higher levels of anxiety and tension palpable in the sterile, hospital environment. I was just the first there.
Still, a cynical and sad part of me wonders if we’re all being conditioned to be spectators, observing, scrolling, and passing by? Are we too overwhelmed by our own worries to help someone else? Can we widen our view beyond what we need to get done, and offer small acts of kindness?
Can you share an act of kindness?
Share a random act of kindness in the comments below, as the giver or receiver.
Or share the URL to something you’ve written on Substack, an article, or a note
Please keep it to 550-words or less. I’d like to keep these gems short!
If you write something new, please mention this initiative and, if possible, use the logo. Thank you!
I’ll curate an anthology of experiences to help fuel our hope.
No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.” — Aesop
Please share this request, and press the ❤️ to guide others to this Anthology.
An inspiring initiative! the mission of The Golden Years Gallery:
"The GYG is a student founded organization led by me (Siri Dubé), and Mariusth Gonzalez at sixteen years old. We are volunteering in senior homes, nursing facilities, Adult Daycares, and Hospices to provide art therapy as an outlet to those who live with Alzheimer’s and Dementia or simply are just lonely." Art Therapy, and Why It Should Be Taken Seriously
Fighting stigma and promoting the positive outcomes within our society; specifically, our nursing homes/facilities. https://thegoldenyearsgallery.substack.com/p/art-therapy-and-why-it-should-be
Originally posted on by 'stack, slightly longer, I edited this down to just under 500 words. I love this idea. A collection of random acts of kindness. We need that now. We all do.
The 7 train is never empty and frequently home to crazy but harmless, subway preachers, or mariachi bands. Yesterday, a woman at the far end of the subway car jumped up and attacked the woman next to her. A girl — barely a teen — sitting with the woman being attacked, put herself between the two of them as best she could.
That woman’s anger flared up.
The train was full, but no one was doing anything.
Just this kid.
It shouldn’t be a kid’s responsibility to defend one adult from another. That’s what the village is for, so kids don't have to be grown-ups before their time. No one in our village was doing anything.
I walked over, locked eyes with them and said, in that tone reserved for old friends, “Maria, how are you? I haven’t seen you in like forever.” I leaned in, as if for a cheek kiss. The girl whispered “Thank you,” and greeted me enthusiastically, “Hi, hello.”
The angry woman plopped back down in her seat. “Ima sit here. Ima stay here, I don’t care who you got sitting with you.” She flicked her eyes at me, then glared at the silent woman.
The focus had shifted, the situation de-escalated.
I whispered I’d walk them off at the next stop. We left the angry woman behind, staring daggers at us.
Maybe there was a reason for the beef. Maybe it was just unfocused, crazy, and angry, like the woman on another train who’d screamed “Jews are eating kids,” then choked a nearby woman, while passengers just moved out of her way.
The why of any unfair balance of power attack, doesn’t matter to me.
On a different train, on a different day, a wiry, kinda sketchy, a dirty little man was harassing a young woman. She changed seats several times, finally moving to another car. I looked at the three men opposite me. One, well-muscled, in clothes meant to show that off, shrugged his shoulders and closed his eyes.
When the man started to follow the girl into the next car, there was a choice : follow or speak up. Loudly—my voice carries— from where I sat, ”Hey bud, it’s clear she’s not interested. Why don’t you just sit down and leave it alone?”
The three men just sat, their eyes closed or staring into space. The man forgot about the girl he’d been following and started harassing me, trying to get me to take the bait. He continued for stop after stop.
I hadn’t changed him, I’d interrupted the flow and shifted his attention, distracted him.
I wasn’t scared; I was disappointed in the other passengers, those men and a woman about my age. I’d thought she wouldn’t hesitate to be a second voice.
The young girl on the 7 train had thanked me as they walked safely away. She’d instinctively understood how the village worked in a way it seemed the rest of the adults in the car had forgotten.