Edward, I do believe you're right about the little things making a difference, all of it adding up. Which put me in mind of this story. Years ago when I was working on a series of books about WWII, I came upon an account of an elderly woman in occupied Paris who was enraged by the Nazis but not sure what she could do about them. She was …
Edward, I do believe you're right about the little things making a difference, all of it adding up. Which put me in mind of this story. Years ago when I was working on a series of books about WWII, I came upon an account of an elderly woman in occupied Paris who was enraged by the Nazis but not sure what she could do about them. She was old and alone and they were brutal and all over the city by the thousands. And then she hit on an idea that soon became her mission. She decided she'd ride the Metro all day every day and whenever a Nazi solider came on board she'd whack him a good one with her cane. Beat that sucker black & blue. This was the job she set for herself, to whack a Nazi, and which you might, rightly, conclude, was a form of madness: they were half her age or less, strong and armed. All she had was a stick. Maybe a very nice stick, but still a stick. She'd counted her age (arguably unwise!), as part of her advantage, and her felicity in wielding that stick/cane to do what she'd determined was her duty. Not bravery (or craziness, as my cowardly self would have said!), but her duty. I don't know how many Nazis she succeeded in clobbering, how long she kept it up, her name or what became of her. But I do believe that her actions made a difference. It was what she could do in the moment, scant though it may have been, but it contributed. Maybe not in any grand way--frail and armed only with a stick!--but she made a difference. Whenever it was that she finally went to her grave, I do believe she knew this, that what she did had mattered. I always think of her when I'm at my most lost or feeling helpless, thinking there's nothing I can do. And then I realize that there is, that stick taking several forms (not all of them necessarily violent!).
Edward, I do believe you're right about the little things making a difference, all of it adding up. Which put me in mind of this story. Years ago when I was working on a series of books about WWII, I came upon an account of an elderly woman in occupied Paris who was enraged by the Nazis but not sure what she could do about them. She was old and alone and they were brutal and all over the city by the thousands. And then she hit on an idea that soon became her mission. She decided she'd ride the Metro all day every day and whenever a Nazi solider came on board she'd whack him a good one with her cane. Beat that sucker black & blue. This was the job she set for herself, to whack a Nazi, and which you might, rightly, conclude, was a form of madness: they were half her age or less, strong and armed. All she had was a stick. Maybe a very nice stick, but still a stick. She'd counted her age (arguably unwise!), as part of her advantage, and her felicity in wielding that stick/cane to do what she'd determined was her duty. Not bravery (or craziness, as my cowardly self would have said!), but her duty. I don't know how many Nazis she succeeded in clobbering, how long she kept it up, her name or what became of her. But I do believe that her actions made a difference. It was what she could do in the moment, scant though it may have been, but it contributed. Maybe not in any grand way--frail and armed only with a stick!--but she made a difference. Whenever it was that she finally went to her grave, I do believe she knew this, that what she did had mattered. I always think of her when I'm at my most lost or feeling helpless, thinking there's nothing I can do. And then I realize that there is, that stick taking several forms (not all of them necessarily violent!).