Lifting Spirits, Not Packages

A modern fable on strength, self-awareness, and the weight of changing times.

Morning walks are supposed to be peaceful, but mine always seem to turn into existential debates about life, ageing, and why my knees sound like bubble wrap.

I try to focus on my breath, my steady… well, relatively steady… strides, and dodging the occasional loose stone that appears to have a personal vendetta against me. But today, my thoughts take an unexpected detour.

It starts when I pass a man loading packages onto his scooter.

One massive package is already tied precariously to the back seat, and he has two more, each looking like they could double as boulders in an Indiana Jones movie.

He turns to a group of young boys heading toward a coaching centre and asks for help. Without breaking their stride… or even pretending to consider it… they decline, probably off to study ways to ignore future responsibilities more efficiently.

I am just a few steps behind them, watching the scene unfold.

Naturally, I assume I’ll be the next candidate for his plea. But he doesn’t even glance in my direction. Just ignores me completely.

Excuse me? I am offended.

Do I not look like a prime specimen of human strength? Well, okay, maybe not.

My doctor did say, “No heavy lifting.” And after that heart issue, even my grocery bags give me judgmental stares. So, fine. It’s probably for the best. But still… would it have killed him to ask?

Then, I remember an incident from a few months back, during another of my morning walks.

I was crossing a bridge when I spotted a man struggling with a tricycle overloaded with plastic waste.

He was halfway up the incline, muscles straining, sweat dripping, looking like a man who deeply regretted all his life choices.

The vehicles passing by ignored him. The pedestrians… well, there weren’t any. And I? I had a choice.

Against all common sense, I stepped in.

Together, we heaved and pushed, inching the overloaded tricycle forward. My heart pounded, my breath came in short gasps, but I told myself I couldn’t stop. If I did, we’d lose momentum, and all that effort would be wasted.

Just as I was re-evaluating my decisions (and possibly my will), a man on a scooter finally stopped and joined in. With his help, we managed to get the tricycle to the top. I didn’t wait for gratitude… I was too busy trying to steady my own breathing and assure my heart that I wasn’t actively trying to murder it.

That day, I learned something important: I have limits.

I may have the spirit, but my body has other plans. If I push too hard, the only thing I’ll be lifting is my own medical bill… or worse, a memorial plaque in my honour.

So today, I realize I’m actually relieved the man with his impossible packages didn’t ask me.

But another thought creeps in. At first, I judge him… who in their right mind loads three enormous packages onto a scooter?

But then, I check myself. I don’t know his story. Maybe he can’t afford a cargo vehicle. Maybe he has no choice. Who am I to criticize?

And then there’s the other realization… the young boys who refused to help.

When I was their age, we would have jumped in without a second thought. Helping was just what people did. But times have changed. People have changed.

Or maybe they haven’t, and I’m just seeing things from a different perspective.

Either way, I continue my walk, a little slower this time.

Some lessons in life, it seems, don’t come from moving forward but from pausing just long enough to see things differently. And maybe, just maybe, from not keeling over on a bridge.