I’ve been giving a lot of thought this week to the transiency of life. I’ve been paying more attention than usual to what I do each day. And I’ve even expanded my limited Hungarian vocabulary to include the phrase arany életem van (my life is golden).
As I write, I’m in Belgrade. The floods that are ravaging towns on the banks of the River Sava in Serbia have killed and maimed, and made thousands homeless. Sure, someone said that heavy rains were expected but no one thought for a minute that the rains would be heavy enough to knock their houses and change their lives forever. The average rainfall for five months fell in just two days. From one day to the next, people have gone from having everything to having nothing. They’ve salvaged what they could and are now taking refuge in centres in Belgrade, dependent totally on the good will of others.
An appeal on Friday by the Prime Minister for people to turn out and help fill sandbags in an attempt to hold the banks saw more than 12 000 people show up. The streets of the city ring out with music played by groups of young musicians, all collecting money to help those displaced by the deluge. Everyone is talking about what has happened and how they can help. There is a palpable awareness that this, too, could have happened to them. The nation is responding en masse and it’s gratifying to see. And yet the common refrain I hear gives voice to the hope that this solidarity, this willingness to engage, to help, will continue long after the waters subside.
For me it has underscored the transiency of life – and the need to appreciate what I have because tomorrow, who knows; it might all be taken from me. Arany életem van most (my life is golden now).
Earlier in the week, I finally watched Adrian Brody’s The Pianist – a harrowing tale of Jews in Warsaw during the Second World War. I watched how they foraged for food salvaging every morsel. And then I noticed how I threw away the top of my tomato. I saw how I didn’t fully empty my tub of hummus before casting it aside. The peel of my avocado still had a lot of flesh on it. Back in 1944, these remnants would have made a feast for someone. Today, in 2014, the same applies.
I buy vegetables with every intention of cooking them and then I get invited to dinner. I get fed but the vegetables go to waste. I buy meats and cheeses that I intend eating but never quite get around to. I buy spices and herbs required by a recipe for a dish I only make once – and then they expire. A semi-annual clear-out of my kitchen presses is depressing as I throw out jar after jar of condiments have have passed their use-by date. And until this week, I did all of this without thought.
Neither world hunger nor natural disasters directly impinge on my life. I can sympathise with those affected but I can’t pretend for a minute to know what either are really like. I can send money to the Red Cross to help the flood victims. I can send money to aid agencies to help those who are starving. And while money helps – as prayers do – there are lessons to be learned, too. Better appreciate what I have. Eliminate wanton waste. Share willingly.
First published in the Budapest Times 23 May 2014