In Search of Meaning in Mundane

It was cold and wet, a typical Dutch winter day. I pulled my shawl tightly around my head, hoping to save my ears from the biting wind. The pain that had been bothering me for a week persisted, and I found myself dragging my right foot behind me like a wounded animal. Waiting another 25 minutes at the bus stop didn’t seem like a good idea, with the wind slicing through my skin. I figured it was better to walk to the next stop, hoping the movement would warm me up. When I got there, I saw I still had 15 minutes to wait. I thought, Why not keep walking to the city center where I can grab something warm to drink?

The incident that made me write this reflection happened just before I reached the supermarket. As I walked, an elderly man—perhaps in his 80s—was walking toward me, leaving the supermarket. His foot stumbled on something, and though he nearly fell, he didn’t. A tree beside him saved him as he reached out with his right hand to steady himself. Instinctively, I stopped to see if he needed my support, but instead of becoming a helper, I became an observer.

He leaned back from the tree he had grabbed and muttered something under his breath. Normally, anyone would have walked away, trying to hide the embarrassment of almost falling (as we all somehow feel embarrassed when we stumble, especially in front of others). But he didn’t. He made one step forward, then something made him turn back. I kept watching. He returned to the spot where he had stumbled and started investigating. Was there something there that caused him to trip? There wasn’t. He shuffled the wet leaves back and forth and eventually pushed them under the tree into the damp earth. When he couldn’t find anything, he began pointing at the leaves and muttering inaudibly, as if addressing an unseen culprit. It seemed clear—he blamed the wet leaves.

Feeling a rush of sympathy for the man, I continued on to the supermarket and then to a café for something warm. But the memory of the incident lingered with me. As I sat on the bus home, I found myself wondering why. Was it because I felt sorry for the man? Or because it could have been me? Or was there something deeper in this moment that was meant to teach me?

Was the man being prideful, unable to accept that his near-fall might simply have been a result of his own fragility? Or was he being investigative, trying to ensure that whatever caused him to stumble wouldn’t endanger others?

Pride and purpose often blur in moments like these. Perhaps he needed to convince himself that it wasn’t his failing—his foot, his balance, his age—that nearly sent him to the ground. Or perhaps he was simply searching for meaning in a moment of vulnerability.

I don’t know why, but I can’t stop thinking about that man and his actions. What am I supposed to learn from this? Perhaps the lesson is not just about him, but about myself: to stumble is human, but to pause, reflect, and seek understanding—even when no clear answer emerges—is an act of learning.