I wonder what keeps him going: the man in the yellow helmet and fluorescent outer wear. Brown boots, expressionless and his hands in orange gloves, I wonder what he’s thinking as he drags the bulky orange barricade that lines the road across the bumpy terrain of grass and lugs it onto the pavement. He uses his entire body weight to do that; when he turns, he pivots on one foot skillfully. It is drizzling and the view beyond the window that encloses this safe space is blurred. This morning, with the taste of hot chocolate in my mouth and the bus’s air-conditioning at just the right temperature, I am curious about the stories of those I see around me. So, I wonder.
Purple polo T-shirt and khaki pants, this man looks curious as I am. Curious, and firm; he slouches over seated at the bus stop, with one hand supported by his umbrella standing before him. His makeshift hand-rest is at odds with the sunglasses resting over his cap. He was prepared for rain and shine, clearly. I wonder what he thinks as he remains seated, looking more carefully at the people boarding or alighting the buses that arrive than at the bus numbers. I wonder if he’s going to be at it all day.
Ladies with their long hair tied into a high bun always carry with them a sense of elegance in their footsteps, especially when they are in stilettos like hers. There is something about her V-neck, knee-length black dress that suggests she has an office. One with a one-way glass door and a 2-metre long desk, two chairs opposite her for people who come in for a review (by her) and a sofa nearby, that she sits on with important clients she’d like to have feel comfortable in her office. Most of her time, though, spent at her table that is marble, probably. She possibly has more people working under her supervision than I can count with my fingers and toes. I wonder what brings her out of bed and into that office every day.
There is a pregnant lady, her hair a mix of brown and blonde. Seated at this bus stop right outside Holland Village, she is texting without looking up to watch the buses come and go. Not once. I wonder if she’s heading somewhere at all. There is a blue lanyard around her neck, the only other thing she brought out of her house. My work at the Early Childhood Development Agency finds me more empathetic than before towards pregnant mothers – the physical changes they go through and the societal expectation that they continue to do things as they would in spite of the immense discomfort they sometimes experience. I wonder if this is her first child, and if she has named him/her. I imagine that the first and last thought of her every day goes something like My dear, I can’t wait to show you the world as she rubs her tummy.
He is looking at something – facing down into the condominium swimming pool, with a stick of sorts in his hand. In a light blue uniform and casual black pants, I wonder if this is what he does at 845AM every morning. He is definitely looking at something in the pool. A stain he is trying to scrub off the floor of the pool? A bracelet the last person who was swimming in the pool left behind by mistake? Or maybe he is gazing into the blue of the pool, thinking about the people that really keeps him going. His family, maybe? A girlfriend? Actually, maybe, what he is really looking at is at the future that he dreams of for his loved ones, for whom he wakes up every morning to commit to his duties at this pool.
This part of Orchard Road, slightly busier, has a mix of working professionals, retail staff and early birds of the tourists. The rain has stopped, as if finally allowing the day to begin for us all. I am occasionally brimming with curiosity, as I am today, about the thoughts and motivations that we find to do the things that we normally do in our every day. I appreciate that I have some sense of purpose that countable others yearn but cannot seem to find; I wonder what keeps us all going, I do. Perhaps, the day–to-day tasks that keep us excited. Or perhaps, the sense of love and belonging that we derive from connection to others.
Perhaps, it’s hope, where hope is not an emotion but a way of thinking. In my learning from Brene Brown, hope is a cognitive process where emotions play a supporting role. This morning, I am thinking that perhaps, it is hope, the way we make sense of our present by linearly predicting the possible future that lies ahead, that keeps us going the way we do. How timely that this morning I am heading to the Scape Ground Theatre for a Singapore Youth Conference, discussing the future of Singapore. Where shall we find hope for the years that lie ahead?