Every day he gave me a flower.
Sometimes it was a bought arrangement.
Sometimes it was a wild flower.
Sometimes it was a picked flower.
Sometimes he gave me a dried poppy .
Neatly tukked into the pages of his favourite book.
Sometimes it was free.
Sometimes it was store-bought.
At times it was cheekishly taken from a public garden.
Or from behind the vile neighbours fence.
Sometimes it was drawn on paper.
Sometimes they were bound into a crown. .
Everyday he gave me a flower.
He gave them with love.
He gave them with passion.
Sometimes it was a dandilion.
Sometimes it was origami.
Sometimes it was a poem,
Or a book about a flower.
He gave me flower earrings.
A flower neclace.
He served me flowers floating in my tea.
He gave me flowers in the form of a bread.
Sometimes he cooked with edible flowers.
He gave me flowers every day.
He spread out flowers on our bed.
And now, it is I who is bringing him flowers.
I come to his grave
And bring a flower, or two .
And one day soon, I will be here too.
His last flowers grow here now.
Since late August, I have a new student. And with this new student came a revelation.
Things are getting clearer.
Why did I want to become a journalist? WhWhy was I drawn to my parent’s friends, teachers, professors, older kids? Why am I so emotional? Why do I have a hard time finding motivation? Why with minimum effort, can I make it? Why I only ever passed with flying colours when I was interested 500%? Why did I consider doing a PhD? Why do I work as a teacher? Why did I not know how to kill time during my internship after high school? Why did I enjoy DJing, being head of music? Why did I not continue? Why could I spend days until midnight in the library? Why am I always thinking? Why do I remember unimportant details? Why do I enjoy going through administrative things (when it does not concern me)? Why can I not picture myself in a corporate office environment? Why did I fail maths in my last year at school and then pass the final exam with very good marks? Why did I quit studying economics? Why was I unhappy during my Master’s degree? Why did I start this blog? Why did I fail philosophy when I loved reading about philosophy? Why do I write? Why do I feel awkward at times? Why do I love research? What keeps me from writing a book? Why do I want to change jobs when mine isn’t too bad? Why have I always asked myself existential questions (would green be green if I were you?)? Why do I cry when reading books? Why do I cry like there will be no tomorrow when I watch movies (and no one else is crying)?
Those are only a few questions for which I am finding answers.
When my student gave me my diagnosis, I did was at first perplex. Then I did what I always do, I started looking for answers, on the internet, in my memories.
Now, the speed of the questions racing through my head has slowed. I have found the time to find some answers. Last night, I sat down and wrote lists. I wanted to find out why I did things or wanted to do things.
Turns out that
- I want to learn things/discover things
- I have a longing to transmit knowledge/information
- I love to research
- want to be creative (mostly through writing)
- I am scared of routine
- I need to socialise, it’s like oxygen, but sometimes I get an oxygen flash and need some me time
- I am eclectic
- I need to feel there is a sense to what I am doing and it has to be interesting
Now, those things can be hindering, if I am bored, don’t see the point of something, don’t feel treated correctly, I will procrastinate, be lazy, not even put minimal effort into what I am meant to be doing. But they can also lead to being innovative, creative and finding interesting solutions.
I feel better now, I still have no idea what I will be doing in 5 years from now. But understanding my true self, my childhood, my past decisions, mistakes, and reactions will help me one day or another to find the right paths to follow, the signs will be there to guide me.
Maybe I’ll find the guts to try writing a book (I know everything about self-publishing, the fiscal rules and social status of authors in France, and I have not put all that many words onto a page yet), I will have to sink my teeth into it. Maybe open an old notebook, dusty document (ok being stored on a cloud server that’s not very likely) or even rummage a bit through my rather messy blog.
Maybe I will be back more soon, maybe not. Time will tell.
Thanks so much for reading!