I’ve started a new internship. And it’s great, and I’m learning so much, absorbing a new field and a new set of unpronounceable acronyms, meeting new people, and feeling fried by the end of the day. But there’s no time to kick back, as I’m also doing a Masters degree (albeit part-time and via correspondence, but still), so at the end of the day, I’m back in front of the screen, reading even more reports on protracted crises, and defunct protection schemes. My eyes feel ready to go on strike, and my head feels strangely as if it was stuck in a clamp.
And then this week, my mum went in to hospital, as did a friend, both for silly accidents. They will both be fine. Everything is still manageable. Everyone’s ok, I don’t want to play up any drama.
But it’s a little overwhelming.
So I sat on my balcony this evening as the sun set, and took in some deep deep breaths. It was only then that I realised the flowers blooming beside me. I know, it’s spring, no big deal. But you see, this is a little bit of a big deal.
I was given a bouquet of flowers on my birthday, the 26th of January, in the midst of dark winter. Long after the other dahlias and roses in the bouquet had wilted, these orange flowers didn’t seem to be finished. So I put them in a wee pot of water, and left it on the balcony. And despite the cold, the wind, the lack of attention, despite the fact they were cut in winter, probably brought over from Holland or wherever, they flowered, and flowered, and flowered. Now, on the 5th of May they still haven’t finished.
A little miracle. And a little push to go on, flowering, flowering, despite the elements.