The sky has been melancholy, and the air has been feeling cooler lately. Despite the unyielding wind and dropping temperatures, I can feel the warmth of tradition as the season beckons cultural events, like désalpe. It’s been raining often here in Geneva, but I think it rains much less heavily here compared to Massachusetts. I might be wrong, though, because I try my best to completely avoid the rain by staying inside.
Because of the incessant raining last week, I didn’t have the chance to spend some time sitting outside and journaling. Luckily, the weather cleared up recently. After my second shift at La FARCE this Saturday, I finally revisited Conservatoire et Jardin botaniques de Genève. It’s not very expansive, so I’ve decided to make the whole garden my sit spot. I’ll find new corners to meditate in weekly.
I sat in one of the greenhouses for growing tropical and Mediterranean plants. Protected from the wind, I enjoyed the tropical ambience and bathed in the soft, slow blinking sunlight shining through the windows as the clouds passed over the sun. It felt like August all over again—no classes or finals, no cold, no worries. But during these colder times, when life seems as harsh as the wind that howls outside, that’s when you find yourself appreciating the warmth that summer provided the most. That’s when you question if the hot days were really that painful.
Something I’ve heard all my life but only newly accepted is that you can’t ever have everything, just like how you can’t have winter and summer at the same time. I’ve always wanted to be someone who knows everything. That’s an impossible feat, clearly, but it’s an extreme “goal” I’ve developed as a result of noticing how intelligent and knowledgable the people around me are. I’ve met people who can identify trees in a split second, almost all actors by name (instead of saying “that one guy from that one movie”), recount the entire history of the Roman Empire with exact dates, and a lot more. And while I should be praising these people and appreciating the time and effort they’ve devoted to their niches, I find myself instead beating myself up for not knowing all of these things as well. For some reason, everything is a competition to my subconscious, and others’ accomplishments, of which I do not share, are to be seen as a failure on my part.
The question is “how can I become more well-versed in [X, Y and Z]?” It’s not bad to want to know more. But I think this is an unhealthy obsession for me because I have a self-centered view of the question. It would be better to frame the question in an others-centered fashion—that is, to ask “what can I learn from this person?” and maybe add “how can I apply this knowledge to myself or to what I already know?” The same goal is accomplished, but focusing on what I don’t know is much more of a negative thing than to focus on what I can learn. Omitting negation is a wonderful (and simple) thing sometimes.
I’d like to share an excerpt from one of my favorite poem’s by Mary Oliver, titled “The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac.”
3. / I know, you never intended to be in this world. / But you’re in it all the same. // So why not get started immediately. // I mean, belonging to it. / There is so much to admire, to weep over. // And to write music or poems about. // Bless the feet that take you to and fro. / Bless the eyes and the listening ears. / Bless the tongue, the marvel of taste. / Bless touching. / You could live a hundred years, it’s happened. / Or not. / I am speaking from the fortunate platform / of many years, / none of which, I think, I ever wasted. / Do you need a prod? / Do you need a little darkness to get you going? / Let me be as urgent as a knife, then, / and remind you of Keats, / so single of purpose and thinking, for a while, / he had a lifetime.
avec amour, à bientôt!
