A wanderer, a meanderer. A flaneur.
In one way, I am a flaneur. I am a jack of all trades, master of none. A dilettante, a dabbler, an amateur this-and-that.
I am a baker, a painter, a fighter, a writer, a dreamer. But I am none of those things deeply, passionately, wholely, solely.
(Whether that makes me an interestingly well-rounded Renaissancer or a frustratingly inept flitter depends on the mood you catch me in when I’m describing it.)
In another way of thinking, though, I long to be a flaneur. I want to be the type of person who notices everything, who appreciates every moment. Who isn’t always rushing toward what comes next but glories in what’s here.
I try to notice things, but my instinct isn’t there. I’m more likely to be flying past the roses rather than smelling them – or tripping into the rosebush as I lose control of all I’ve got in my arms. I’m far better at it than I ever was, but it’s not a natural trait for me.
What – or who – or where – makes you slow down?
No related posts.