Polly wanna cracker?
The joy of study.
Like most 6 year olds, it didn’t take much to make me cry. When I did, though, I would do something strange. I would go to the bathroom or to the end of the hallway and look at myself in the mirror. It sounds absolutely mental to me too, telling you this 17 years later. I wonder what my parents thought? It wasn’t some self indulgent pity party. I wanted to see what my face looked like when I cried. I was curious. I wanted to learn how grief or pain or irritation affected me, how it altered my body. After all, I can see everyone else when they express their emotions. Why not myself?
I have thankfully outgrown this particular habit. But I fear that I may be part cockatoo, because I am inexplicably drawn to mirrors. This morning on my run I kept craning my neck to catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of a window. I was curious. I wanted to analyse my posture, my stride, the sheer exhaustion my face betrayed. Perhaps I am an egomaniac. I like to believe, though, that I simply enjoy study.
I wish I could say that I like exams as much as the next guy but, regrettably, I do enjoy a little test here and there. Quizzes and school and award ceremonies don’t really interest me, though, and they aren’t what I refer to when I say that I enjoy study. When I think about study, it’s more romantic than that, and somehow not connected to performance at all. It’s about thirst. It’s talking to people who know more than you do, asking them far too many and probably a few ignorant questions, getting a book recommendation from them, finding that book and loving it, reading it again with a pencil in your hand, underlining all the good bits, realising that you’ve underlined most of the book…
That is study to me. It’s a cousin to creativity and play. It feels like hunger. And boy I’m hungry! There is still a little bit of that New Year magic floating in the air. It smells like possibilities and drive and adventure. I cannot wait for the feast that 2023 will bring. I am absolutely famished.