My life lacks direction. There. I’ve said it, but have I ever really denied it? As a child, all I ever wanted to be was a zoologist. I loved animals—but who didn’t? I dreamt of exploring far-off jungles, all the while intently reading the many books I had on the wild: NatGeo’s yearly kids’ almanac, a huge picture book on the different kinds of tarantulas, and the heaps of National Geographic magazines we had that described historical accounts of Incan sacrifices, the story of the American Buffalo, and the plight of the Passenger Pigeon.
Unfortunately, not all childhood dreams are meant to be, as I can attest to now, fully aware that to become a zoologist, one has to study dead animals just as much as live ones.
In terms of finding a passion, it all went downhill from there. All that was left of my dreams was my pet tarantula, a reminder of the wild I so wanted to explore before. Would I want to become a businessman? An economist? An architect, an engineer, a writer? After countless hours of thought, I was none the wiser. In fact, the college courses I aimed for were decided by coin-tosses between the classes in high school I enjoyed the most.
“What are your plans after college? What do you wanna be in the future?” My friends and family asked. I didn’t know. I’d default to a smile, echoing Beyoncé: “To be happy.” In a way, it was true. What did anyone want to be, if not happy, anyway?
I wasn’t Beyoncé, but I could very well try!
That answer was a cop-out, I know—but it worked well. At the risk of sounding even more preachy than I am now, I’d like to think that going through college without a driving passion to motivate my studies is an experience in itself.
I’ve decided that my goal instead is to branch out in as many directions as possible—to see what fits and what doesn’t. Sure, I’ll disappoint a ton of people, but instead of working as hard as I can to get as far in the rat race as possible, I’ll take the time to enjoy college for what it is: A learning experience.
Mono no aware: A Japanese concept on the ephemerality of things. It encourages me to make every day count. Open up to more people, go stargazing, read more books, take more classes, catch up with friends, continue tending to my orchids, enjoy every single rainstorm, appreciate Ateneo’s scenic lanes—knowing very well a time will come for me to walk down Fr. Masterson drive one last time.
My life isn’t perfect. It’s as far from perfect as it gets. And I appreciate that. We all have our own schedules and I’d like to believe that though we don’t know it, our futures are written in the stars. I’ll figure it out eventually. Don’t I have to? Someday.
And when I’m much older, I’d like to think back to all the times I didn’t know what to do. And though I know I won’t remember exactly what I did, I’m sure I’ll remember and be glad of at least one thing: That I stopped to smell the flowers.
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