I picked the flowers on my way to work yesterday. After a long conversation on the bridge with a young refugee from Mali I had in a French course last summer. Because of his abilities, his educator wants to register him in the three-year “Bac Pro” option. He would rather do the two-year program – less demanding school-wise and offering him better chances of landing a job quickly. “What happens if I don’t maintain the average over three years? They’ll throw me out, I’ll have nowhere to go,” he said. I had to agree with him. Will he manage to convince his educator? No idea. Can I weigh on the decision? Not at all.

Pretty much sums up life as it plays over here right now. Pick up the grace notes as they show up – flowers, music, smiles, reading, a small upbeat moment with one of the children. And deal with administrative hurdles standing in your path and in that of others – over and over and over again. Doesn’t make for wild outbreaks of joy? Afraid not. The mood isn’t terribly jolly these days. The writing suffers from this. The bootstrap approach is a high-energy exercise.

The scent from the flowers was pretty intoxicating.