Seasons of Life

You might think I’m overstating things by saying this pair of scissors changed my life. But let me tell you what happened to me when I first picked them up back in 2012.

I was 22 at the time, on my way to 23, and working in what I thought was my dream job: a copywriter at one of the city’s biggest advertising agencies.

I felt such triumph at the time. And I feel so foolish for saying that now, knowing what happened next. But I really did love my job, and that’s part of the reason I put up with it so long.

“You’ll be lucky to get your foot in the door,” they always said.

“I started in the mailroom and worked my way up over 5 years.”

“I knew a guy who wrapped the Creative Director’s lunch in his portfolio just to get noticed!”

These were the stories that groomed us into believing opportunities were scarce, competition was fierce, and that to even be looked at by anyone that had the word “Creative” on their business card was the golden ticket to a life of fulfilment and ultimate creative satisfaction.

Spoiler: it wasn’t.

Quite the opposite actually.

The dream role that promised the world at once descended into a nightmare of workplace toxicity, mental health distress and a relationship with my boss that I later learned would completely overstep the bounds of appropriate mentorship.

I only wish it didn’t take me 2.5 years to notice.

He was 16 years my senior and unhappily married at the time, and I, naive and so eager to impress, idolised him like something of a “work dad” slash creative celebrity. A Creative Director was one of the most revered, most beloved positions in the advertising world, and you did everything you could to earn their favour.

He was gruff and graceless and widely regarded as a man with little patience but big talent. To impress him was like winning the lottery. And for someone whose self esteem was already precariously built on a foundation of achievement and compliments, it was a dangerous combination for me. I wanted nothing more than to be liked, and by a man that didn’t like anyone? Well surely that was the highest accolade attainable.

It all started out okay. And by that I mean I didn’t really notice all the ways it wasn’t. Positive feedback for well written copy and opportunities to strengthen clever thinking evolved into boozy long lunches, late nights out and 1am texts that were probably a little too personal.

Drinking was encouraged in the office. In fact, come 4:55pm, if you weren’t making moves to explore the alcoholic offerings of the fridge in the staff kitchen there was certainly something wrong with you.

I later realised refusal was like waving a giant white flag that read “I don’t accept the culture here”, and social retribution was swiftly enacted. It didn’t matter that it was only Wednesday, go and grab a beer!

By the time the fog started to lift on my creative fantasy land, I was a shell of myself. Those 1am texts, once sweet and complimentary, became mean spirited and cold. The words that so often built me up had now started to tear me down. And they were very good at it.

I became so anxious I could barely look up off the ground. My boyfriend at the time had to start driving me to work because I was unable to get on the tram, and I would regularly arrive at the office past 11am having cried so desperately before leaving the house that I had to get back in the shower and start the day again.

No one said a word about it. Not one.

The work kept coming though. 6, 7, 8 days in a row. Then 9, then 10. No extra pay of course, no chance to stop, no permission to rest.

“Think of the opportunity,” he said.

“You should feel lucky,” he said.

“Not everyone gets to do this,” he said.

I thought it was the end for me. In that job at the very least. But then there came the scissors.

Well, I guess they’re not technically scissors. I call them snips, which is florist speak for something more like a sturdy pair of garden secateurs.

Mine have big yellow handles, probably more oblong than semi-circle if we’re being really technical. And the snippy bits are black and short and sharp.

They’re strong enough to cut through wire (a regular staple of my craft) and make the most satisfying “snip” noise with every deliberate cut. They’re not so forgiving on the skin though, learnt that one the hard way.

I still remember the first time I saw them. It was a Tuesday, and they were sitting next to a name card and number that designated my place as the newest student in a tiny little back room flower school.

They would go on to represent one of the most significant turning points in my career.

I picked them up and instantly my mind emptied of all other thoughts. For the first time in months, my humming brain and racing heart were calm. My hands moved intuitively across the benches, picking up flowers, noticing the ruffled edges of the carnations, and the gloss green of the camellia leaves. They explored every inch of Mother Nature’s bounty with thoughts of nothing else but the calm and the quiet I had craved for so long.

This was the kind of creativity I wished for. Not some arbitrary title on a business card. Intuitive, soulful, real life creativity. Guided only by the gentle speckle of pink on blue hydrangea, or the unique twist of an autumn branch, neither ever likely to be repeated in nature again.

I learnt something in that classroom that I’m grateful to now practice in my life everyday. In flowers there is always calm. In flowers there is always quiet. In flowers there is always beauty. And in flowers there is always joy in the changing seasons of life.

The season of my life changed with those scissors, and I’m so glad it did.