jean michel HERIN

 

A summer evening in the port of Douarnenez.

Walking with friends.

High tide.

Children have fun diving down the stairs leading to the beach. The equivalent of a large swimming pool’s diving board.

The first dives and plunges on a loop from the top of the stairs.

The second jumps up the stairs at halfway up.

The third hesitates. He’s afraid. He moves forward, moves back, hesitates again, under the benevolent gaze of his mother.

I look at this scene with a watchful eye. Will he jump? My friends are waiting for me. I can’t leave until he has jumped. Other people watch the scene, just as touched as I am.

He would like, but he can’t. "I'm afraid," he tells his mother.

The other children keep shouting, enthusiastic, "One Two Three !" to encourage him. I would like to scream with them. The tourist in front of me looks at me, smiling, waiting for my assent, and we all end up shouting for him "One Two Three !" and he finally jumps ! I’m happy for him.

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After all, my work as a therapist consists in shouting "One Two Three " to encourage patients to go for healing.

 

A few minutes later.

Restaurant terrace on the port.

I meet a former patient who has dinner, joyful, with the family.

He just needed someone to shout at him  "One Two Three !"

I greet him discreetly when I leave. I can hear his son asking "Who is he?" I quicken the pace. I don’t want to hear the answer ...

 

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