I was four years old, sitting alone in a bathtub.
It was the eve of my birthday and I waded in the bubbles in utter misery. My collection of plastic counting fish were missing one member, due to the fact that I had chucked the “Number Five” fish across the room.
It was hard to be a soon-to-be five year old who wanted nothing more than to stay four forever.
My self-induced birthday blues transformed into an annual ordeal. Each year my birthday brought an irrational anxiety. Another year had gone, washed in oblivion. I wrestled with the desire to expedite and decelarate time simultaneously.
Now, as I conclude my nineteenth year, I can pinpoint this angst as a common theme in my life. I yearn for the past, I pray for the future. I allow time to dissolve, only to realize its value in retrograde.
Almost two months have passed since I left the United States. Somedays, I feel like I am caught in a time warp, watching life in the States at a distance. The crunch of fallen leaves under my feet and the sight of my breathe in the morning seem like distant memories amidst my nine months of perpetual summer. It is as if time as I knew it has stood still; I live in a space of continuous uncharted territory. If I’m being honest, I often find myself craving familiarity. A tangible hug from my mom or car ride with my dog. Anything, really.
But sinking into these desires is far too easy. If I’m not careful, nine months could come and go. I could lose sight of why I am here and in the meantime, rob myself of life’s vibrancies.
I could fundamentally miss it.
Each morning, I combat this fear by embarking on a quest for stillness. Before the world has fully awakened, I lace up my sneakers and run past pineapple orchards at the base of the mountains. Roosters crow and villagers greet me with a bow and clasped palms. I take in the lush landscape and laughs of children as I run by, giggling as they attempt to call out in English. I return their amusement with my own interpretation of a common Thai salutation.
As I cut into a watermelon for breakfast, I allow myself to feel the morning breeze. My mindfulness continues as I spend my afternoon in the sun, weeding gardens or preparing English lessons.
But true beauty does not even come from orchestrated daily routines.
I think C.S. Lewis puts it best, saying,
“We do not want merely to see beauty… we want something else which can hardly be put into words- to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become part of it.”
This kind of beauty comes instantaneously. It’s a perfect ratio of mindfulness and spontaneity.
It comes when your head is hanging out of the bed of a truck, the wind in your face. It comes after you summit a mountain you had only spotted that morning, with mosquito bites and fire ant stings to show for it. It comes when you are floating in the Andaman Sea, the sun radiating liquid gold on the horizon. It comes when you are laughing so hard you can not breathe with local Thai children, only communicating through confused gestures.
I am here. This is now.
Take it in, it won’t last for long.
