From my westward facing window that covers the length of the wall, the sun moves across the mountains of Doi Suthep, and over the course of a year, it volleys back and forth, season to season, a steady direction of movement, a masterful marker of time.
One month passed, then two, then three.
For better or worse, I've shut out most of the world. In fact, it has been essential to my health and mental well being. My days revolve around routines of reading and writing and yoga practices. Talks and chats with my favorite people across the world. Publication and plane tickets and travel plans. An inward life of imagination, self-preservation, hibernation, preparation.
Savoring the softness and slowness and silence I've wrapped myself in.
I don't often venture out after dark these days, and those few times I have, it's been unsettling and jarring as though I've stepped into an oblique world where nothing seems safe or welcoming. And so I retreat back into quietude.
I've always believed we move through different seasons of our lives--some we circle back around to, others slip away, never to return, and new ones can appear at any given moment. A life of trial and error, of cycles and seasons, and chapters and novellas. But I've written about this idea extensively and from many angles and lenses over the years.
This is simply a check-in, mostly for myself. Hyper-focused on only those things that bring me a sense of peace and self-preservation as I prepare to travel internationally for the first time in nearly 4 years.
In six weeks time, I'll be off on my travels, but until then, I could write about a myriad of things from books to yoga to stories about past travels and experiences. Or I could simply remain in this space of quietude for a bit longer.
