We are always rushing to unmeaningful places, always doing unmeaningful things, talking about dreams, dreaming about talks. And after we wake to see the barren reality of our unaccomplished selves, we go back to dreaming and talking and doing and rushing and not-thinking. Never ending.
But when talks run out of topics (and they do) and dreams expire out of date (and they do, too), we then are forced to pull the brakes, to look around, and to find nothing but the ashes of our past, of our youthful ignorance, and the pieces of hazy memories of perhaps the one or two worthy snippets of our life. And that’s about all that is left of us.
Life is all about a rush to the end. A race to see who can do the most in the shortest amount of time: who can work the hardest, dream the highest, accomplish the most, run the fastest, make the most out our short, brief, insignificant lives. It is in those time that we forget.
We stopped remembering how it was like to be a carefree child, sitting on a swing in the breeze of the crisp autumn air, not swinging high, but just letting our legs dangle off the seat and barely touching the ground, just letting the wind tickle our ankles, messed up our already messy hair, and finally pulling the ropes of the swing to let it surf gently in the air. We stopped remembering the afternoons when we just lied down on the grass, not at all minding the dirt or the crickets or the grasshoppers, and simply looked at the clouds and tried to make shapes out of them: this one is a big baby holding a.. a pan, this one is definitely a giraffe, oh, oh, and doesn’t that one look just like the nose of the fat lady who sells candy by the corner of the street by our school? We stopped remembering the nights we stayed up just to see if a rose bud would secretly bloom at night, and how we fell asleep after hours of trying to keep awake to look at the rose grow, and later of how we were woken up by, indeed, the sweet scent of the rose, blooming bright and ironically in our faces.
We stopped remembering the spring dandelions we have blown into our best friends’ faces to make them sneeze as we laugh hysterically, the summer fan that whizzed on and on, ever so peacefully and rhythmically, in our grandmother’s house as we read Harper Lee while sipping iced tea, the fall golden leaves that crinkled loudly as we venture into the forest to look for squirrels hugging their acorns, and of the winter snow that always comes and goes so quietly, but powerful enough to blanket the whole world with a magnificent carpet of white as if trying to help us cover the pains and wounds that we don’t want to see. We forget.
We deliberately forget the calm ways of nature, and the calm ways of how we used to embrace nature. We rush, without a reason. We think, without a mind. We speak, without true words. We love, without heart.
If only we could remember how it was like when all was calm: our hearts and our minds.
If only we could remember what we have lost and put away.
Those memories should not only belong in the thick brown, leather bounded albums we keep in the bottom of our most unused drawer, quietly and slowly being crusted in dust. Those memories are meant to be floating in our minds, constantly reminding us that in this world of traffic and catastrophes, there is always an oasis of peace, where we can regain ourselves, and maybe move on, and maybe rest.
And when we are ready to leave that oasis, we know our path, and we no longer say things that aren’t meant to be said, kill dreams that aren’t meant to be killed, and lose time that isn’t meant to be lost. Only if we could calm down.
And may the last thing you think of when you lie in bed tonight not of the hurtful words that were spoken to you, not of the piles of work waiting to be finished, not of the twenty-seven emails you didn’t reply, not of tomorrow’s breakfast appointment or the meeting the day after tomorrow, but of calmness.
Think of the baby-pink sakura petals falling off the branches one after another, twirling and dancing like a ballerina on pointe shoes, tickling the tip of your nose and then lingering on the third button of your dress shirt, then finally landing in front of your shoe.
Think of the baby-blue sky with the clouds that can be anything and everything: from the almost-forgotten silhouttes of the people that you love to the romantic whispers of the people that love you.
Think only of beautiful things
Tonight, may you only dream of calmness.