The arrival of the snow was delayed by a day, but it is finally here. As I sat mesmerized by the rapidly accumulating white scene outside the Airbnb window, the simple act of snowfall felt novel to me, like a miracle - even though I grew up with it.
It is the same way I feel about life. I have been alive for so long now, yet the sense of astonishment and novelty regarding how my life unfolds has prevailed. But there is no instruction booklet to guide me, only a great deal of noise. At the end of the day, everyone experiences existence in their own unique way.
I imagine my path might be frightening for others to watch, yet that dose of fear has never quite managed to reach me. For a conscientious human being, isn't every move intentional? Aren't the matters that crumble before us simply the ripple effects of our past actions? Accumulating like the snow that keeps falling.
If I have never followed established guidelines or existing moral compasses, how do I distinguish "right" from "wrong" - knowing, as I do, that these are merely social constructs that exist only for a fleeting moment?
Strangely, I have never felt the need to ask myself that question - just as I never inquired why I am here to experience the fresh snow. "Pure luck," most people would conclude. I do not disagree.
I am built as a being of openness, receptive to the goodness of the universe. I was born to believe and to receive, just as the earth receives snowfall unconditionally. If there is one thing I am certain of, it is this: I am not capable of hurting the beings around me.
I have become much more ready to let people in, even before I can see through their energy and intentions. The experiences of the past few years have prepared me well to let people pass through me, leaving no harm, only tasty memories. But they only pass through; they don't really stay, do they? Layers of white will form on treetops, on roofs, and on the winding pathways around the big redwoods. They, too, will soon disappear.
I can't deny that I'm still confused. I am confused by living in a world designed to keep me inside a laced box; I am confused about exactly where I stand and what it is that I want. I thought I was a free spirit, capable of stretching out and establishing connections; I thought I was free to extend my arms and embrace whatever beauty was in front of me. I thought I could fall from the sky like snowflakes, without a purpose or a sense of direction.
But I am not that free after all, am I?
If I possess neither freedom, nor wits, nor wisdom, then what do I have? I have been asking myself this question a lot lately. As I watched the twirling snowflakes, destined to be earthbound, I found a sense of relief.
"Ah! Here we are again!"
Time. It is time. I do not possess it - the concept of time is naturally at odds with the concept of possession. It is simply part of my existence at this moment - assuming I am one of the extremely lucky ones. I wish to extend and stretch, to embrace and simply be - not horizontally, not vertically, but within time.
I look back at the window, watching the white blur against the redwoods. I may not be free, and I may not have a map, but I am present. And for now, that is enough.
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