It’s a moral logic, not an economic one. You have to give to receive. You have to surrender to something outside yourself to gain strength within yourself. You have to conquer your desire to get what you crave. Success leads to the greatest failure, which is pride. Failure leads to the greatest success, which is humility and learning. In order to fulfill yourself, you have to forget yourself. In order to find yourself, you have to lose yourself. –from David Brooks’s The Road to Character (via)
The first time I traveled to Bali, I was in a constant state of disquiet. Much of the holiday I don’t remember because I was consumed with everything that had come before. You see, my mentor forced me to go on vacation. He purchased the ticket, put me on a plane, and removed access to my email–all because he had become concerned for my health. Because when you’re on your deathbed, you’re not going to regret having not taken that call, not sat in on that meeting. He sensed my unraveling and thought ten days out of the country will set me to rights. Unbeknownst to him, this trip was so much more than a relief from a job that had begun to slowly draw every last breath out of my mouth–it was the start of a love affair with Asia.
On the plane I watched a bad movie and fell in love with a beautiful song. The song was a kind of adult nursery rhyme, and I played it on repeat for the remainder of the trip. I stayed in a villa facing the Indian Ocean, a temporary home that was entirely too posh for someone who sought out hotels for their affordability and safety. It was off-season and I remember watching the rain come down in sheets–I’m alive, you understand, alive–and the whole of the beach blanketed in darkness because it was a holiday that required the extinguishing of all lights. It was an evening where everyone shut down. I didn’t realize the irony of all of this until right now–that I’d come from a place where anxiety was a constant state to rest in a place that revered an inner calm. A place considered rest noble.
It would take me two years from that time in Bali to recognize the quiet nobility in slowing down.
Every year I make a point to travel to Asia. Taiwan, Hong Kong, South Korea, Thailand, Cambodia, India, UAE–these are just a few places I’ve been since 2011, and ever since last year’s Thai holiday, I’ve been aching to return. However, taxes got the better of me (hello, five-figure payment) and time got away from me, and all of a sudden it’s May and I move to California in September and where has all the time gone?
A few weeks ago, I flipped through the latest issue of Anthology and settled on a profile of an Italian designer who decided to make a home in Southeast Asia. I pored over the photos of Bali–the lush scenery, fauna, fragrant frangipani and flora the color of jewels–and I considered a repeat holiday. I shook my head, put the magazine away, because there was so much more of the world I want to see.
And then this weekend, when I decided to book a trip to Cape Town, discovered I’d be traveling during winter, realized I’ve become allergic to cold weather, and instead instantly, as if not thinking, booked a holiday to Singapore and Bali.
At first I upbraided myself. Repeat, repeat. And then I realized that this is a full-circle. This is the woman I am now returning to the woman I once was and being kind to her, telling her that the stress wasn’t worth it. It’s never worth it.
Because there is nobility in living a quiet, mindful life.