Now that I think about it, I am not sure why I was so scared of being twenty-three. Drifting farther away from my goal of writing a memoir aside, it wasn’t that bad.
Maybe, the first few months were a little on the balance, like crossing on the other side of a rope for the first time; I had to get used to it. It took me a few tries to accept things I wasn’t willing to admit. Topping the list is understanding that my life wasn’t a race or a lousy game show; I needed no grand prize to win by twenty-three. Or that proving my relevance in this world through career, financial, or lifestyle accomplishments is unnecessary.
I held onto my apprehensions as if my dear life depended on them. But, after letting each of them go, I stopped worrying about realities that aren’t mine yet, and situations that aren’t presently there. I got more comfortable feeling moments as they happened. I finally understood what Charlie from Perks of Being a Wallflower meant by feeling infinite—because, for the first time in my life, I felt what it was like to be infinite.
This is the anecdote of as it happens. The answers to the how, where, and when I felt the complete stillness of the world, a story that will forever be etched into my brain.
It was a weekend in February. It dawned on me while I was on Tulang Diot Island in Camotes. It was around five o’clock, and the sun was starting to set. The sky slowly transitioned to a mixture of a red palette from the setting sun and a purple canvas from the about-to-pour sky. During the earlier hours, I honestly hated the weather there. It was sunny, yet the sun barely scorched because of the thick gray sky that covered the surface. Now that I think about it, there might have been an incoming storm while we were there.
After taking a few pictures of the vibrant red-orange setting sun, I excused myself from the group of friends I was with to read a book. I always carry a book with me when traveling, especially if I know I will be on a beach somewhere. I try to at least get an hour to myself to read and savor the view embracing me as I get lost in words written by people I know nothing about.
That time, I chose to bury myself in Neil David Schwartz’s poetry of grief by reading his memoir, What if Tomorrow Never Comes? It was a book inked with intense sorrow. It was a detailed expression of a husband and father’s point of view as his world crumbles down. He lost his wife because of a heart attack and watched his daughter painfully succumb and lose her battle with cancer.
Although I had just started the book, I wasn’t in the heart-gripping part of the story yet. The wind is blowing my hair in an endless mess, and I have stopped fixing it to the sides of my ears. I let its cold blow do whatever it wanted.
I folded my knees and held my book between my legs; my feet touched the sand, slightly washed by the waves splashing back and forth like they were in an endless chasing game. My bikini top was barely covered by an unbuttoned long-sleeved blouse paired with short shorts that felt both breezes from the crashing water and wind, but I did not mind. I should have, though; my body ached the next day. But I always like to tell myself that I have a high tolerance for cold weather, and I hate being proven wrong. I didn’t have a choice but to continue reading while nature sang in different notes that I am not sure I could comprehend even if I tried. But it was soothing that way, the sound of waves, the wind, the kids laughing and chattering from afar; the sound of the nearing night I was about to welcome.
When the purple sky ceased to shine a light on Neil Schwartz and me, I closed the book and looked intently at the sky. The once blue sea is almost gone, replaced by the nearly dark reflection of the sky. There was no star in there.
But as I focused on the piece of the world in front of me, I suddenly became so aware. I was so aware of my existence; it was as if I was an audience. Instead of my senses experiencing the moment, it felt more like viewing myself as I enjoyed the tranquility brought by the falling sun and misty weather. My gaze turns from one side to another, afraid my eyes would miss a spot and I’d forget everything completely. If I were a painter, I would have loved to paint that moment and relive it with my bare hands.
But I am only a writer, so I relive it in pictures my words could conjure.
I remember breathing in deep and out long. It was different from the deep breaths you take when you are exhausted; I was breathless, but for all good reasons and good feelings. I almost forgot I was there with my partner and friends. Everything suddenly became a backdrop in that reality, and the focus was all on me and how it felt to be there, how I felt as I sat there, and how the world felt with me in it. It was infinite.
At that moment, I realized how my thoughts had never felt more like my own; my body had never felt more connected to my body and soul. Since then, I began to chant “As it happens” in my head to remind myself to feel my every step as it happens.
This time, I understood what it was to slow down without feeling restrained or forced. I understood what it was like to slow down without being afraid or threatened that I wouldn’t do anything significant.
I held on tighter to gratitude and appreciation because I am fine. Wherever I am right now, it’s where I am supposed to be. No rush, no pressure; I have to let myself feel everything as it happens.