Bamboo scaffolding surrounds a section of renovation on a high-rise in downtown Hong Kong.
When I first visited China, back in 2006, I was 22 years old and completely in awe with how big the world had turned out to be. I wandered around for weeks, taking everything in. It was this experience, along with other subsequent trips that opened my eyes to how beautiful the world can be if we just take the time to look around.
Walking beside the wall that guards the old city of Xi’an, one notices a certain rhythm. Leaves litter the ground in anticipation for the cooler temperatures of fall. Coats and jackets are pulled from the closet. Young children scramble by, oblivious to their surroundings. The elderly, however, are veterans of the changing seasons. Years pass by unannounced. Fleeting moments turn to distant memories, and the cycle continues.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Idaho- Farmlife. Every spring gives rise to new crops, new livestock, new trials. Under the watchful eye of the farmer, the cycle is never ending. However, as hard times wash over the land and the light fades in his soul, the farm falls into disarray. Bills pile up high on the kitchen table. Phone calls from collectors go unanswered. What was once a fruitful farm is now a monument to the past. As the farmer drives away, looking back one last time, tears escape his eyes and fall to the ground. Ground that he shaped with his bare hands. Ground that created so much life.
Like a river, time carries us through life. Weaving in and out of currents, crossing paths with others only to be separated just as quickly. Every rock changes our course and every waterfall sends us spinning out of control. Past and present mix, while the future is always around the next corner, waiting for us.
I'm standing outside, peering through windows to the past. A breeze blows the dead grass around me. Insects and birds chirp from the fields, buzzing about, fluttering overhead. I step inside. Pink wallpaper peels down the walls as the smell of earth and decay rises up. Forgotten memories of footsteps race down the hallway. The inhabitants have long since vanished, but their past remains. As I walk down the hall, Their memories float around me like leaves on the wind, echoing a life lived and lost. The the only audible sound is the creaking of the floorboards under my weight.
I glance out the window to the back. A windmill stands erect, rusted, motionless. Equipment that used to till the land lay scattered about in the weeds. What was once a beloved farm, is now forgotten. Garbage. A blight on the land. With each cautious step I feel connected and for a brief moment, my heart fills with sadness for those whose lives had been upended.
Driving away, I can't help but anxiously think about the path that I have chosen in life, who I might run in to, and where it might take me.