I remember reading a story about a young girl who learns to track the movement of thunderstorms from her grandmother. It’s a simple trick: since light travels faster than sound, you count the seconds between the flash of lightning and the rumbling thunder each time, and if the number goes down, the storm is moving towards you. 

Last night, in my tiny room an hour walk up the hill, the thunder trailed lightning by one second. It was as close as I’ve ever been in the heart of the storm. Hail poured down on our roof. I talked to some friends who lived further down and no one was woken by the storm, but I must have been up listening, being thrilled, for an hour. 

My relationship with time is slowly shifting, again. I’m dropping into something softer, walking for long hours each day, awakening my senses to the elements. As the continuum stretches, I’m able to confront myself at a deeper layer than I’m used to.

I’m loving the aliveness I have felt lately. Looking at the mountains and waters and the trees makes me feel alive. Hearing the birdsong and the thunder right outside my room and the beating of my heart makes me feel alive. I am alive to my senses, to my entanglements, to my life. 

And there is something about spending a lot of time alone that awakens me to my own longing. 

When I’m alone I get to enjoy engaging with the world in precisely the way that I want to, and I have the space to hear her reply. I genuinely love the way I look out at her, and the way she looks back.

But this way of being, for now, is solitary, and I long to share it with others who are similarly intimate with life. I yearn to live seasonally, in communion with the rhythms of the land, and to have a village that holds these movements together.

Back in 2016, when I went on my first long trip out of a tiny backpack, it was in spaces like the one I’m in - places that attract a certain quality of presence from people - that I found that sense of home. But these days, I feel more intimacy and alignment with my people back in the bay area. I belong to both places, though. I belong to the winds and the ocean and the land spirits that have called me back.

I was last here almost a decade ago. Much is different: my attitude towards life and travel, the industrialization of India at large, the kinds of people I am mutually drawn to. And so much is the same: the trees that greeted me on arrival, the wandering hearts of beautiful people, the everyday struggle in a changing world. And on a fundamental level I haven’t changed at all. I am the same me, just more refined, more clear about my ecological niche, more accepting of my distinct way. 

Over the weekend I walked out to a nearby waterfall and climbed outward-jutting rocks until fear threatened to occupy my entire body. And then I sat there, taking in my own terror, asking can I savor this? It’s very me, and though I wish I could share the experience with someone, it’s very, very me. I do savor it.

I haven’t really wanted to write much, and there is so much to tell you! I will continue taking my time and letting the shift in pace guide my movements. Thank you for being here. Send me a photo if you’d like.