“To all the things we didn’t do before we died. Now we can do them.” — Vic Moretti from Longmire.

I walked down the path that splits the deep foliage of a jungle that yearns to overtake the houses that have fallen into disrepair between town and the western coast.

I thought about how maybe for all the difficult moments. The dark winter and wheezy spring— I was in the only place I could have been.

There’s nowhere but here in this moment.

It had been difficult to feel gratitude with my mind distracted— but as I wandered above the town between the path to the park and my apartment— I stayed in the moment as I jotted down little observations about the world around me.

The greenhouse garden scent of the jungle in the summer. The verdant leaves and scattered, rotten wood from the moisture and winds. The distant boats troweling— and the ferry that headed off to Iki island at a snails pace.

I’m twenty-nine years old— and each quiet lesson seems to be teaching me that giving up certainty makes the world a brighter, kinder, more curious place.

There is a pretense of “knowing” that we all carry. Everyday life makes it convenient— otherwise we’d be overwhelmed by the novelty found in every moment. But— in the slow moments. The ones of solitude— it’s okay to unshackle the heart from righteous chains. It’s okay to see the world as it is— a mystery.