I Wasn't Doing Nothing
One day in the morning, I was so peacefully laying on my bed, and charmingly warm early sunshine came through the window. I felt the warmth of the season, the softness of my blanket, and the generosity of time. Then, I heard the birds singing, although I didn't know where the songs were coming from.
I was uncertain how. After deciding that I would leave the US for Korea, my home-home, all the clocks in my life started ticking at an unbelievably slow pace. I suddenly became acutely aware of myself and my surroundings: things like the train I take, the food I cook, and the landscape I see.
Don't get me wrong. My neighborhood in West Philly is nice, but there aren't many things to behold. You will see some houses and trees.
One evening I was on my way home from a grocery store and happened to see a thing on the road. That thing reminded me of a ballet – lightness, elegance, transparency, wrinkles, motions, shadows, and so on. The "unknown ballet dancer" was a plastic bag flying in the air with a gust of wind.
It dawned on me that I have been passing by precisely the same scenery every day on my commute. But I wouldn't notice anything in particular. These days I consciously look out the window, discovering things that I had never seen before. Now, the old is the new new.
I have been living in this house for four years, and I can hear the birds singing for the first time. I believe that the birds have always been singing there since the very first morning I woke up in this house.
Having spent seven years and this renewed sense of living, I finally realized that I wasn't doing nothing.