Song: Section I: “The 3"
The wind felt chilly beneath the Buddha statue's elongated shadow, hiding me from the morning glory. Stretched beyond the shade, the canola flowers shine a brilliant yellow, almost outshining the sun itself.
A soft dew glimmers on top of the fields, bathed in the grace of last night's rain. These flowers just bloom and turn to the light, comforting each other as they stand together. Amidst such beauty, only envy stirs in my stomach with how untouched I felt by the peace around me. Who do I have left to turn to for that comfort?
One breeze brushes against my face, while another caresses my hair in the opposite direction. At times, it feels like I split into three: one that grieves impermanence, one that holds on a moment too long, one that tries to move forward. Carl R. White once wrote about dissociative identity disorder: “All I have is me, myself and I and we are all getting really tired of each other."
But I only saw a solitude, as a friend I appreciate once wrote; and I've carried that line ever since. Even with the 3 versions of me I try to put to rest.
I once read that Buddhists believe there are 121 states of consciousness — but only three involve suffering. Those 3 states kept me imprisoned with the devils that lay within, yet my nails clench into my palms as I fight to choose the other 118.
No matter where I stand on this dirt trail leading nowhere, the eyes of the Buddha statue continue to hold my gaze from above. What are you trying to tell me while the rising sun spreads your shadow wider? This isn't the first time I found myself standing here, wondering if my thoughts and prayers evade your unyielding watch. Maybe some prayers were meant to teach me to let go, not getting what I thought I wanted. But then why did I pray for it so much if it was never meant to be?
Incense smoke sends my prayers up and above, and as I wait for something, those 3 states of suffering keep me interlaced with the 3 devils of me that sprout like weeds amongst the shimmering flowers.
Still, the canola flowers bloom. And yet I stand — just me, myself, and I — beneath a statue's shadow that does not hear me, that does not answer me.
Section II: “The other 118"
My name is called out into the wind. I almost didn't turn around — I've been still for so long, lost in my thoughts. But I do. I take a step toward their voice, and the flowers shift with me. For the first time, I notice the warmth in the morning breeze.
Amongst the swaying flowers, newfound friends stand with me; they're almost indistinguishable from the beauty surrounding them as their laughter fills the fields. Videos and photos are used to capture ourselves in the light, as if to footnote the moment in case it's the last time we'll meet like this.
Times like this make me think of those that are no longer by my side. Part of me feels like I'm betraying you by laughing without you, but maybe this is the cost of choosing happiness again. I wish you could've seen the thoughts in my mind today — you would've seen your face. Maybe that's what it means to love anything; it's to realize that it might be lost.
Walking past food stalls we once stopped at, or hearing that song you tried to learn on piano, all for my happiness, brings you back in vivid detail. These memories live closer to me than the wind that gently brushes my cheek — preserved all too well behind my rose-tinted glasses. I wonder what happened to all those footnotes of us, taken on your phone — but maybe the memory of what once was is enough for one of my 118 states to live in.
All those unanswered questions and prayers have kept me from seeing my blessings. The people with me now all carry their own burdens, but smile through it alongside me anyway.
Brief, but comforting, we all stand together.
So let the flowers tend to our grief, our gratitude, and everything between, so that we can keep our gaze forward. Beyond the statue's shadow into the vast and endless yellow fields.
Surrounded by the beauty and warmth of all these flowers, I start to understand that happiness not as mine alone, but something that comes from watching my friends smile brighter than the sun above and feeling it soften this knot in my chest. The present doesn't always need to be measured against what came before. But maybe that's why these brief connections matter so much: they remind me I can still choose the other 118 states, even if only for a little while.
Beneath my stained shoes, we walk until the dirt turns soft and someone starts humming. I don't know the tune, but I hum along. In this moment, I'm just the air that moves in and out of my lungs.
The nail marks on my palm soften at the thought of staying in this state of consciousness, whichever 118 it may be. And as I exhale, the canola flowers are facing me now.
Solitude isn't so lonely when there's something beautiful that can be lost. But that beauty is what makes it ache so much. The more I find worth fighting for, the more I fear being left behind again.