(the gorgeous view from Nui Tuong Village, Vietnam!)
Last Saturday, like most other Saturdays lately, I was stuck at home with a mountain of homework and extracurricular work. I was fairly productive, or at least up until the two-hour mark.
Halfway through a difficult Maths assignment, I arduously finished a 20-minute Khan Academy video on trig identities, turned the page, saw the next batch of problems, and immediately tossed my pen into the air.
I was done. Completely done.
I rubbed my eyes and sank into my chair, staring at the ceiling. Momentarily, I genuinely questioned whether I was born to sit in a chair for hours, slowly merging with it, while my eyes burned from the glow of a screen that never sleeps.
I needed a break, but not the usual kind. Not Instagram, not YouTube, and definitely not that Red Bull guy skydiving over the Alps (how many times have I watched that video?) I didn’t want more stimulation. I wanted less.
And then a memory surfaced. Embodying Earth, a program I’d joined months ago. I remembered the stillness, the stories, the laughter, the shared silences. But what came back most vividly was a practice led by Brother Tenzin, an Australian former deep ecologist turned Tibetan monk. He had introduced us to walking meditation.
I stood up and made my way downstairs.
I opened the door and stepped outside. My feet hit the asphalt, and I turned toward the riverbank. One of the best things about living in Singapore is how nature is woven into the city’s fabric. Even in the busiest areas, you’re never far from a patch of green, a trail, or a pocket of stillness.
At the river’s edge, the path welcomed me. It was alive, lined with trees, flowers, and plants of all kinds. Tall and short, green and bright, broad and spiky, soft and bold. It felt both planned and wild, as if nature and design had agreed to meet halfway.
I began walking, slowly and deliberately, one foot in front of the other. Heel first, then midfoot, then toes pressing down and releasing. Even the slight squeak of my Crocs joined the rhythm. I noticed the texture of the pavement, the gentle changes in slope, the tension shifting through my legs and spine. For once, walking wasn’t a way to get somewhere. It was somewhere.
As my body settled into the rhythm, my senses began to tune in. I felt the breeze on my arms, light and dry. The river shimmered softly, catching the light. And (literally) above it all: birds. So many of them, an orchestra of chirps, coos, trills, sharp whistles, soft hums.
What beautiful languages they have. And what beautiful lives, soaring over rooftops, watching from above. I envied them, a little.
Every few steps, I paused to gaze. The towering rain trees with their sprawling canopies felt like elders. They’d stood there long before I arrived, weathering sun and storm, offering shade without asking for anything. I want to live like that: anchored, open, and unbothered by what doesn’t matter.
Further along the path, I saw yellow, purple, and red flowers lining the edges. I couldn’t name a single one. I didn’t need to. Even without knowing, I could feel their presence. Together, they just were quietly beautiful, unapologetically themselves.
The longer I walked, the more I thought about how interconnected everything is. How so many choices by others and by me had led to this exact moment.
What if my grandparents had never migrated?
What if my parents had chosen a different neighborhood?
What if the urban planner hadn’t laid this trail?
What if I’d just stayed in my chair?
Each “what if” unraveled another thread in my mind. But instead of overwhelming me, it grounded me. I realized I wasn’t outside the Earth or the land or the place. I was it. I embody it.
The walk lasted 22 minutes. And I didn’t come back transformed or enlightened. I just felt a little quieter, a bit bit more still, and a bit more here.
We need to preserve Earth. Not only for the future, but for now, for our bodies, and for our peace. Because if we lose the Earth, we lose our way back to ourselves.
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