Today, I was supposed to write about discomfort but how can I write about that when I’m feeling very comfortable where I am?
I’m sitting on the porch outside our little treehouse—our home for the next two days. There is a cool wind rustling the leaves around me, especially the coconut palm fronds that line the roof of our nipa hut in the sky. Strands of hair escape my ponytail. Beyond my computer lies the view of a sandy beach. Waves gently roll in, quiet, welcoming the day’s end. Below me are empty picnic tables, bushes of pretty bougainvilla, the company of smaller trees. A tire swing waits patiently for children who are yet to arrive.
I am alone, for now, with my thoughts and words and it is not uncomfortable—this silence, this peace. It is what I need after the chaos of the big city, the doldrums of day-to-day routines, others’ expectations of me. Today, I can be me, comfortable in my bikini and my skin.
