Relaxing into Sri Lanka

I woke up this morning feeling rested.

Relaxed.

Generally, I do not sleep well for the first few nights in a new place, and this house was no exception, but it took a little longer for me to settle in here. Tam and I have, more often than not, been finding places with air conditioning because we sleep better with it on. It also allows us to keep the windows closed at night, which keeps the mosquitos at bay and slightly dulls the cacaphony of crows that starts at four o’clock every morning. Because we took this place with no AC, we sleep with the windows and doors open wide, and it allows any number of distractions in: Wind, mosquitos, cats, and cacophonous crows and squirrels in the wee hours. Now we go to bed earlier, and wake much, much earlier.

It’s not all bad, though.

I am not, and never have been, a morning person. I have always loved dusk, as the time that the world takes a deep breath and holds it – perhaps just a heartbeat longer than necessary – as the ostentatious divas of the day are quieting and turning in, and the stealthier things, comfortable in the tenebrous night, are shaking off their blankets of sleep. I have always thought dusk to be the most peaceful and reflective time of day, but I have to confess a begrudging appreciation for dawn recently. I find the early-morning hours relaxing somehow.

I do think that Sri Lanka itself may be responsible for this ability to relax. There is a way to things here that demands submission from expectation, from our preconceived notions that we are going to live our westernized, pressurized, organized way of life every day.

It does not happen.

And, it takes some adjustment on our part:

I may need to have the same problem with the tuk tuk fixed three times, by three different mechanics to get it right.

But I have just met three new people.

The traffic here is insane, but it has a certain “you do you and I will do me” nature about it that, once you relax into it, it has a beautiful flow about it (and you never see accidents here). The traffic is like a school of fish, or a flock of birds, moving in impending proximity without ever the slightest contact.

There is never road rage here.

And, even more surprisingly, I never seem to get road rage here either. I must be slowing down.

You can never expect to get anywhere quickly (there are too many leisurely cows in the road), and you would just miss so much amazing stuff along the way if you did.

I have learned that these moments (or hours) spent waiting are great opportunities to be present in my surroundings.

It is noisy here. It is a constant cacophony of life being lived unapologetically by man, mammal, and fowl without preconception or pattern. When at rest, I can challenge myself to find the interesting, or comforting sounds, to meditate as it were, on the pleasant bits secreted away in the commotion. I challenge myself to focus on a particular birdsong, the waves breaking behind the house, the wind rustling the pomegranate tree leaves, or the ice cream truck going by every ten minutes with it’s strangely serial-killeresque music blaring form a distorted loudspeaker

(okay, less this last one).

There is a madness to this place. But there is, above that, either because of it or the cause of it, a calm acceptance of that madness by the people that live here. There is always a smile or a willingness to help. There is always kindness and wonder in their eyes, and on their faces.

I am really enjoying the way of life here in Sri Lanka. I am even enjoying being up before the sun. The sounds, the people, and even the cacophonous crows in their own way are all part of being here. I am relaxed, breathing, and present again.

Maybe this is the person that I have forgotten that I was, coming back after too many years of losing myself.

Maybe it is Sri Lanka.