After Kuningan

Kuningan has just passed. The prayers have been offered, and the ancestors have begun their journey back to the unseen realm. Along the roadside, penjor, temporary bamboo arches adorned with woven offerings, still reach toward the sky. Lithe and tall, they bend gracefully in the breeze. Flowers loosen from their bindings. Palm leaves whisper. Incense lingers, then fades.

The island exhales after celebration. Plumeria blossoms scatter across stone steps. Beauty, it seems, is not diminished by impermanence.

Is wisdom about holding onto the sacred? Or is it allowing these moments to pass through us?

As my children grow older, I find myself thinking less about destinations and more about the person who arrives.

I think about the trip I dreamed about for years and saved up for through college. A younger version of me stepping off a bus in Paris alone, carrying more unfulfilled dreams than material wealth. My tiny hotel room held little more than a twin bed and a window that looked out to ordinary rooftops. With a rickety elevator and narrow steps. It was more than enough. I wandered until my feet hurt. I climbed the Eiffel Tower and watched the sun disappear over the city. The streets glowed gold then amber then blue black against the twinkling lights.

Years later, trains carried me through Europe. Berlin receded into forests and fields as the rails curved toward Bavaria. Hours passed watching villages appear and vanish, church spires accented the horizon. Movement became meditation. A way to watch the world unfold. Circling and circling different versions of the past and the future.

The idealistic medical student.

Spending the night in Wadi Rum. Sleeping in the open air under a ceiling of stars. The desert night settling into my skin. The coolness of morning giving way to the warmth of first light. Yawning as I scanned the landscape. A life lay before me. Vast and unconquered. Wondering about what it will be like to fly above my station in life. Hoping I would never fly too close to the sun.

Over the years my travels became less solitary.

One of our first trips as a young family was to Honolulu for a conference after my daughter was born. Staying in a meager hotel across from the conference center. Renting a car for a few days to explore the island. Sunbathing on a deserted beach with bright green mountains behind us and my toes sliding into the hot sand.

I barely had time or money to travel back then. Residency was tough and before I knew it we were a family of four. We kept thinking of the day that we would finally be able to plan trips to long awaited destinations.

And we did. Year after year. Memories upon memories.

Warm cake and coffee in a cute cafe in Zurich.

Soaking up the summer heat of Andalusia while wandering through courtyards upon courtyards.

Salt drying on our skin along the Adriatic.

Kyoto in the rain.

The laughter of my children on a boat. Innocent and unencumbered by the weight of my dreams or the imagination that sustained me long before I had the means to make these dreams a reality.

These trips have always felt like gifts we can unwrap together. Surrounded by moss clinging to centuries-old temple stones.

Not long after my father died, my son and I stood together at the Blue Lagoon in Iceland. Fresh lava gurgled in the distance and steam rose into the sky. I was a son missing his father and a father watching his son become someone new. Loss and love occupied the same body without asking permission.

Travel started to become a form of remembrance.

And now here is the latest version of me. My children will be adults before I can blink.

This trip surprised me in one unexpected way. For the first time, I found myself wondering what travel will look like for our family years from now. I know my children will, and should, discover places that belong to them alone, collecting stories that are entirely their own. If I am fortunate, perhaps our paths will still cross from time to time, not out of obligation, but because there is still joy in sharing the journey. It is a tender thought, one I never imagined carrying. Perhaps every parent arrives here eventually. We spend years helping our children become independent, only to realize that love’s quiet work is learning to let go without disappearing, and to remain a steady presence without asking to be the destination.

In Ubud I awoke to roosters before dawn and birdsong weaving through the jungle canopy. Offerings resting on sidewalks before the day begins, each one destined to be crushed under the feet of tourists by evening yet created with extraordinary care.

These are moments when time loosens its grip.

The young man alone in Paris. The restless sleeper in a night train to Vienna. The dreamer beneath the desert stars. The father smiling as his children splash in the water. The grieving son. The loving husband. Discovery and wonder.

No longer expecting the destination or the arrival. Simply allowing every version of oneself to travel together. Not outrunning old wounds. Not pretending they never existed.

Nothing lasting can be held on for too long.

Children grow. Parents leave us. Journeys end. Flowers fall. And yet somehow the heart grows and grows and grows.

Penjor dancing in the wind.

One after another they disappear behind us as we drive towards the coast. My children are talking in the backseat. My wife reaches for my hand and I smile. The moment passes through me, and before I can hold it, it is gone.