There’s a certain way I move through the world. Careful, observant, quietly alert, the kind of person who plans ahead and finds comfort in routines, lists, and timelines. I tend to notice what could go wrong before it does, to keep things in order, to stay prepared. If you were to travel with me, you’d probably see someone with a pen and paper always close by, trying not to miss anything, trying to take it all in. But when I look back now, very little lives in my notes.      
       
What stayed were moments.

Quite recently, I was on the top of a slide.

No, it wasn’t an adult’s slide at an overhyped amusement park. It was a children’s slide with very tiny steps and a narrow slope. And there I was, standing at the top thinking, ‘Why on earth did I decide to do this?’

Picture this: Years after you have graduated, you are back in a college where you are undergoing a 3.5-month residential training programme. As you open the window of your dorm room, you see a white-cheeked barbet protecting its young ones. As you step out in the morning, you hear a chorus of birds calling out to one another.

I have lived a comfortable life: Predictable, convenient, curated.

And yet, somewhere between binge-watching Netflix shows and busy being a corporate leader, a quiet discomfort would creep in. At the end of many days, I felt a strange emptiness.

A walk under open skies, the rustle of leaves, the flutter of a butterfly - these small moments left me feeling fuller than hours spent in front of a screen. And that made me pause and ask a difficult question:

Is my definition of an ideal day truly mine,     
or something I’ve unconsciously inherited?

Today, I went to the park with a group of Grade 5 children. The idea was simple: to sit under a tree, share a story about how different people relate to trees in different ways, and then let the children find a tree they felt drawn to — just to be with it.