A friend asked if I wanted to go to New Zealand.

I paused and realized I wasn’t as excited as I thought I’d be. Of course, the scenery is still beautiful.

I remember my first trip to NZ. The moment the plane landed in Queenstown, it felt like stepping into a painting.

The drive to Milford Sound, hours of quiet, moving through spring, summer, autumn, and winter as they came toward us along the mountain road. Snowlines on the peaks, greens at the foothills, all pressing gently into my vision.

Even now, recalling those scenes, I still find myself holding my breath, completely absorbed.

But slowly, I realized something. What I truly missed wasn’t the scenery itself, it was the state I was in back then.

It was quiet there. Few people. No noise. No traces of being worn down. I wasn’t thinking about anything. I was simply there, in a kind of harmony between heaven and earth.

Like a figure inside the painting, not someone standing outside, looking at it. The world wasn’t in front of me. The world was inside me.

I thought I loved traveling. What I really loved was that feeling of fully letting go, fully dissolving in. Flights, hotels, itineraries, check-ins, those are just the mechanics of a holiday. They were never the thing I was actually after.

Because as long as I’m willing to quiet down, no matter where I am, mountains, oceans, street corners, or even a single tree outside a window, I can step into the painting.

In that moment, I’m not looking at the scenery. I am the scenery.



—— XC Scribbles · 陸拾 LX 🌿