Xishuangbanna Lesson Three: Learning to Be Present

Before leaving Xishuangbanna, I kept wondering how I should remember it. Is it through the thousands of photos on my phone, or the local specialties packed in my suitcase? Later, I realized what truly embedded itself in my memory were three "life scenes" imprinted in my body, each answering the questions of "how to exist," "how to grow," and "how to live." 🌳 The first scene: Naka Rainforest, a philosophy lesson on how to exist I saw everything in its rightful place—the glaciers flowing as destined, strangler figs embracing their host trees for decades, and even the light and shadows never pausing for anyone. Together, they measure a unit far longer than life and death. What I remembered was not understanding the rainforest, but placing myself within its order. When my walking rhythm merged with the rainforest’s breath, when my body learned to converse with the earth through the slippery ground, I understood that existence is not about occupying space, but tuning your pitch within the symphony of countless lives. This lesson is called listening and coexistence. 🐘 The second scene: Wild Elephant Valley, a natural lesson on growth I saw a one-year-old elephant calf still unsure what kind of elephant it would become, switching erratically between walking, rolling, eating dirt, and scratching, like a reckless gray curiosity. This is the ark of Asian elephants. The teachers here have rescued abandoned calves and guided “road-dominating elephants.” Humans and elephants have reached a respectful harmony here. What I remembered was not the majesty of these giants, but the adorable clumsiness of life’s beginnings and the human efforts to protect that adorableness. This lesson is called gentleness and boundaries. 🏡 The third scene: Manlun Village, a living poem woven into warp and weft. Stilt houses, ancient wells, and banana trees came alive through the village chief’s stories. I sat at an ancient loom, weaving silk thread inch by inch into a handkerchief with the “clang clang” sound. Amid the interlacing threads, I felt the warmth of heritage for the first time—not as a textbook term, but as the tactile sensation of palm and wooden shuttle rubbing together. We sat around sharing “good chatter.” I clumsily wrapped my portion, almost spilling the filling, as laughter and sweet glutinous rice sank into my memory. What I remembered was not a tourist experience, but the grammar of life—how to write time with a loom, convey welcome through food, and live calmly within the stories of ancestors. ❓So, how did I remember Xishuangbanna? It is no longer just a place name, but a new perception growing inside me: the listening of the rainforest, the gaze of Wild Elephant Valley, the warmth of the village hearth. This journey with fellow travelers made me realize: true arrival is not only a geographical shift but also letting the distant become a new perception within. When a departure teaches you how to “be present” from then on, that is the deepest gift of travel.