Rusted steel meets thick fibers with force. Thump, crack. Thump, crack. Thump, crack. And it’s done. The rounded green shell now sports a gleaming hole lined with creamy white flesh. Peering inside reveals a clear liquid with a sweet, fruity scent. Kobi passes me the coconut with his signature white-toothed smile, eyes sparkling with a simple happiness found in many Sri Lankans in this rural area.

 

Words come to mind. “Drink coconut, coconut make you strong”. Uttered to me during my first week in Sri Lanka by a local on the beach who was unsurprisingly trying to sell me a coconut. But he wasn’t wrong. Coconuts are full of miracles. It seems like every week I learn a new way to make use of them as a food, drink, medicine, building material, or item of clothing. Even botanists seem confused by their multifaceted nature, and categorize them as a fruit, nut, and seed simultaneously.

 

Their utility was certainly not lost on Ranga, owner of the treehouse lined beach where I’m living. He decided to plant hundreds of coconut trees on the property when he first arrived, committing himself to decades of work to bring them into maturity. A task most would consider not worth the 50 cents per coconut he’d reap later. But a task fitting straight into the wise and patient demeanor of a man who has spent his life immersed in nature.

 

Sitting down at the communal bench to take my first sip of electrolyte-filled goodness, I remember my first encounter with Ranga…

 

Picking my way along the narrow outer trail intersecting jungle and beach, I was overwhelmed by the scenery in every direction. But as I neared the end of the trail, something felt off.

 

Waves were sprinting across an expanse of sand and smashing into a high eroded bank at the edge of the jungle. I watched as the fragile bank collapsed slightly with each assault, salty spray buffeting the trail behind it. Turning a corner, I saw an unassuming old man in traditional Sri Lankan work attire helping a younger man attach a thick rope (made of coconut fibers, of course) to a coconut tree.

 

A few seconds of observation revealed their intention to save the tree from the onslaught of what I knew to be a historically high tide. Its roots were already exposed and covered in frothing sea foam, but the men still pulled hard on the rope in silent synchronous motions. Approaching the grey bearded man I would soon identify as Ranga, I expressed my concern for the fate of the tree I assumed he cherished.

 

His reply surprised me. “Yes…no problem. We try to save, but it probably won’t work. I plant this tree ten years ago. It’s been a good tree. But it came from nature, and now it goes back to nature.”

 

Words still ringing in my ear months later, as sticky coconut water runs down my chin and onto the table. There’s that impermanence again. A concept not lost on a man full of wisdom from the outdoors. A concept on display in every aspect of the natural world. Escapable by none.

 

Refreshed and rejuvenated by the coconut water that managed to make it into my mouth, I head back to my treehouse. Late morning sunlight dapples the plethora of small plants comprising the garden in front of the structure. Shadows from surrounding foliage sway back and forth across the paneled walls, accompanied by the soothing sounds of wind on leaf. Carefully placed seashells collected from a few feet away line the edges of each stair up to the well weathered door.

 

Passing through the threshold and into the cozy interior, I’m overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude. Never would I have believed that happiness could be so easily achieved in such a simple environment. Omnipresent consumerism tells us we need to constantly buy new things to keep comfortable and content. Living in a small treehouse in a beautiful natural area tells us we already have everything we need.

 

Hand reaches under bed and makes contact with the supple rubber I identify as a yoga mat. Other hand uses spatial memory to locate the yoga block behind it. Gripping both, I exit the modest structure and begin the short stroll to my place of practice.

 

On the way, a shadow in my peripheral vision. Eyes turn skywards. Just in time to see Hayley soar overhead. Wings stretched longer than the length of a human. Under-belly an impossibly pure shade of white. Predatory eyes scanning the expanse in front of her.

 

I note the position of the sun, and make a mental reminder to be careful operating my drone around this time of day. Hayley has her hunting rhythm, and the last thing I want to do is disrupt it with the distracting whir of an aerial robot. Small plastic machinery versus massive muscular eagle is not a matchup I’m keen to witness. Although I suppose it would be another naturally delivered lesson on impermanence…

 

Just before she passes out of view, I catch a glimpse of her mate swooping gracefully into her airspace. Talons meet talons, and they dip, dive, and barrel roll in an exquisite dance of courtship. Exactly as described in the “Breeding Behavior” section of the “White-bellied sea eagle” page on Wikipedia. Technology can be great when used to build appreciation for the world around you. As long as you remember to take a break from staring at it every once in a while to actually interact with what’s around you.

 

Approaching the jungle-encased shala, I take a moment to appreciate the simple yet elegant design of the space. Twisted trunks sprout from an immaculate concrete floor and rise up to support a ceiling lined with hand painted designs. Natural tree branches fasten together to form a rustic hand railing on the corner staircase. Each knot and contortion in the wood telling the story of a former life of growth, with an afterlife of using its stability to help other beings climb between floors.

 

A peaceful energy permeates throughout. No doubt created by decades of people coming here with the intention to find stillness of mind. Stepping onto the smooth floor, I feel a subtle connection to the many whose paths brought them through here. A feeling of calm and purpose seeps into my sphere of awareness.

 

Into the flow I fall.

 

Beginning with the breath. Centering. Stabilizing. Feeling each inhale as it tickles the outer edges of my nostrils, then passes through the complex structures of my respiratory system. Feeling each exhale as the diaphragm relaxes, and the air newly infused with carbon dioxide rises up and out the body through the same passageways.

 

Now taking control of the breath. No longer just watching, but exerting my will upon it. Following in the footsteps of thousands of years of yogis before me. First cleansing my airways with well-honed pumps of the lower abdomen. Falling deeper into a trance of presence with each contraction.

 

Then moving into regulated breathing. No particle of air entering or leaving my body without intention. Lengthening the breath until each cycle of in and out takes almost a minute. Resting in the airless stillness between breaths. Nowhere to go. Nothing to be. Time flies, and my breath with it. Mind clears. Parasympathetic nervous system activates.

 

Finished. Back to observation. Appreciation of the subtle changes already appearing in the way I cycle oxygen through my system. Appreciation of the breath-based bridge between mind and body being created.

 

Taking this enhanced presence into the next stage, my body begins to move. The mind watches, and helps to adjust. Helps to sink in and feel on a deeper level. Each physical posture a reflection of stability of mind. A constant attempt to balance yin and yang. Pushing one moment, relaxing the next. Training the nervous system back into a familiar state. A state more representative of the era before couches, car seats, and office desks brought our bodies below their physical potential.

 

Then suddenly the routine is over, and the balance shifts fully to yin. Laying on the ground like a corpse with feet apart and arms resting at the sides. Feeling the body melt deeper into the mat with each exhale. Remembering each prior movement of the routine, to reinforce the new neural connections being formed. Resting, recovering, reflecting. Three terms whose importance were all but lost on me until recent years. So much is the pressure to keep moving these days, we forget the value of stillness.

 

Sitting up at last, I make use of my newfound mobility to perch comfortably on the blocks. Feet tuck carefully into legs. Spine straightens. Eyes close once again. Becoming the watcher. This time, no sound of crashing waves to distract me. This time, managing to stay neutral, and observe everything in my awareness as it floats by. A whiff of flower pollen. The sound of buzzing insects. The physical sensation of wind on skin triggering a thought that triggers another thought. Watching the beautiful process of causation and creation in real time.

 

Bell rings. Session comes to a close. Mind begins its return back to standard operating mode, but with a slight change. A slight enhancement to awareness of itself and the universe around it. A tiny increase in the power of the awareness spotlight. So small a change, that it’s practically unnoticeable compared to yesterday. But repeated day after day, the beam of light becomes tangibly brighter, until it illuminates what needs to be seen.