The day hums along. My rhythm matching the rhythm of my jungle beach environment. No need to plan, just follow and enjoy. The midday heat gives rise to a relaxing reading session in the shaded hammock. The afternoon downpour brings me back into the security of the treehouse to smell, hear, and watch the storm as it rolls through with fanfare. The early evening winds make a second surf session untenable, leading to time spent writing instead.

 

As the end of the day draws near, I pull myself out of the writing zone and back to my surroundings. I notice the fading light signaling the rapidly declining sun, and head towards the beach for my daily goodbye.

 

Sands still damp from the afternoon rain squelch through my toes producing a satisfying sensation. The timid sounds of the first evening insects permeate through my eardrums. The remaining light of the day leaks through my corneas and is captured by my retinas.

 

Sunsets are a funny thing. There’s no solid logic behind why we should delight so much in their appearance, and yet we do. Something about novelty perhaps. Each one looking and feeling so different from the last. Evolution giving humans an advantage by developing a brain that constantly seeks the new and unfamiliar.

 

But all thoughts of logic and evolutionary history disappear on emerging from the foliage and getting a first glimpse of the sky. Ah maybe that’s it! Maybe natural beauty is so appealing because it does such a good job of getting us out of our overdeveloped prefrontal cortexes. You don’t need any rationality to lose yourself in wisps of crimson streaked clouds painted across a purple green gradient, with a hazy orange burning orb casting prominent rays in every direction.

 

Slipping into a semi-mindful state, I allow the dancing sky colors to infuse their calming energy into my being. I appreciate without grasping. An easy exercise with something as obviously ephemeral as a sunset. But much more difficult when applied to things of value in life that we feel we worked so hard to obtain.

 

Suddenly, I’m jolted from my philosophical wanderings as my nostrils are assaulted. An enticing aroma drifting on the wind forcibly enters them and causes a chain reaction of stomach growling and salivary glands igniting. Pattern recognition machinery fires up, and offers a suggestion: rice and curry?

 

My hypothesis is confirmed several minutes later upon entering the communal dining area and peeking into the kitchen. Several Sri Lankans bustle about with an air of dutiful importance. Knives fly across cutting boards, glinting from the bare bulbs on the ceiling. Onions transform from whole to chopped in a matter of seconds, demonstrating the skill of naturally trained chefs who have probably never heard of a cooking school.

 

I think back to a piece of one of Ranga’s famous rambling stories, where he explained his overarching philosophy on cooking:

 

“For me, I only can cook if it comes from a place of love. Cooking is more than preparing food. If people are putting things into their bodies, it should have a lot of love in it. So I only allow myself to cook if I’m feeling the love.”

 

Everyone knows from childhood that their grandma’s secret ingredient to the chocolate chip cookie recipe is love, but I never actually understood what that meant until I heard Ranga say it. And it especially made sense whenever I actually placed his food in my mouth. There was no mistaking the fact that this man had organically unlocked the secret to culinary excellence.

 

Sitting down with my fellow treehouse neighbors, I notice the smell of citronella insect repellent mingling with the savory scents wafting from the kitchen. Despite living together on the same property, treehouse residents rarely interact with each other during the day. There’s an unspoken understanding that people come here to experience nature, peace, and quiet.

 

However, the evening meal is a different story, with ever-flowing conversation lubricated by the complete lack of wifi or cell signal. Topics discussed cover a broad range, but are usually based around daily surfing adventures, stories from past lives as serious members of society, or gratitude for current circumstances of living on a beach during a global pandemic.

 

But the conversation takes a notable pause when the first trays emerge from the kitchen…

 

The term “rice and curry” is a bit of a misnomer. When I first arrived as an ignorant tourist in Sri Lanka and heard that the national dish served just about everywhere was “rice and curry”, my expectations were set quite low. Is it just white rice mixed with curry powder? Maybe a bit of sauce on the side?

 

Thass – the local staff member and resident comedian – starts setting each dish on the table and joking about how there isn’t going to be enough and we’ll be going to bed hungry.

 

“Rice and curry” should really be renamed to “rice and curries”. Or better yet, “rice and tons of other delicious food”, as the term “curry” doesn’t do nearly enough justice to the intricacy and variety of the rest of the dishes accompanying the rice.

 

Thick yellow dhal with fresh herbs and spices galore. Curried pumpkin with cinnamon, nutmeg, and cardamon. A plethora of sauteed veggies in a savory pepper sauce. Coconut sambol made with plump tomatoes, lime, and chilli. Miniature fried lentil balls swimming in chunky guacamole. Soya meat caramelized in a dark brown ginger sauce. Pan-fried fillets of fish caught this morning less than a hundred meters away, and spiced to perfection. Fresh green herbs chopped and mixed with crispy red onion. And of course, a huge bowl of steaming red rice.

 

Everything made from organic ingredients grown on site. Everything made with a healthy dose of love. What more can you ask for?

 

Guests set about attacking the food with a level of voraciousness only seen amongst surfers indulging after a day of great waves. Ranga meanders out of the kitchen, and blushes with modesty at the swift flood of compliments uttered from stuffed mouths. I look into his eyes, and see the same peacefulness and gratitude I experience every day living here. I realize that the way he has infused his energy into this place is the reason why so many people can come here and have a magical experience.

 

Life in a treehouse isn’t about doing or progressing or achieving. It’s about being and enjoying and appreciating. It’s about learning how to connect with your environment and simplify your life to be happy.

 

There’s nothing wrong with having the drive to move forward and “get things done”. But I’ve realized that modern society has conditioned me to feel that I’m failing if I’m not constantly progressing. Which is why I took some time to live day-by-day without any plans in a beautiful natural environment. This time taught me that progress is only one way to feel full, and often loses it’s flair if it isn’t balanced with a healthy dose of enjoyment of the present moment.