When I was seventeen or eighteen I went on a trip to the far north. It was a long journey and I slept most of the way–nodding awake only occasionally to see the city buildings and billboards at night become modest houses at dawn, then become rice fields in the early morning. I arrived at our destination groggy and with limbs sleeping sore. But when I stepped out of the van, I was taken aback by what felt like a sudden expansion of my chest. I saw the hills and mountains from yonder and the great distances of clear air between us. I didn’t gasp; it felt like an inhalation so penetrating it literally expanded the borders of my world. It was feeling of anything is possible. It was feeling of simultaneous excitement and contentment. All in a moment.
Few moments in my life I remember this clearly.
I tell you this story because I’ve been thinking how to describe a peculiar feeling I have when I’m with O. I just realized that both is essentially the same. It’s the same expansion of chest, heart, and world, the same simultaneous excitement and comfort. While this feeling no longer jolts me because it happens often and gently, it nevertheless always leaves me a little awed.