I still remember the exact moment—misty morning in the Angkor Wat forest, the air rich with damp earth and the echo of distant temple chants. Amid the ancient ruins, I found myself quietly watching a scene so tender it felt timeless: a baby monkey, barely more than a whisper of fur, curled close to its mother. As if the world paused, the baby let out a little yawn—so wide, so complete—it felt like witnessing the very essence of innocence unfold.
I was close enough to see the soft rise and fall of mama’s breath, steady, attentive, unwavering. Her tiny hand—calloused by the forest’s grit—gently cradled her child. Watching them, I felt something swell inside me: awe, love, a longing for simpler moments when connection mattered more than speed or screens.
That yawn cracked me open. It wasn’t just sleepiness—it was comfort, security, trust. The little one nestled even closer, and I thought: this is what peace looks like, a fragile, fleeting bubble in a world that rushes. In that moment, amidst stone goddesses and emerald vines, the only story was this mother and child, their breath, their bond.
I pulled back, as not to disturb them, and felt a soft sadness, too—how rare it is that we pause to see such purity. In Angkor’s heart, under dappled light and mossy stones, I learned that love speaks in yawns, in soft touches, in ordinary gestures made sacred by presence.
Later, I wandered back to the temple paths, the memory of that yawn echoing with the chant of monks. It stayed with me, like a promise: life’s deepest connections happen when we stop looking, and start simply being.
