I still feel the weight of that morning—the thick, humid air in the Angkor Wat forest, the distant hum of cicadas, the scent of ancient stone softened by moss and dawn’s golden light. I was walking along a vine-swathed path when I first saw Rainbow—her fur shimmering like melted bronze, her eyes gentle yet alert.
Cradled in her arms was the tiniest creature I’ve ever seen: baby Lynx. Tiny, fragile, wide-eyed, she nestled into Rainbow’s embrace with the trust of someone born with that faith. From the moment I saw them, I knew I was witnessing something sacred—a bond so pure it shook me to my core.
Rainbow’s posture was protective, unwavering. She moved with intention, every step purpose-driven, weaving between roots and fallen stones. Her every movement spoke of ancient instincts stronger than any human could dream of: the primal conviction to keep her child safe.
As the sun rose higher, a shaft of light illuminated her side, casting a golden glow as though the forest itself honored their connection. It felt as if the spirits of Angkor Wat were paying homage to this mother’s love—something timeless and profound.
At one point, a sudden rustle had Rainbow spinning, Lynx clutched close—her body tense, ready for threat before even seeing one. But there was none; only the hush of the jungle responding to her alertness. She exhaled softly and resumed her careful journey. I realized then: this wasn’t fear. It was vigilance. A vow rooted in love.
I followed at a respectful distance—I dared not disturb them. Yet every detail carved itself into my memory: the way Rainbow’s tail curled like a silent question; the soft flicker of Lynx’s eyelids as she slept against her mother’s chest; the ancient stones of the temple behind them, stained red with the stories of centuries.
In that moment, I felt connected—not just to them, but to the deeper pulse of life in that sacred jungle. It was as if the spirits of Angkor whispered: “Here is the power of love. Here is the promise that gives strength beyond measure.”
By afternoon, as the light shifted and shadows lengthened, Rainbow found a small alcove—petrified by time, overgrown with ferns—and nestled there with Lynx pressed to her heart. She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them with renewed resolve. She was a sentinel. A guardian forged of instinct and devotion.
I couldn’t hold back tears. I stood there—an outsider, grateful and humbled—watching the finest testament to motherhood I’d ever seen.
I tell this story now, hoping that readers across the U.S.—even halfway across the world—can feel the quiet power of that moment. To remember that even in a place as ancient as Angkor, love isn’t static stone. Love is alive. Fierce. Necessary.
Rainbow’s vow—to keep Lynx safe—echoed within me. It stays with me still. In my dreams, I return to that vine-framed temple, where bamboo shafts of sunlight meet mossy red stone, where a mother’s arms cradle her child with absolute tenderness.
I hope you feel it too.
