The closest I have ever gotten to being on a different planet was in Wadi Rum, not that long ago. Sometimes I think that perhaps I was – that must have been a different planet. Or maybe that was just some unusual microcosmos nestled mysteriously within our Earth and civilization. Other times, I set out to recall the most real fragments from that world and bring them as close as possible to logical familiarity. What a foolish thing it is, I then realize, to narrow and compress spaces and experiences that seem surreal only to make sense of something meant to be felt, with body and soul, fully, oddly, incomprehensibly. I finally leave it as I felt it. 

Wadi Rum, to me, is a different planet, 
Where
Just imagine

How rolling landscapes of arches and rocks and dunes turn from soft yellow to terracotta red and back as the sky moves and the light softens and expands. Imagine this being the loudest change; all else shapeshifting in the quiet. Imagine not thinking about your own shifts and shadows. Imagine time commanding the colors and the perceptions, yet time being unknown. You don’t know what time it is because you don’t need to know. Nature knows and she shows it. Time is not linear in this desert; it exists haphazardly, detached from your mundane tasks and lists that you so quickly forgot. 

You sense that this is what freedom on this planet feels like.

You don’t look for time nor for something to do. Imagine not doing. And then imagine being, moment after moment in that temporal haphazardness – neither a pursuer nor a seeker. Contentedly unambitious. You are nothing but a human freed of leaden thoughts and notions. You are not tired, and you are not bothered. When was the last time you felt the absence of fatigue and irritation? You want to hold on to this feeling as much as you want to stay here longer.

You sense that this is what lightness on this planet feels like.

Just imagine THIS now. Imagine being unafraid of men. In fact, imagine feeling safe around men that you only just met all by yourself so so far away. The men of this place welcome you and care for you. Your cup is always filled with tea, your plate abounds with food. They smile at you, but you find no hidden intentions behind their smile. They tell you their stories, imagine that. Imagine your angst dissolving as you witness tradition and values being lived and shared. Imagine a communal tent and a fire within a cave – a perfect space to let the shield you carry rest for a few days. Imagine how light it feels to not be shielded. 

You sense that this is what safety on this planet feels like.

Imagine seeing the night sky, star-bright, stars so crammed. You wonder what distances are real and what distances are veiled, unrevealed. Imagine stars so closely within reach. Part of you regrets that you never got to memorize constellation placements and names. Part of you marvels wordlessly at the arrangements and the glow, just as they are. You don’t need to know everything. You don’t need to find your flaws reflected in the stars. Imagine accepting that perfection lives only in the realms of nature. You humble yourself and lie on the cold sand until you feel your body sinking into it. You turn into a speck. Imagine feeling like a speck, content. 

You sense that this is what happiness on this planet feels like. 

Imagine sleeping in a fabric-woven tent where two beds is one too many and two thick blankets is just about enough. A four-legged plastic stool, visibly cracked, and a tiny mirror just on the right side of the door are the only small objects in this space. The window opens to the outside once you slide the barrel bolt. It gets cold at night, and you bundle up, waiting to get the best night sleep as they said. You do. This truly is the sweetest sleep. Imagine getting a delicious sleep after waking up in the middle of the night for a while. 

You sense that this is what rest on this planet feels like. 

***

I am writing this now, from a planet that feels pain-abundant and compassion-striped. Time feels the same, always chipping itself away. I wonder what good it is to imagine or relive, to write and through writing to drift. 

And yet, to stop imagining and writing I simply cannot. I take a break, and I always come back. I know how freedom and lightness and safety and happiness and rest feel like. 

Pause and remember, I tell myself. Remember the people and the landscapes that taught you to still hope and pray. Remember all that you carry within and need to pass on, in this world, in these times of hunger and need, 
as long as you have to
and beyond, 
beyond, 
until we all know how it feels,
until we are all truly free.