I rode my bike to school for the first time this week. It
was beautiful: good for the soul.
Mornings in Singapore are a gentle space. The air feels
fresher and the hint of the heat to come gives morning a note of preciousness –
like the last mouthful of a favourite cake.
My bike glides along with the rubber whispering to the
asphalt and the pedals turning quiet circles. There’s no traffic in the park
and no need to watch too hard for others on the path. My mind can drift with
the rhythm of the ride.
Somewhere I read that this state can be described as “flow”.
Reflecting more on my last post, I think I’d describe it as the space outside
of language. It’s a place where one simply is and there is something inherently
paradoxical about trying to write about it.
Who am I when I can’t
use language to describe who I am?
Wittgenstein made the assertion that "Whereof one cannot speak,
thereof one must be silent." I think he meant something a little more
specific than the state about which I am writing, but his writing about language
reminds us again and again that language is profoundly paradoxical and the
richest of mysteries. I love to arrive at work and explore this richness with
my students but I also relish the space I have found for quietness as my
bicycle glides through the park.
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