KidSpirit

Good Morning, Marshmead

SilenceGlobal Beat

Then, silence: a still chasm between the ever-bustling mountains of time and motion. It is only in this stillness that one begins to feel the gentle warmth of the sun; taste the kiss of crisp, grassy air; see behind closed lids a dim golden of incorporeal tones; and hear one's own breath in a symphony accompanied by the whispers of distant leaves and the lulls of a faraway sea. It is in the motionless chasm where one begins to actually see — to see, with all five senses, the details that constitute everything.

The trance is broken only by the ringing of the singing bowl.

Immediately, all is thrusted back upon land, and bodies begin to laugh, talk, disperse in all directions. There are places to be and things to do. Action feeds into motion, as everyone hurries about emptying composts, feeding chickens, cutting firewood, washing dishes . . .

Welcome to my kind of lifestyle — a lifestyle that constituted eight whole weeks of our school's Year nine curriculum, spent on a rural farm called Marshmead. Unlike any other high school experience, Marshmead was all about chores and farm work instead of homework and assignments. As someone who has hitherto been cocooned in a bubble of only homework and no housework, the sheer disparity of this new environment nearly drowned me. I struggled, and would have sunk, had it not been for the morning mindfulness that formed part of the Marshmead tradition. Whenever I found myself struggling against a current of endless farm work, simply noticing the sun, the breeze, and the trees grounded me back to shore — just like a lifeline.

Now, a year after leaving Marshmead, I find myself once again thrust into alien waters. Navigating through the COVID-19 pandemic, I hold on tight to the same lifeline that saved me a year ago. In between virtual classes, I check my little potted plant for any new sprouts; after a day of being cooped up indoors, I notice the persistent flowers pushing through the green of the lawn; and every evening, I gaze out the window at the nuanced colors that the setting sun paints.

And on particularly “bad” days when I find myself drowning in too much work and too much virtual interaction and too much isolation, I sit myself out on the veranda, close my eyes, and jump into the familiar chasm of stillness. The virtual classes disappear under the warm blanket of gentle sunlight and summer breezes. The online catch-ups are lost in the warble of a bird and the splash of a puddle. Questions of “When is this going to end?,” “When will be the next time I leave home?” seem distant upon hearing nothing but the rustles of faraway trees.

Through these fleeting moments of inactivity, I see past online classes, virtual catch-ups, curfews, and lockdowns. I once again see, with all five senses, the details that constitute everything.

And my senses tell me that the waters may rise, but I can also swim.

Jasmine Xu is a Year 11 student in Australia. She is interested in philosophy, politics, debating, drama, and the arts. Moreover, she is always open to hearing different perspectives and enjoys thought-provoking and insightful discussions with other people.

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Art by Jaden Flach, Brooklyn