Melanie Maure

Wandering through the damp alleys of Hoi An in Vietnam one cannot avoid having their senses flooded by the vibrant swaying lanterns, the cacophony of food smells, the hum of mopeds swarming the streets. And still, amid this ruckus of sensuality I notice the draw. The technological tether. The craving, the bent, the social media monkey clawing at my back. The monkey chatters, “post this, post that, like, like, like!”

The morning sun is bright on my cracked windshield. The temperature is a bit of summer perfection, the windows are down. As I turn onto the highway headed to teach a weekly yoga journey, my intention is twofold: be of service and watch for miracles. For good measure, I add the intention to get my damn windshield fixed.

I assume he’s homeless. I assume he’s needy. I assume he’s broken.

She lowers her copy of 'The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks' and sees I am daunted, lost, nervous, and facing the spiky shrew that is my own pride. She smiles at me. It is the direct look-you-in-the-eyes sort of smile, which, in a single moment says; I see you. I know you.

It's all-new. And so damn familiar. The sun warms my back, a trickle of well-earned sweat runs the ladder of my spine. When it comes to sport climbing I am still a fetus in terms of experience. I am still covered in the afterbirth of this physical pursuit. And yet, there is that ping of the familiar. An emotional déjà vu.