To Stand Small Before the Infinite

by PJ Valenciano Some mornings do more than begin a day. They call you back. Back to the body, back to the earth, back to what pulses beneath everything we’ve been taught to ignore.

I stepped into the morning with no plan, only breath. Before the field stretched itself out before me, I passed beneath trees—ancient, unmoving, present. Their branches curved toward the sky without effort. I often pause beneath them, wondering how many seasons they’ve stood through. How many typhoons they’ve endured. How many beginnings and endings they’ve held in silence. These trees don’t demand attention. Their presence alone carries memory.

Beyond the trees, the field opened. Bamboo swayed far off in the distance, whispering in rhythm with the breeze. Butterflies moved like soft brushstrokes. Dragonflies skimmed the air beside them, and smaller creatures—those I couldn’t name—lived out entire lives in the light between shadows. Birds offered their morning song as if the world had never forgotten how to praise. It was not peace in the polished sense. It was aliveness. Whole, breathing, unapologetic.

The land didn’t ask for anything from me. It simply received me.

That same memory surfaced again—of the day Gerard and I went to Tangadan Falls, nestled in San Gabriel, La Union. The journey there was winding, earthy, and slow. We crossed shallow rivers, stepped over stones, and arrived at the sound of water moving with purpose. The falls did not perform. The water didn’t pretend. It cascaded with weight, with memory, with certainty. The boulders stood like sentinels—unshaken, unconcerned with time.

In the presence of such places, my mind doesn’t wander. It listens. My body remembers its origin.

In a deeply connected state, the Earth once showed herself to me. A vision came—not through imagination, but through recognition. I saw volcanoes forming, the earth breaking open with molten force. Lava flowed like blood from a primal wound, reshaping what it touched. There were no words, no definitions, only movement. Creation unfolding in raw, unfiltered power. I watched as the land gave birth to itself. And I felt it in my chest—that same longing to return.

I wanted to tear away every layer that kept me apart. I wanted to feel the soil on my skin, the bark of a tree against my cheek, the scent of earth on my breath. There was no need to be anything but alive.

One morning, during a walk, the feeling returned. The kind that catches in your chest because it’s far too vast for language. I wrote these words as I walked, barefoot and present:

I went for a walk...I could feel the pulse of the earth

The whisper of the wind...The song of the birds...The story of the dragonfly...The humming of the bugs...The lightness

And I cried...

How I wish I could share with everyone

The vastness...The life beyond what eyes can see...

This, to me, is the remembering. The healing that doesn’t follow a schedule. The kind that arrives when the noise thins out and your body returns to the wild rhythm of the world.

In Japan, there is a practice called shinrin-yoku—forest bathing. A person walks through the forest, senses open, without agenda. There are no techniques, no methods. The forest heals, not by doing, but by being. This way of relating to the natural world isn’t new. It is ancient. Rooted in cultures that never separated themselves from the land to begin with.

Gerard and I often speak about this. About what it means to experience rather than interpret. To meet the moment without filters. To allow grief, joy, longing, and stillness to pass through, without needing to rearrange any of it. The world, in its wholeness, invites participation. Never about performance.

The sea teaches this too.

I’ve felt it many times—walking along the shore, letting the grains of sand slip beneath my feet. Each grain carries the shape of time. When I sit on my surfboard and face the horizon, legs resting in the water, I feel the vastness not only around me, but below me. Entire worlds move beneath the surface. I may never see them, but I feel them. The ocean carries depth without explanation.

There is surrender in that moment. I let go of grasping. I stopped trying to see everything. I allow the water to hold me. I wait for the wave, not because I expect it, but because it always comes.

Philosopher Alan Watts once said, “You are an aperture through which the universe is looking at and exploring itself.” That truth lives in me. This body is not a detour. It is a threshold. A way for life to experience itself, fully.

The trees do not hesitate in their growing. The butterflies do not ask to be witnessed. The sea does not disclose all that she carries. And still, each offers a truth: you are part of this.

The Earth continues to give. Continues to breathe. Continues to welcome us back, no matter how far we wander. The land never forgets. She simply waits.

To experience—that is a purpose. A truth passed on to me by Ghary, the author of Abundant Soul, Abundant Life: The Art of Living You.

And I try to carry it now. In my breath.In my body. In the way I live.