Today is the fourth day of the year-end school holiday. At four in the morning I woke up with my wife and kids. After standing in front of the class for days on end, my body and soul felt like they needed a quiet moment to fold their wings slowly, like a Phoenix gently regenerating. Its wings rested calmly, the red-orange ember in my chest glowing softly, not a wild flame, but a steady warmth I tried to keep alive. I still carried the weight of our family home responsibilities, yet this small holiday felt like a chance to recharge so the fire of my dedication could stay warm for my students when the new school year begins. We got ready to head to my wife’s hometown. My oldest son took the car by himself because there was too much to carry, while I rode the motorcycle with my wife and our youngest child.
While we waited for the transport car to show up in front of the house, I invited my oldest son to pray the dawn prayer with me. Heavy rain suddenly poured outside, the sound of it on the roof felt strangely calming. We prayed together in the still-dark room, and my heart grew quieter and lighter after the busy teaching days. Soon the car arrived, my son said his goodbyes and left. Then my wife, our youngest, and I prepared the motorcycle. Jackets on, raincoat tucked inside the seat compartment. Before we left I checked the house one last time, made sure the stove was off and the fan wasn’t running. Everything was safe, so we set off. The early morning air felt cold against my skin, but it was refreshing after so many hours inside the classroom.
The ride was cold and damp. The roads were slippery from the earlier rain, so I rode slowly and stayed alert. Some people ran red lights even though the streets were empty, but I kept our safety first. That careful way of moving through the world has always been part of how I live, the same way I try to look after my students. After about an hour we crossed the city boundary. The hometown was still far away, we had two more districts to pass through. Big trucks started filling the national road, so I became even more careful on the motorcycle. Then suddenly heavy rain fell again in the middle of the journey. I pulled over to the shoulder, took out the raincoat from under the seat, and we all put it on together. We kept going under the pouring rain, moving forward slowly but steadily.
The rain lasted quite a while, so I decided to stop at a mosque for a rest and breakfast. My wife had already packed food from home. We sat on the mosque porch and ate together quietly. The kids joined in, and the peaceful atmosphere inside the mosque made everything feel lighter. After a short prayer there, the rain began to ease, and we continued on our way. It felt like we had gained a little fresh strength from that simple shared moment and the quiet prayer.
After crossing the first district boundary, the view along the road changed. Parts of the forest that used to be thick were now bare where palm oil plantations had taken over. I pointed it out to our youngest, and he laughed because it reminded him of a cartoon character with a bald head. I felt a quiet sadness seeing it, but it also reminded me how important it is to keep nature in balance for the ones who come after us. That thought made the rest of the ride feel more meaningful.
We crossed the second district boundary under a thin layer of clouds. Our youngest had fallen asleep on the back of the motorcycle, and my wife watched over him. A little later I stopped at a gas station to fill up and let everyone rest for a few minutes. The kids woke up, and we sat together on the side for a short while, giving our bodies a chance to recover. Small rests like that help keep us from getting too worn out. After that we continued, and finally we reached my wife’s hometown. My mother-in-law and brother-in-law welcomed us warmly, and it felt good to be surrounded by family again.
As midday approached, I took the kids to pray at a mosque a little farther away, riding the motorcycle again. After the prayer we ate lunch together at my in-laws’ house and rested for a while. My body felt lighter, my mind calmer after the journey and the time with family. Later in the afternoon I would have to head back to the city because of an extra task tomorrow morning at the Paradise Garden, but for now this felt like enough to refill what had been drained.
Evening came, and I said goodbye to my mother-in-law and brother-in-law. The ride home was long and tiring too. Heavy rain fell again in the middle of the way, but I kept riding carefully until we finally reached home. By the time we crossed the city boundary again, it was almost sunset. The soft twilight light stayed with us on the way back, like a quiet witness to the day we had spent together.
When we got home I sat on the front porch for a moment to catch my breath. Then I took a shower and ate dinner in peace. Night had fallen deep by then. I stepped outside again and sat on the small bench, looking up at the dark, quiet sky. My heart felt lighter after the day spent with family, the prayers, and the journey that had refreshed us. The whole day felt like the gentle process of a Phoenix folding its wings wisely, letting the ember inside slowly grow warm again, moving from tiredness toward new strength. And in that stillness of the night, it became clear there is The Light That Pierces Through the Twilight Boundary.
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