In the soft gold light of early morning near Angkor Wat, Libby moved slowly through the forest floor, her baby Lily tucked gently against her chest. The air still carried the coolness of dawn, and the tall trees surrounding the ancient stones stood quiet, as if holding their breath for the day to begin.
Libby is known among the troop for her calm nature. She doesn’t rush. She observes.
That morning, she seemed especially thoughtful. With Lily’s tiny fingers wrapped securely in her fur, Libby made her way toward a patch of trees where squirrels often dart between branches. It’s a place of small daily activity — quick movements, soft rustling, scattered seeds.
But today, there was no movement.
No flick of a tail.
No sudden scramble along bark.
Just stillness.
Libby paused.
She shifted her weight slightly and looked upward. Lily followed her gaze, her wide eyes reflecting the filtered sunlight. For a moment, mother and baby simply watched.
There’s something quietly powerful about a mother showing her child the world — not just when it’s lively and exciting, but when it’s calm and uneventful. Libby didn’t seem disappointed. She didn’t search frantically. She simply accepted the silence.
And Lily, pressed against her mother’s warmth, learned something without knowing it.
The forest has rhythms. Some mornings are full of movement. Others offer stillness. Both are part of life.
Libby adjusted Lily higher against her chest and sat near a moss-covered root. The two remained there for several minutes. It wasn’t about squirrels anymore. It was about being present.
Visitors sometimes expect constant action in places like Angkor — the leap of a monkey, the chatter of wildlife. But often, the most meaningful moments happen in quiet observation.
As the sun climbed higher, distant sounds began to return — leaves shifting, birds calling, branches creaking in the breeze. The forest was waking up slowly.
Libby finally rose and continued her path, Lily now more alert, her small head turning left and right. The lesson of the morning wasn’t dramatic. It was gentle.
Sometimes, checking in is simply about noticing.