How to Enjoy
It was past two in the morning when I arrived at the wedding venue, tucked quietly inside the Art of Living campus in South India outside of Bangalore.
The sky was still. A narrow road wound through the trees and opened into silence. Everyone was asleep. I hadn’t expected to get in so late. My flight had been delayed, and what had started as a mid-evening arrival became a night-long journey.
When I woke up, I felt something I hadn’t expected, excitement. I hadn’t seen some members of my family in years, and even those I had, I hadn't been with like this.
Walking into the breakfast hall that morning, I felt as if I had stepped out of time. There was a familiarity so immediate it didn’t ask for explanation. I was greeted with warmth. It didn’t matter that we live in different countries or keep different routines. There was nothing to catch up on. No need to explain who I had become, or what I’d been through. I was claimed by presence, not by updates. I belonged.
In the distance, a temple bell rang, faint but insistent. Monks and seekers walked the campus paths in robes while peacocks called into the trees. An elephant walked by. There was a stillness in the surroundings that echoed something I hadn’t felt in India before. My family is from Delhi, a city alive with movement, bursting at its seams. Every visit before this one had meant navigating honking traffic, crowded markets, pollution and the layered loves and loudness of a city that breathes in millions. But this visit to India, I was nestled in a place that felt entirely different. A seasoned calm blanketed the air. Though thousands come here for spiritual retreats, teachings, and festivals, we stayed in a quiet corner of the campus, surrounded by space and sky.
The three day wedding unfolded like a gentle wave. There was rhythm but not rush. Events flowed from morning to afternoon to evening. We dressed in different outfits, moved through ceremonies and celebrations with a lightness that felt both energetic and grounded. Despite every detail being planned, it didn’t feel rigid. It felt like a wide invitation, to participate, to observe, to be touched by small, beautiful things.
Unlike the traditional largeness of Indian weddings, this one was intimate. I didn’t know many people outside of my immediate family, and somehow, that didn’t matter. It wasn’t about who you knew. It was about who you were with. And being with each other, fully, was enough.
I noticed early on that I didn’t have strong cell phone reception.
At first, this bothered me. I couldn’t share pictures with my partner. Couldn’t get messages to go through to friends. Couldn’t check email or the markets during breaks. I felt disconnected from what was happening elsewhere, as if I was missing something. But after a day or so, that frustration began to shift. In the absence of connection elsewhere, space opened for connection here. A quieter kind, undistracted. I started leaving my phone behind entirely. There was nothing to check. Nothing to escape into. I realized I had not lost signal, I had gained presence.
There was a stillness I hadn’t anticipated. It came not from effort, but from absence. No notifications. No images of somewhere else. Just here.
One afternoon, a cousin asked if I’d join a group Bollywood dance. I said yes before thinking it through. Soon I found myself in a room with a dozen others, learning choreography together, most people laughing, everyone speaking in Hindi. I understood almost everything and said almost nothing. And that was okay. I wasn’t there to impress or perform. I was there to participate. There was kindness in the air. Encouragement. Playfulness. I was pulled into the momentum of shared movement. There are few things more connecting than learning a dance together in a small room. We moved, messed up, tried again. Laughed. Listened. Tried not to step on each other’s feet.
Participation asks for something different than commentary. It asks for willingness. For trust. For a drop of courage. I was thankful I had said yes.
Each day blurred into the next in the best way. Conversations stretched across meals, between ceremonies, while getting ready. People took pictures, but no one posed. Stories flowed. Laughter echoed. I noticed how much connection comes from proximity, not activity. Being next to someone, doing nothing, says more than a message ever can. There were no summaries of the last year of our lives. No thoughtful replies. No curated thoughts. There was only time. And attention.
The absence of my phone felt, oddly, like receiving a gift, one I didn’t ask for, but maybe needed. It reminded me that the deepest kind of respect we can offer someone is not in what we say or do, but in where we are when we are with them. Attention is presence. Presence is love.
When the ceremonies had ended, when the final meal had been shared and people began saying gentle goodbyes, I could feel something had shifted. As I stepped back into the pace of ordinary life, my phone returned to life. Messages flooded in, alerts demanded attention. But there was a soft disappointment in that. A sense that something had closed. Something that had required no scheduling, no planning, no optimizing. Just an honest container that allowed joy to emerge on its own.
I remembered a conversation I once had about the difference between joy and enjoy. Joy, it was said, is something felt alone. Enjoy, something held together. These days, they weren’t just joyful. They were enjoyed.
And that is how I learned to enjoy.
