My Mind And Heart In Vietnam Poem by Natasa To

My Mind and Heart in Vietnam

My mind says, be careful.

Count every road,
every mile.
Keep your dreams folded neatly
behind a practiced smile.

But my heart whispers, go—

where dawn spills gold
across the rice fields,

where roosters call
from village yards,

where motorbikes hum
through waking streets,

and unfamiliar roads awaken
something sleeping inside.

Vietnam calls softly—

through the hiss of bánh mì carts,
the sharp fragrance of cilantro,
fish sauce, lime, charcoal smoke
rising into the humid morning air;

through metal bowls clattering,
vendors calling
beneath faded awnings.

It calls through lanterns at dusk—

Hoi An glowing
in warm, reflected colors,

silk brushing my fingertips,

rain tapping old tiled rooftops,

cool stones beneath my feet
in an alley darkened
by monsoon clouds.

It calls from the Mekong,

brown and patient beneath the sun,

where wooden boats move
through floating markets,

engines coughing softly
beside pyramids of mangoes,
dragon fruit, pineapples—

split open
like bright hearts.

It calls from the mountains:

mist caught in Sapa's folds,

terraced rice fields descending
like green stairways
into the valley,

earth damp beneath my shoes,

woodsmoke and rain
held in the air,

distant bells
from grazing animals.

Still, my mind asks
a thousand questions:

What if I lose my way?

What if the journey changes me?

What if I leave part of myself
somewhere I cannot stay?

My heart answers simply:

Then let yourself be changed.

So I walk between them—

mind in one hand,
heart in the other—

past conical hats
bright beneath the sun,

past jasmine threaded
into market garlands,

past the warm press of strangers,

past the sudden coolness
of temple stone.

And slowly,
I begin to understand:

sometimes the places
we travel to

are places
we travel within.

Somewhere in Vietnam,
beneath a sky washed clean by rain,

with wet earth rising around me
and evening drums trembling
through the streets,

I may finally understand—

I was never afraid
of losing my way.

I was afraid
of finding myself.

Because beneath
all the thinking,

all the caution,

all the years spent becoming
who I thought I was supposed to be,

there was still a heart—

quiet,

patient,

alive—

waiting to be heard.

And perhaps
that is what Vietnam gives me:

not an answer,
not a destination,

but a moment beside a river
glowing with sunset,

incense curling
through temple air,

a thousand small sounds
rising around me—

bicycle bells,

distant laughter,

the splash of oars,

the soft rain
beginning again.

A moment

in which my mind
finally grows quiet

long enough

for my heart to speak.

And when it does,

I realize—

I did not come here
to find a place
where I belong.

I came here
to remember

that I already belong
to myself.

The road was never asking me
where I was going.

It was asking
whether I was brave enough

to follow the scent of rain,

the river's patient pull,

the lantern light
trembling on the water—

and become

not someone new,

but the person
my heart had been waiting for

beneath all my fear,

beneath all my carefulness,

beneath the life
I had mistaken
for my own.