A lotus leaf on water is a quiet spectacle. It doesn’t just float—it holds space. And any droplet of water on it? It turns into a pearl, rolling around like a child in a toy shop—excited, weightless, free.
In their quiet play, the leaf and the droplet offer a lesson or two. To be close, yet unaffected. To hold, yet not cling. To let things flow, yet stay grounded.
So, quick—what do you see? A simple leaf? Or something more?
(at Mumbai, India)
The Haji Ali Dargah in Mumbai, seen here as the waters recede. Soon, the restless sea will return—its waves crashing, its energy relentless. And yet, the mosque will remain, untouched in its resplendent silence and peace.
There’s a lesson in this.
To be humble in moments of glory.
To be calm when times are tough.
To ride the waves when they threaten.
To give in when no other choice remains.
Like the sea, life will ebb and surge. And like the Dargah, we find strength in stillness.
To do nothing—how tough can it be? It sounds simple, yet it’s one of the hardest things to pull off.
Somewhere along the way, we started glorifying action. Movement. Hustle. Productivity. Not without reason. But the trouble begins when action takes over everything, leaving no space for stillness, reflection, or pause.
And that’s where the real wound forms—not from doing too little, but from never knowing the damage of doing too much.
Take a moment. Stand. Stare. Breathe. Watch the world go by. Because life isn’t just in the doing, but also in the being.
Boats at shore always seem out of place. They aren’t built to sit still—they belong to the waves, the winds, the unknown.
Watching them, ready and restless, just beside the sea, you can almost feel it—the pull of adventure, the promise of distance.
But every long voyage is actually two voyages. The first happens in the mind—where dreams set sail long before the hull touches water. The second, on land—where boats are built strong, crafted well, ready to endure what lies ahead.
Because when the mind doesn’t imagine wide enough, or the boat isn’t built strong enough, voyages don’t happen the way they should.
So, what voyages are you on?
How far have you traveled in your mind?
And most importantly—how strong is your boat?
Where you stand depends on where you sit. And where you sit? That depends on how much of a foothold you have in the world.
In many places, life isn’t about luxury or choice—it’s about making the most of what’s available. It’s about hanging on, navigating bridges with borrowed wheels, hoping for the best, and moving forward anyway.
But let’s be clear—this does not mean fewer aspirations.
This does not mean fewer dreams of change.
This does not mean fewer smiles, joys, or moments of triumph.
For many, life is neither happiness nor sadness—it simply is. And there’s a quiet resilience in that truth.
Watching the sea is strangely soothing. Maybe it’s the rhythm, the constant motion, or the way each wave races forward, trying to outdo the other—only to dissolve into nothingness at the shore.
For all their frenzy, for all their rushing, the waves end the same way—spent, quiet, forgotten.
Maybe that’s why we stand by the shore, staring at the water. To remind ourselves.
That the daily rush, the endless chasing, the competition to rise above—often leads nowhere.
That it’s okay to move, but also okay to pause.
That holding on to life lightly, but tightly is what truly matters.
And maybe, just maybe, the sea has been whispering this to us all along.
(at Pattaya, Thailand)
It’s always about the frame. How you frame the problem changes the problem itself.
One moment, I was talking to people, standing beside them, sharing thoughts. Then came the trudge down the rolling hills—a pleasant, happy descent through Vagamon’s stunning landscape.
Thirty minutes later, I turned around.
The people I had just spoken to? Now tiny silhouettes on the horizon. The hill? A mere bump in the distance. The shifting light made them look like mannequins in a store—motionless, almost unreal.
Perspective changes everything. What looks overwhelming up close may seem insignificant from afar. What seems impossible now may, with distance, reveal new possibilities.
Try changing the frame—you might see things in a whole new way.
There are markets, and then there is Maeklong. Fresh seafood, vibrant veggies, neatly stacked produce—all arranged with remarkable precision and unexpected cleanliness for a market of this scale.
But that’s not what pulls in the tourists.
It’s the train. The iconic locomotive that cuts through the market, mere inches away from stalls. The moment arrives—the retractable awnings fold back, baskets are shifted just enough, and in a blink, the train passes. Just as quickly, life resumes.
For the tourist, it’s an unbelievable spectacle. For the locals, it’s routine. And as one vendor put it—with a knowing smile—”publicity.”
Because here, business rolls on, no matter what comes down the tracks.
(at Maeklong Railway Market – 美功铁路市场)
There’s always a bit of emotion when you change tracks. A moment of hesitation. A hop, skip, and jump before you commit.
But changing tracks is necessary. Stay too long on one, and you risk becoming a ‘could have been’ story. The world moves, shifts, reinvents—and so must we.
What tracks are you changing?
How long have you been thinking about it?
Richness comes from diversity—of thought, of experience, of action. Stay rich. Keep moving.
(at Maeklong Railway Market – 美功铁路市场)
What comes in the way often feels like an interruption. A distraction. A flaw in the frame.
After much effort, I found the perfect angle to capture the building. Just as I was about to click, a thorny shrub found its way into the shot.
I let it be. And surprisingly, it added character.
Maybe that’s how life works too. The things that seem to block us can actually enhance our journey. What doesn’t break us adds depth, resilience, and perspective.
So, what do you think—obstacle or enhancement?
(at Bangkok, Thailand)