Crossing

A monk rises one measured step at a time. Light gathers first beneath his feet, as if the morning itself had chosen to begin there. In his hand, prayer beads slip softly through his fingers — one, then another — counting something far older than stone, older even than the ancient walls of Punakha Dzong.

He never looks up. Perhaps some rituals are not meant for an audience. They ask for no witness. I wait in silence and patience as his voice drifts into the morning air — the gentle unfolding of a devotion repeated countless times before, carrying with it the serene tranquillity of the monastery.

In that quiet moment, I’m reminded that some things endure long after the world has forgotten to notice them.

Random Thoughts

27thMay 2026

Punakha Dzong, Bhutan