Some moments don’t ask to be explained. They ask to be witnessed.
I stood there, wrapped in saffron, the world softened by mist and green, facing a statue that has seen centuries pass without ever moving. Flowers draped across iron railings, bells hanging silently, as if even sound knew this was not its moment.
My head was shaved—an act that looks dramatic from the outside but feels surprisingly simple from within. Hair is light, but intention is lighter. In that moment, I wasn’t shedding anything out of loss. I was choosing clarity.
The statue before me was steady, almost stubborn in its stillness. A reminder that devotion doesn’t have to be loud. That faith doesn’t always arrive as answers. Sometimes it arrives as posture: how you stand, how you wait, how you breathe.
Behind the shrine, life continued as usual—buildings, roads, schedules, obligations. But inside the small square of space where I stood, time loosened its grip. I wasn’t asking for miracles. I wasn’t bargaining. I was simply present, which felt radical in its own quiet way.
There’s something humbling about realizing how small you are—and how okay that is. The garlands will wilt. The grass will grow back unevenly. I’ll move on to the next place, the next version of myself. But the stillness of that moment will remain intact somewhere inside me.
Not every journey is about movement.
Some are about learning how to stand still without needing to be elsewhere.
And sometimes, that’s enough.