She no longer fears missing out, for she has learned that what’s meant for her will never pass her by. While the world rushes to chase trends, gatherings, and noise, she finds peace in her own rhythm. Her joy isn’t borrowed from what others are doing, but born from the satisfaction of being present where she is …
She doesn’t measure her life against anyone’s timeline. She knows that every soul blooms in its own season. She would rather miss a hundred fleeting moments than lose the one that truly belongs to her …
For her, the real richness lies not in being everywhere, but in being whole, right where she stands …
There was a small village at the foot of a mountain. The village was called Shantipur. In that village lived a little girl named Turona. Every day, Turona would gaze at the big mountain from afar. In the morning, the mountain sparkled in golden sunlight, and by evening, it glowed in a soft reddish hue …
One day, Turona decided she would climb to the top of that mountain. Everyone said, ‘It’s too high, you won’t be able to.’ But Turona smiled and replied, ‘How will I know if I don’t try?’ …
The next morning, she set off with a bottle of water, some fruit, and a notebook. On the way, she grew tired, her feet ached on the stones, yet she didn’t stop. Sometimes she sat down to rest, listening to the sound of the wind and watching the birds fly …
Finally, after noon, she reached the top of the mountain. Looking down, she saw how beautiful her little village was, green fields, tiny houses, and a silver river flowing gently through it …
In her notebook, Turona wrote, ‘The joy of reaching the highest place only comes when you refuse to give up.’ …
Then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The air smelled of freedom, and inside her heart, there was peace …
She realized that the real mountain wasn’t outside, but within her. And that day, she had conquered both …
How we used to write short stories when we were young! I remember how every night I’d make up stories to tell my little sisters before they fell asleep. I used to jot down bits of them in my notebook too. Often, I’d go up to our rooftop with that notebook, gazing at the distant sky until my thoughts drifted away. I wanted to write, and sometimes, I did. Other times, I simply got lost in my own imagination!
I’m sure it happened with you too!
Anyways, now tell me, What is the ‘mountain’ in your own life that you’ve been afraid to climb? Or tell me, When was the last time you tried something even though others doubted you?
For the past two months, I’ve been wearing just two simple kameez sets, paired with the same sandals and one trusty bag, wherever I go. Except for a few occasions, this has been my beautiful routine. The colours of the dresses have softened with time, and the sandals even needed a small repair once. Yet somehow, that has only made them feel more alive, more mine, as if they carry the reflective story of my days within their fading threads …
This small choice has brought a surprising calm into my life. I no longer stand before my wardrobe wondering what to wear or how to appear. There’s less noise in my mind, fewer decisions to make. Simplicity has become a rhythm of peace, an invitation to slow down and live with intention. Life, I’ve found, feels calmer when there is less clutter …
In this space of simplicity, I began noticing how much I already have, how many clothes once sat untouched, how often I’ve taken the luxury of choice for granted. Wearing the same things again and again opened a subtle sense of gratitude. I realised how privileged I’ve been: to have more than I need, to be able to choose …
That realisation inspired another small but meaningful shift. Whenever I felt the urge to buy something new, I started setting a portion of that amount aside, for charity, or for something genuinely important. What once might have gone toward another purchase now flows toward purpose. Each act of restraint has become an act of giving. Truly, fulfilment lies not in acquisition, but in redirection …
These small choices have grounded me deeply. They’ve taught me that contentment doesn’t come from adding more, but from cherishing what already exists and letting it serve its purpose fully. Even as the fabric fades and the edges of my sandals wear thin, I certainly know a richness that has nothing to do with possessions …
It has now been over a year since I last bought clothes for myself. And yet, this restraint feels like abundance. There’s something profoundly beautiful about learning to want less, about realising that simplicity itself can be a beautiful form of luxury, one that dresses the spirit far more gracefully than anything we could ever wear …
A strong woman rises silently when the world expects her to fall knows her worth without apology … blooms in her own time … invites love not to tame her but to accept her fully, unapologetic, unstoppable, and unafraid to embrace her …
One day at a time! It sounds simple, almost too slow for this fast world. But when life humbles you, or pain stays long, you learn it’s not weakness, it’s wisdom …
Many won’t understand until survival becomes sacred, or until plans become hours, and peace is found in small steps …
Only then, suddenly, one day feels like a victory!
If someone listens to a song And she appears in the verse Not summoned, not expected Just felt, like a breeze through a half-open window Then that is love in its gentlest form …
Not loud, not declared But tucked between notes Where memory breathes, and the heart still knows What it never forgot …
And if they play it again Not to relive the past But to feel her near Just once more …
Alas, the song fades! But somewhere in its echo lives a moment They never said goodbye to …
I was listening to a song when a sudden thought settled in, if someone ever hears a song and thinks of me, isn’t that one of the most deeply emotional and sacred gestures?
That moment stayed with me, and I ended up writing ‘When a Song Remembers Her’ … It doesn’t follow any structure or rhyme, but it holds something personal, love, memory, longing …
Maybe it’s a poem. Maybe it’s just a feeling shaped into words. I’m not entirely sure …
But I wonder, what do you think, can something like this be called a poem? Or does a poem need rules to be real, or can it simply be a moment that moves us? Also, I’m just wondering about you, have you ever heard a song and found someone gently returning to your heart through it?
Tell me, Isn’t it beautiful how music remembers what we try to forget?
When R stepped off the small plane that landed in Paro, Bhutan, she felt something shift, not dramatically, but like the settling of dust after a long journey …
The valley stretched wide beneath her, green and golden in patches, framed by distant, unmoving mountains. It was quieter than she expected. Even the wind seemed to move gently, as though not to disturb the stillness that held this place together …
She had arrived not as a tourist, but as a teacher, a woman in her late thirties from Bangladesh, with a degree in English and a quiet but persistent belief in meaningful work. Years ago, it had been just a passing dream, one that took root on a monsoon evening back home, when her father handed her a book after returning from a short business trip to Bhutan: Married to Bhutan by Linda Leaming. She didn’t know then that the book would become more than a gift. It would become a roadmap …
She read it in one sitting, and then again, slower. The words painted a life far from the chaos she knew: one of rhythm, simplicity, joy without extravagance. Something about it stirred her. Not just the country itself, but the idea that a person could choose a gentler life, one rooted in intention. Ever since, the desire to live and work in Bhutan stayed with her, not loudly, but like a thread running through her decisions, pulling her quietly in one direction …
It took years to make it happen. Teaching jobs weren’t easy to come by. There were rejections, delays, moments of self-doubt. But eventually, things aligned. A school in Paro welcomed her. And so she came, with a suitcase full of essentials and a heart full of the unknown …
The school was modest: a few classrooms, basic supplies, and a staff of deeply committed educators. Her students were bright-eyed and curious, some from the surrounding hills, others from the valley towns. They called her Miss R with respect and affection. She taught English, but often, she felt she was learning more than she was giving …
In Paro, life had a slower pulse. Mornings began with mist hanging low over the rice fields. The walk to school was lined with prayer flags and the occasional passing cow. She started wearing the kira on school days, awkwardly at first, then with growing comfort. Suja, salted butter tea, became something she reached for on chilly afternoons …
She missed home sometimes: the sound of the call to prayer, her mother’s cooking, the overlapping laughter of cousins. But Bhutan had offered her something she hadn’t expected, a deep and gentle space to grow. Here, her work felt rooted. Each lesson she planned, each conversation with a student, each moment of solitude looking out at the hills, it all added up to a life that felt fuller, simpler, and strangely her own …
Some evenings, when the rain returned and wrapped the mountains in silver, she would pull out the old book her father had given her. The pages were worn now, the cover faded. But the feeling it gave her, that tug toward a life of simplicity and purpose, still felt as clear as it did all those years ago …
Living in Bhutan hadn’t made her someone new. It had returned her to someone she had always hoped to be: grounded, purposeful, and joyful. She wasn’t searching anymore. She was, finally, living the life she had once only read about …
She is here … Teaching … Living near the mountain valleys she once only imagined … And in doing so, she has become a part of a beautiful story …
And at the end of each day, amidst mountain valleys, in the hush of Paro’s twilight, that felt like enough …
Bhutan has a sacred place in my heart. I visited once, and it felt like stepping into a world where everything slows down. Peace seemed to rise gently with the mountains …
I remember the kind people, the prayer flags fluttering in the wind, and the quiet beauty of the dzongs. Everything left a deep impression on me …
Rafting was one of the most exciting parts, unexpectedly wild, joyful, and full of laughter. That whole trip was truly an adventure I’ll never forget …
Before leaving, I bought the book Married to Bhutan from Paro International Airport. After reading it, something in me shifted. It changed the way I see life, more simply, more mindfully, and with a greater sense of purpose
Now the evening descends in stillness And the burdens of the day return to the hands of the Divine He knows what the heart held in silence And wraps the soul in mercy, soft as dusk …
Recently I happen to read a haiku by Bashō: Such stillness the cicada’s cry drills deep into the rocks.
It stayed with me. The depth, it felt like something more than words. That’s when I found the Japanese word Yūgen. It means a deep, mysterious beauty that can’t be fully explained. It felt just right for what I was feeling, so I kept it with me, as the title for something I’m slowly shaping in my heart …
Yūgen (幽玄) A deep, mysterious sense of beauty and the grace of the universe, often felt during twilight or in quiet moments
The Place Remembers your hands In the turned soil, the creased pages The teacup left just so on the counter Grief here is not loud It is the creak of a door you once touched …
The Place Holds your laughter in the walls Not echo, but residue Like how a tree remembers spring Through it now stands bare We walk through it, careful not to forget …
The Place Speaks in your language A photograph tilted A coat still hanging as though time stilled its breath Even the light bends the way you used to When you leaned into a story …
The Place No longer waits It has folded you gently Into its grain, its breath, its silence And yet Every corner aches like a closed book mid-sentence …
Just a few days ago, my best friend’s husband passed away, so suddenly, from heart failure. There was no warning, no long illness to prepare the heart for what was to come. One moment he was part of the constant wave of their lives, and the next, a stillness settled in that no one knew how to hold. Their home feels unbearably silent now, not just in sound, but in spirit. Every corner dictates his absence. The people left behind are trying to carry on, but their movements are slower, their eyes heavier. It’s the kind of grief that doesn’t shout, it whispers, lingers, and reshapes everything …
I’ve been thinking a lot about how fragile life really is. We plan, we dream, we hope, and yet so much is out of our control. I can only pray that my best friend finds strength in her memories and comfort in the love that surrounds her now …
People keep asking, ‘How broken are you? Should we try to fix you?’ But someone please tell them you can only fix what’s in pieces … I’ve been crushed so finely, I’ve turned to dust
She was in a car, paused at a red light, when a bus slowly pulled up beside her …
It was one of those older city buses, painted white, a bit weary-looking, as if it had seen too many monsoons and memories. Most of its windows were cracked open halfway, resting in a kind of in-between. But one window stood wide open. And there, beside it, sat a young man …
He had AirPods in, so she assumed he was listening to something, music maybe, or a podcast, or perhaps just the sound of his own solitude. His face was quiet in the way people sometimes are when they’re thinking of something that doesn’t need to be said …
There was no moon that night. Just a vast, bare sky stretched like a curtain of silence …
And she smiled to herself …
Not because she knew the boy, not even slightly. She didn’t know his name, his birthday, his favourite tea, or whether he believed in stars or horoscopes. But something about him … reminded her of someone …
A young man she had been exchanging emails with for years now …
They called each other penpals, and that’s probably what they were. Words had passed between them like little paper boats, floating across years, without a single meeting, or even a real photograph …
Though she feels that he’s ‘full of emotions’, thoughtful, sometimes a little too serious, sometimes surprisingly light. He’s a practical young lad. And though she knew so little about him, nothing really concrete, she still felt like she knew him …
And somehow, seeing this boy at the bus window stirred up the memory of one of his old lines, one she never quite forgot: ‘If someone can’t read between the lines, you gotta unfold their blinds’ …
She had laughed when she read that. She smiled again now, under the faint flicker of a streetlight. And his presence stirred something, like déjà vu, like a soul remembering a face from a dream …
Her car was still. The bus beside her, alive with passengers. The boy at the window, lost in the sky …
And she … She almost wanted to wave, but she didn’t … Instead, she sat there, lost in her own musings
Soulmates cross lifetimes, meeting again and again, each time in a different form. Perhaps in one life, he was the brother her soul leaned on. In another, the friend who understood her silences. And maybe, in a life half-forgotten by time, he was the one her heart called home …
In this life, she found him in letters, digital now, yes, but no less tender. Somewhere beneath the playful tone and thoughtful replies, she wondered if fate was quietly weaving its magic …
She was still thinking …
After all, soulmates don’t always arrive with introductions … Sometimes, they just show up at red lights …
It’s not possible for you to see, feel, or understand How many times she has been unseen and unheard And still, she chose to show up …
It’s not quite possible for you to know What it takes to carry on When the world never learned to make room for her pain …
You see her laugh, light up a room, carry joy in her voice But you don’t see the weight behind it Every smile is a decision, not a default …
It takes quiet, relentless courage To choose hope after growing up in chaos, confusion and fear … To rise each day and still Believe in goodness, in light, is a strength many will never understand …
She isn’t just surviving She’s rewriting her story, one brave moment at a time That’s not just resilience That’s power …
I know you’ve been holding a lot lately, not just in your hands, but in your heart. You care so deeply, and it shows in all the little ways you’re trying to help, to listen, to stay steady. I see how much thought you’re putting into what might ease someone else’s pain, how to show up not just with love, but with wisdom …
You may never have the perfect words or solutions, and that’s okay. It’s not about fixing everything. It’s about being there, consistently, quietly, with care. That kind of presence does matter. That kind of love is enough …
It’s also okay to feel tired sometimes. To question if you’re doing enough. To wonder if your efforts are really helping. Just remember: your intentions are rooted in love, and love is never wasted. Rest when you need to. Trust that showing up with honesty and patience is a healing act in itself …
Keep going gently. You’re doing better than you think …
Even on the days when your strength slips away and your heart feels too heavy to carry, know this, it’s okay to rest, to feel, to fall apart, because your worth was never measured by how well you pretend to be okay …
Saying ‘It’s okay’ can become an invisible shield we wear to protect others from our truth, but healing begins when we let our silence speak, and allow ourselves the grace to not always be okay
Even nature does not hide its hurt; the sky weeps, the trees shed, the earth cracks, and in doing so, it finds its way back to balance. In embracing its own cycles of pain and release, nature teaches us that healing is not found in silence, but in allowing ourselves to feel, break, and begin again. So must we …
How many times I say ‘It’s okay’ But know that it’s okay to be not okay …
Light pours in like a gentle guest She stands where warmth meets wonder Paint in her hand, soft power in her stance The table glows with quiet intention Each colour catching a piece of the day …
Let Go, and Let Bloom Mindful Drawing Moments by Jian Bird Creates
It’s so satisfying to host sessions like Mindful Drawing Moments’ – what began on a quiet day with a simple act of curiosity. I invited a few willing souls to join me in the pattern artworks I usually create to calm my mind and return to myself. One participant became two, and slowly, word spread. That’s how ‘Mindful Drawing Moments’ was born: gently, organically, like something blooming in its own time …
Since then, these sessions have become spaces where self-help and creativity meet. Through themes like Kaizen, Kintsugi, Manifestation, Self-Love, and Mindfulness, each gathering offers more than just art, it becomes a mirror, a soft release, a shared breath …
Our recent sessions, themed ‘Let Go and Let Bloom,’ invited participants to reflect through drawing wildflowers, free, untamed, purposeful. Dried flowers from my mother’s garden were placed on the table, not just for beauty, but as a quiet symbol: that even after loss or struggle, something fragile and meaningful can still remain …
The way the participants picked up color, poured their thoughts into shapes, and shared reflections was deeply moving. There was no pressure to be an artist, only an invitation to be present …
We began with simple prompts, one that echoed was: ‘Never mind what they’. Almost all said: ‘think’. And so the letting go began …
From releasing judgment to choosing kindness, from holding space for others to forgiving ourselves, each voice in the circle added something honest and real. The drawings bloomed with color, but more importantly, so did the people …
The session closed with open hearts and softened edges. And with each event, Jian Bird Creates now offers a Certificate of Participation, a small reminder that showing up for yourself is something to honor …
Some things are worth waiting for Like the first drop of rain after a long dry day Or a flower opening when the sun feels just right … Love waits too, likethe moon behind a slow-moving cloud It doesn’t rush, doesn’t shout … But grows quietly, likeroots under the ground The heart keeps hoping, silently, day after day Like the sea touching the sand again and again Love returns when it’s ready And when it does, it feels like breathing again
Roksana Tales 