lifepath

Waiting with Folded Wings

“He’ll join in five minutes,” the coordinator whispered, eyes fixed on her phone.

The room was already full. Forty chairs. Forty expectant faces. My slides were ready. My microphone was clipped. Five minutes stretched into ten. Someone in the front row adjusted his notebook. A woman near the aisle checked her watch. I stood there, holding a marker I didn’t need, rehearsing an opening I suddenly didn’t believe in.

I’ve done this hundreds of times. Boardrooms in different cities. Workshops with ambitious teams. Executive rooms where the air smells faintly of carpet cleaner and authority. Normally, I move easily into those spaces. I know how to carry the room. I know how to make people lean forward.

That morning, I couldn’t.

4

The Space Between Pain and Suffering

It was a small moment, almost forgettable.

I was sitting alone in my car outside a familiar café, engine off, phone in my hand, watching people drift past the windshield. Office-goers with hurried steps. A young couple arguing softly. An older man waiting patiently for someone who seemed late. I wasn’t waiting for anyone. I had arrived early for a meeting and decided not to rush inside.

I stayed.

There is something honest about these in-between minutes. They don’t demand productivity. They don’t carry expectations. They simply exist.

3

The Lamp Within

As I near the twilight curve of life,
memories glow—half ember, half flame.
Once, the street would echo with laughter and clang,
vessels clattering by the public tap at one a.m.,
tiny hands waiting in line, slick with sesame oil—
the ritual to rinse away bad luck,
the dawn bath, the race to light the sky
before the sun could claim the first spark.

Now, the oil burns inside screens—
WhatsApp greetings, pixel lamps,
and faces that flicker, not quite near, not quite gone.
Children and their children dream elsewhere,
and my mother, in her quiet nest,
still lights her lamp the old way,
its glow steady, refusing to learn Wi-Fi.

I sit by the balcony’s hush,
wondering—
is it the spark that’s changed its hue,
or have we traded the warmth of hands
for the hum of notifications?

The glitter fades faster than my breath,
yet somewhere deep within,
a small flame endures—
not dissolving,
just transforming—
from the crackle of fireworks
to the silence of light.
2