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The wings are a blur, yet the eyes are sharp with intent — the sunbird springs forward, suspended in the fragile space between stillness and flight. Around it, the ginger flowers stand rooted, unmoving, a mirror of the comfort zone I know so well, where routines keep me safe but stagnant. In this fleeting leap I see myself, torn between the security of what is already preset and the ache to rise, to risk, to test the air ahead. What if I miss, what if I fall short? And yet, what if this very hurt, this very stumble, is what teaches me to grow? The leap is not about certainty — it is about choosing motion over numbness, faith over fear.

The first feeling was a quiet reminder of how precious life is — a tiny scaly-breasted munia tucked deep between the branches, its patterned feathers blending with the play of shadow and light. She stayed still, hoping the photographers circling her safe haven would lose interest. This was her sanctuary, yet curiosity had crept in, and now every glance carried a question: should she stay hidden or take flight? The moment felt suspended, her small body holding the weight of an unspoken decision. What the image doesn’t show is the familiar pull of past and future, how fear of what has been and what might come can cloud the peace of the present. In trying to shield ourselves from the uncertainty ahead, we sometimes forget the safety we already stand in. Sometimes, survival means staying unseen

— but true peace lives only in the moment you are already safe.

In the heart of the jungle, high on a perch, it stared back.
I had chased it for nearly forty minutes — through heat, thirst, and shifting ground — camera heavy in my hands, breath light in my chest. Each time I approached, it slipped away.

Now, it no longer moved.
Daylight, harsh and unwelcome for a nocturnal soul, poured over its feathers. Fear may have lingered. Confusion, perhaps. But its gaze was steady — unflinching, even in discomfort.

It seemed to say:
Even when the light blinds you, the heat drains you, and the ground shifts beneath you — feed your focus.
Rely on the wings you were born with.
Stand tall in the space you have.
Your core strength will carry you, no matter the environment.

The barbet sits still, steady on its branch. Not moving, not rushing — as if a thought has pinned it in place.

I watch, and I feel the same pause within myself. Do I remain here, where I feel at peace, or do I push toward something else — growth, future, hustle? Do I run endlessly in search of a peace I might already be sitting with?

Perhaps this is what I’ve always wanted, yet it feels so near I can hardly recognize it. I doubt myself. Then I doubt even my doubt. Am I doing the right thing, or just circling around the question forever?

This is the human dilemma: we chase tomorrow while the quiet of today waits, already enough. Peace doesn’t need to be earned. It simply asks to be accepted.

Peace is perched exactly where we are.