I came across this image again today—one I edited a few years ago. It was taken in New Zealand, on a beach where the sky touches the sea in an endless embrace. The figure is my daughter, walking toward the ocean, and at the time I placed her inside a bubble. I don’t recall exactly why I did it then—perhaps something about aura, about protection, about preserving innocence in a world that doesn’t always know how to hold it.
But today, I see it differently.
Today, I see the bubble as a symbol of how each of us lives. Encased. Contained. Protected. We go about our lives surrounded by thoughts, shaped by our experiences, wrapped in patterns we can’t always see. And even when we engage with others, when we love, live, share space and stories, there’s still this private sphere—this interior place—that remains ours alone.
What is that place?
Do we even take the time to visit it?
It’s quiet there. Settled. There’s something incorruptible about it, untouched by the noise of the day or the friction of the world. And when we remember it, really drop into it, something in us breathes again. Something essential.
Today was an unusually nervy day. I witnessed a car engulfed in flames—violently, unexpectedly—on the road. There were other smaller mishaps, fragments of imbalance throughout the day. But despite all that, or maybe because of it, my senses were sharpened. Instincts alive. And by evening, I made a choice—to turn the dial back inward. Meditation. Yoga. Stillness.
And everything changed.
It amazes me how much is possible when we consciously return to ourselves. To our breath. To the bubble within. There is always a way to start again.
May we all remember, even on the noisiest days, to return to that quiet center—where the world softens, and we meet ourselves again.