Today’s post takes me back to Myanmar, 2016, to a moment behind the monastery walls. I was lucky enough to wander past the formal areas into a quieter place, where the novice monks were bathing. Buckets of water, laughter, wet tiled floors, and the innocence of youth filled the space.
I had my camera out, and this boy—this young monk—noticed me just as he poured water over his head. He stopped and laughed, really laughed. A laugh full of life, not bothered by being photographed or by the ritual of bathing in his monk’s cloth. Just there, present, joyful.
And I kept thinking: What makes someone so young choose this path? Or is it chosen for him by family, tradition, necessity? I’ve seen these monks walk the streets with their bowls, collecting rice, never asking, just receiving. They walk with such grace and presence. And their lives, by choice or by structure, are stripped down to almost nothing—just a robe, a bowl, maybe a toothbrush, and a bed.
In a world that pushes accumulation, what does it mean to choose nothing? What kind of inner space does it create when you’re not constantly distracted by things? I wonder what they dream about. I wonder if that boy still laughs the same way.
There’s so much we don’t know about the lives of others. But sometimes, one smile, one bucket of water, and one shared moment across a lens is enough to feel something true.