The Whalers' Cottage

20/01/2026

Last night, we stood on the hilltop behind the farm, wrapped in silence and cool air, waiting for the sky to speak. And it did.

The heavens ignited in vivid flashes of pink, red, and green, ribbons of light dancing gently across the stars as a powerful solar storm pushed the aurora into extraordinary visibility. Strangely, our camera captured the colours far more vividly than our naked eyes could — revealing layers of beauty we only truly understood later on the screen.

Still, even without the full intensity of colour, the moment felt unreal — as if the universe had briefly opened a hidden door just for us.
We watched in quiet awe, hardly daring to move, afraid the moment might fade if we breathed too loudly. Cameras recorded the light, but our hearts recorded the wonder.
Some nights stay with you forever. Last night was one of them.

19/01/2026

“Mōrena” is the Māori word for good morning.
It’s such a simple greeting, yet it carries warmth, respect, and a quiet sense of belonging. In New Zealand, hearing “Mōrena” feels much like hearing a friendly “morning” in English — but with an added depth, as if the word itself acknowledges the land, the people, and the day that is beginning.
I’ve grown to love how Te Reo Māori flows so naturally in everyday life here. Each word feels less like a translation and more like an invitation — to slow down, to listen, and to connect more gently with the place I now call home.
So this morning, instead of rushing past the day, I paused and let the word settle on my tongue.
Mōrena.
May the day unfold kindly, for all of us. 🌿

18/01/2026

I was recently given a wall calendar by a Singaporean friend, and I decided to hang it in a place where I would see it every day. More than just marking time, it quietly reconnects me with the rhythm of traditional Chinese festivals, all guided by the lunar calendar.

As I flip through the months, a soft nostalgia settles in. It reminds me of my childhood, when these calendars were often given away at the end of the year by the local kit ai tiam — the humble neighborhood grocery store. Back then, receiving one felt almost ceremonial, even though it was free. It carried the promise of a new year, new beginnings, and familiar festivals waiting patiently ahead.
In those days, the calendar was not just for counting dates. It told us when Qing Ming arrived, when the Mid-Autumn moon would be full, when the Lunar New Year would return with its red packets, firecrackers, and family gatherings. It quietly taught us how time was measured not only in days, but in traditions.

Now, living far from those streets and shops, this simple calendar becomes a bridge — between past and present, between here and there. It reminds me that while places change and we grow older, some rhythms of life remain beautifully constant.
Perhaps that is the quiet power of a calendar: not just to remind us of what is coming, but to gently return us to who we once were.

15/01/2026

I look at a small Wabi-kusa that I created last year, resting in its ceramic plate, and somehow, I see my own life reflected within it. In its early days, it grew eagerly — fresh, impossibly bright, reaching upward with the urgency only youth understands. Later, some moss softened, some edges faded, yet the whole form became calmer, more grounded. I realised then: nothing was lost. It was only transformed.

Wabi-kusa does not chase perfection. It accepts uneven growth, quiet decay, and gentle renewal as parts of the same breath. It reminds me that ageing is not a decline — it is a change of expression, a different vocabulary for the same story we have always been telling.
We are not meant to stay young forever, just as plants are not meant to remain in a single season. There is a kind of violence in resisting what wishes to unfold naturally. The moss knows this. The stone knows this. Somehow, I am only learning it now.

Takashi Amano, the master aquascaper who introduced Wabi-kusa to the world, believed that nature is the true artist. His aquariums were never about control, but about harmony — allowing water, plants, light, and time to compose their own quiet poetry. He taught us that our role is not to dominate nature, but to arrange a space in which her genius can reveal itself.

Perhaps ageing is nature’s way of signing her work upon us — each line, each softening, another brushstroke in a painting that was always meant to change.

14/01/2026

Remember the leek flower bulb I saved a couple of months ago? I kept it for its seeds, not knowing it would still be blooming quietly just outside my window today. Its soft greenish white blossoms feel especially meaningful now, as the Lunar New Year approaches — a season when we honour renewal, continuity, and hope.
Leeks belong to the Allium family, alongside onions, garlic, shallots, and Chinese leeks. Though different in taste and use, they share the same roots — much like families gathering again at New Year, each carrying their own stories, yet bound by origin.

The edible part of the leek is the bundle of leaf sheaths, often mistakenly called a stem. It may look simple, but in Chinese culture, the leek carries symbolic blessings. Its long, upright form represents growth and perseverance, while its fresh green colour echoes prosperity and new beginnings.
Chinese leeks are especially cherished during the Lunar New Year. They appear in festive dishes not just for flavour, but for meaning — wishing for longevity, harmony, and a year that continues to grow in the right direction.

Watching this single plant still blooming by my window, I feel a quiet gratitude. It reminds me that blessings do not always arrive loudly. Sometimes, they bloom softly, patiently, teaching us how to welcome a new year with gentleness and faith.

13/01/2026

Our lunch was hurried by a one-hour parking limit, so we wandered into a mall café and ordered our coffees. When my latte arrived, I paused — surprised and quietly delighted by the barista’s small work of art floating on its surface. A sunny smiling face.

The delicate pattern felt almost like calligraphy, drawn not on paper but on liquid. For a brief moment, an ordinary cup of coffee became something quietly poetic.
Yet its beauty was never meant to last. With the first sip, the design slowly dissolved, returning to simplicity. And somehow, that impermanence made it even more beautiful.
Latte art reminded me of a gentle Zen truth:
Not all art is meant to endure.
Some art exists only to be noticed, appreciated, and softly released.
In a world that constantly asks us to preserve, capture, and hold on, this small moment taught me the grace of letting go — and finding beauty in what quietly disappears.
Sometimes, a cup of coffee is more than just a drink.
It is a fleeting lesson in presence.

Here's my Haiku challenge :

Milk swirls on still cup
Brief calligraphy of light
Fades — yet leaves its peace.

12/01/2026

Not very often do we meet another semi retired Singaporean couple who have come to Christchurch to stay. And when we do, there are always migrant stories to share — stories of leaving, arriving, adapting, and quietly rebuilding a sense of home in a new land.
Over coffee and simple meals of Wat Tan Hor Fun with silky egg gravy and stir-fry Kueh Teow in a small cafe, conversations flow easily and warmly. We laugh about our accents that never quite go away, our persistent cravings for familiar food, and the little cultural habits we still carry with us, often without even realising. We talk about the courage it took to start again at this stage of life, the small victories along the way, and the deep gratitude we feel for the slower, gentler pace of life we now enjoy here.

There is something profoundly comforting about meeting people who understand without needing much explanation. People who know, truly know, what it means to miss a place deeply yet deliberately choose another. People who carry two homes in their hearts and have learned to honour both.
These conversations remind me that we are not alone in this journey. That others have walked similar paths, faced similar uncertainties, and found their own way forward. There is a quiet solidarity in this shared experience that feels both rare and precious.

Moments like these remind me that migration is not just about changing countries or addresses. It is about weaving new friendships, creating new memories, and discovering new meanings in the life we are now living. It is about finding unexpected connections in unexpected places, and realising that home can be built wherever people truly understand you.

And I am quietly, deeply thankful for these rare but beautiful encounters that make this chapter of our lives feel a little less foreign and a lot more like home.

09/01/2026

A scorching day in NSW, as I made my way to the airport.
The air feels heavy, the sky a muted blue, and the wind carries a quiet unease.
As I step outside, the heat is not just on my skin — it presses into my thoughts. I think of the bushfires burning across Victoria and NSW, of families watching the horizon, of firefighters standing bravely between flame and home, of animals searching for shelter in landscapes that once felt safe.
Days like this remind me how fragile our seasons have become. Summer no longer feels gentle or playful. It feels sharper, louder, more urgent. And yet, in the middle of this fear, I also feel gratitude — for every person helping, every neighbour checking in, every quiet act of kindness that doesn’t make the news.
Today, I pause for those who are affected. I hold space for the loss, the courage, the exhaustion, and the hope. I remind myself not to take cool evenings, safe homes, or clear skies for granted.
If you are in a fire-affected area, please stay safe. If you are helping, thank you. And if you are watching from afar, may we all remember to care — not just when the flames are near, but always.
Sending gentle thoughts to Victoria and NSW today.

08/01/2026

I'm looking at a sketch I made during a visit to Singapore many years ago, and it's bringing back such vivid memories. The drawing captures the distinctive architectural style of the traditional Peranakan houses that are so characteristic of neighborhoods like Joo Chiat, Katong, and parts of Geylang. These shophouses, with their ornate facades, colourful tiles, and intricate details, always fascinated me during my time there.
What strikes me now, looking back at this sketch, is how these buildings represent such an important piece of Singapore's cultural heritage. The Peranakan community's influence is embedded in every decorative element—from the carved wooden shutters to the ceramic motifs that adorned the walls. I remember walking through those streets, completely captivated by the way sunlight played across the pastel-coloured exteriors.

It's heartening to know that many of these historic buildings have been carefully preserved, even as Singapore has continued to develop and modernize. Of course, some areas have inevitably been redeveloped over the years, which makes me appreciate this sketch even more. It's like a personal time capsule, capturing not just the architecture itself, but also a moment in my own journey and my connection to that beautiful city. These old sketches have a way of transporting you back, don't they?

06/01/2026

Lately, I've felt a quiet unease as I look at the books on my shelves and stacked on the floor. I'm decluttering at this stage of my life, learning to let go—and with that comes the question of how long these books will stay with me before they find their way back to the thrift shops where many of them began.
I know ebooks are cheaper, lighter, easier—the practical choice in every measurable way. But my heart still leans toward paper. I love walking into a bookstore or library, turning pages, feeling the weight of a book settle into my hands. There is a quiet magic in wandering the aisles, fingers grazing spines, discovering a story I didn't know I was looking for. That moment of connection—when a title catches your eye, when you open to a random page and find yourself pulled in—can't be replicated by scrolling through thumbnails on a screen.
Some of the books I treasure most are old ones—found for a dollar at St Vincent de Paul, their spines cracked and covers faded. Their pages have been softened by time and touch. They carry traces of other lives, other readers, other moments. Someone underlined a passage that meant something to them. Someone dog-eared a page they wanted to return to. Long before these books came to me, they belonged somewhere else, to someone else, and they mattered.
A screen can hold words, thousands of them, but not this feeling—not the weight of history, not the sense of holding something that has traveled through time and hands to reach you.
For now, these books rest with me—quiet companions in a season of simplifying, witnesses to this particular chapter of my life. One day they'll move on again, finding their way to another shelf, another reader, another moment of connection. It's a journey that never really ends. And perhaps that's the real beauty of physical books—they outlive us, carrying forward not just their stories, but ours too.

06/01/2026

03/01/2026

"Time moves slowly but passes quickly." – Alice Walker
A week into the new year, and it already feels like time is slipping through my fingers.
They say time feels faster as we age—fewer novel experiences, more routine, and each year becoming a smaller fraction of our lives. Our brains process fewer new memories, making days seem to skip by compared to the vivid, endless summers of childhood. The remedy? Create new experiences, break routines, build richer memories.

This past week with family has been a gentle reminder that life isn't meant to be rushed through like a checklist. Real meaning lives in togetherness, in presence, in the deliberate choice to savour rather than hurry past. I'm deeply grateful for my family—for their patience, their love, their willingness to simply be together—and for friends who continue to enrich my days, whether near enough to embrace or connected across distances.
There's something profoundly nourishing about choosing slowness in a world that constantly asks us to speed up. About noticing afternoon light falling across a table, the comfort of familiar voices, the luxury of time given freely to what matters most.
As we step into this new year, my wish for you is simple:
May your days feel spacious rather than crowded. May your travels—across continents or just to your favourite local spot—be meaningful and restorative. May your home be filled with warmth and laughter. And may your heart be at rest, finding beauty in ordinary moments and joy in the art of living a little more slowly, a little more intentionally.
Here's to presence over productivity, depth over speed, and all the quiet grace this year might hold. ✨