Now, imagine that lotus not resting placidly on the water’s surface, but soaring .

Because the soaring was never the destination. The soaring was the proof of life.

I met a woman once in the highlands of a forgotten province. She kept a single red lotus in a glass vase on a windowsill that faced east. The valley below was a war zone of progress—cranes eating the skyline, highways slicing through rice paddies.