Outside gate number 5 of Guting MRT station, I see a monk dressed in gray robes with a bowl in her folded palms tucked close to her belly. I notice her in passing. I am always in a hurry to be somewhere else. She is never in a hurry. She is where she is, gently treading the ground beneath her feet, eyes gazing vaguely in the distance, and her mind turned inwards. If there are landmarks and places that anchor our ships, floating on the vast cosmic ocean without a lighthouse in