Today, the 17th day of Ramadan, fell on Saturday, March 7, 2026. The morning sky was so blue, bright without a single cloud, as if signaling that body and soul needed a pause. Phoenix—that’s what I call myself here, in this daily journal—chose to rest. Not lazy rest, but the kind that recharges the fire when it sometimes burns too fast and too fierce

The morning began with hands pulling out wild grass in front of the house. The grass had grown lush, too lush, covering the drainage ditch. I pulled it out one by one; the roots ran deep, like bad memories that are hard to uproot. If left alone, heavy rain would later cause water to overflow into the house, soaking everything we protect with so much effort. A simple task, but it felt philosophical: clearing what blocks the flow, so life can keep moving without unnecessary floods

 After finishing with the grass, I sat for a moment, breath still a bit heavy. Then I entered the digital space, joining an online training on anti-bullying and violence against children. A heavy theme for me. I truly hate the word bullying. Especially when it happens in the place that should be a small paradise for children: school. I call it the garden of heaven. There, children should learn to love, not to fear. The training went smoothly, and I felt satisfied—not because of the certificate, but because it reminded me that every day I have a small chance to keep that safe space truly safe.

After the training, my youngest child came running, asking for orange syrup. His eyes sparkled, like a little kid who just discovered treasure. I made it for him—a full glass of warm water and bright orange color. He smiled wide when the glass reached his hands. That smile—simple, pure—reminded me that happiness sometimes only needs something sweet and warm.

Not long after, my second child asked permission to play at a friend’s house. Not far, just a few houses away. I allowed it, but didn’t forget to remind him: “Keep good manners there, okay? Respect other people’s homes, respect your friends.” The words sounded ordinary, but I hope they sink in deep. Good manners are an invisible legacy, yet the strongest one.

 I sat alone, opening the digital board. There was a video call from Mom. Her voice was soft but firm, asking for shallots and garlic for medicine. I talked to my wife; she happened to be heading out with her friends to shop. “Just deliver it on the way, okay?” I said. She nodded, and I stayed home, watching the kids while occasionally glancing at the screen.

 On the same screen, I joined an event on webbiesocial.com—an open call from 34 Gallery, theme “What’s in a Name”. I submitted a work titled Legacy of Holmes in the Soul of a Nation's Child. It’s not pure art. I’m not an artist born with a brush in hand. I’m just an ordinary teacher who sometimes writes, sometimes takes photos, sometimes only strings words from everyday life. That work actually stems from my note on March 5, 32nd Edition, Work Day 22. I told the story of inherited values—perhaps inspired by the sharp deduction, uncompromising justice, and relentless pursuit of truth like Sherlock Holmes, the legendary detective who always sees deeper than what appears on the surface. But more than that: how the soul of a child of this nation carries that legacy fire in silence, in the small daily struggles. I know the chances are slim. There are so many great artists out there. But I still pressed submit. Because optimism is like the phoenix’s flame: it dies, then rises again. Even if only ashes remain, there is still hope.

In the middle of uploading, my youngest came again, this time asking for warm tea to go with dry bread. I made it, served it with a smile. I watched him devour the dry bread and sip the warm tea.

 As afternoon approached, household chores followed: folding the dried laundry, sweeping the floor, tidying messy corners. This small house is like a mirror of the soul—if left cluttered, the mind gets cluttered too.

 Before I knew it, Maghrib was near. The phone rang again. Mom. This time asking for food, because she hadn’t cooked today. I talked to my wife. We had already planned to go out and buy iftar menu. In the end, we split tasks: I deliver food to Mom, she shops. I carried a container filled with chicken soup, fried chicken, fried fish, and some snacks—simple food made with love.

 That afternoon, the sun had tilted westward, its soft orange light slipping between buildings and roadside trees. I rode my motorbike, helmet strapped tight, the food container still warm, securely tied at the back. Along the way to Mom’s house, traffic was so dense. Several times it came to a complete standstill—cars stopping abruptly, horns blaring impatiently, other motorbikes weaving through gaps, and occasionally a rider grumbling quietly while wiping sweat. It’s normal in the late afternoon, especially in a city that never truly stops breathing. I sat on the saddle, hands gripping the handlebars tightly, waiting for the line to move inch by inch. My mind wandered: how life is full of small inevitable waits—like this traffic jam, like fasting waiting for Maghrib, like hope waiting for a call from 34 Gallery. But it’s precisely in that congestion that I learn patience—patience that isn’t surrender, but patience that keeps moving forward, however slowly, staying alert to potholes, avoiding small collisions that could turn big.

Finally, I arrived. I parked the motorbike at the edge of the narrow alley, turned off the engine, and lifted the container carefully. My legs felt a little stiff after holding the position for so long. Mom opened the door, her time-wrinkled face gave a faint smile. The thank-you that came out softly, but it was enough to make the whole day feel full. As if all the traffic earlier, all the vibration of the motorbike engine, all the grass pulled in the morning, all the orange syrup and warm tea I made for the children—everything was paid in full just by that smile and those two words.

 Life is never perfect. These sentences aren’t neat either. There are scratches, pauses, doubts. But that’s exactly where the meaning lies: in imperfection, we keep moving, keep burning, keep being the phoenix that rises from yesterday’s ashes.

And tomorrow, a new day awaits. Maybe with blue sky again. Or cloudy. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that the flame of spirit keeps burning.

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