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minh trí
fresh eyes on the miracle
Sapa landscapes. Vietnam, 2025
In the spring, I came to Sapa for the first time. A dense fog blanketed the land—I watched from the window while cradling my heart in the pit of my stomach as the driver deftly glided through the winding mountain roads, one hand on the horn the entirety of the journey. True to the Vietnamese sense of style and theatrics, the horn was—of course—a custom. It had reverb.
The van pulled into town, and I was thankful to be still. Stepping out into the vast grey sky, a sharp damp cold greeted me. My shoes wouldn’t stay dry, and the constant light sheet of rain chilled me to the bones. I had never experienced that kind of cold before. A jarring juxtaposition to the humid and stifling heat of the south.
The locals told me that during harvest season in late August to September, the rice fields carved out onto these hills turn golden, glowing in the sun. Golden as far as the eyes can see.
I trekked through the muddy rice paddies and dense bamboo forests. Their branches hung heavy, drawing up archways across the landscape, like shrines or portals. I stepped through many that day.
Sapa landscapes. Vietnam, 2025
In the spring, I came to Sapa for the first time. A dense fog blanketed the land—I watched from the window while cradling my heart in the pit of my stomach as the driver deftly glided through the winding mountain roads, one hand on the horn the entirety of the journey. True to the Vietnamese sense of style and theatrics, the horn was—of course—a custom. It had reverb.
The van pulled into town, and I was thankful to be still. Stepping out into the vast grey sky, a sharp damp cold greeted me. My shoes wouldn’t stay dry, and the constant light sheet of rain chilled me to the bones. I had never experienced that kind of cold before. A jarring juxtaposition to the humid and stifling heat of the south.
The locals told me that during harvest season in late August to September, the rice fields carved out onto these hills turn golden, glowing in the sun. Golden as far as the eyes can see.
I trekked through the muddy rice paddies and dense bamboo forests. Their branches hung heavy, drawing up archways across the landscape, like shrines or portals. I stepped through many that day.
Sapa landscapes. Vietnam, 2025
In the spring, I came to Sapa for the first time. A dense fog blanketed the land—I watched from the window while cradling my heart in the pit of my stomach as the driver deftly glided through the winding mountain roads, one hand on the horn the entirety of the journey. True to the Vietnamese sense of style and theatrics, the horn was—of course—a custom. It had reverb.
The van pulled into town, and I was thankful to be still. Stepping out into the vast grey sky, a sharp damp cold greeted me. My shoes wouldn’t stay dry, and the constant light sheet of rain chilled me to the bones. I had never experienced that kind of cold before. A jarring juxtaposition to the humid and stifling heat of the south.
The locals told me that during harvest season in late August to September, the rice fields carved out onto these hills turn golden, glowing in the sun. Golden as far as the eyes can see.
I trekked through the muddy rice paddies and dense bamboo forests. Their branches hung heavy, drawing up archways across the landscape, like shrines or portals. I stepped through many that day.
Sapa landscapes. Vietnam, 2025
In the spring, I came to Sapa for the first time. A dense fog blanketed the land—I watched from the window while cradling my heart in the pit of my stomach as the driver deftly glided through the winding mountain roads, one hand on the horn the entirety of the journey. True to the Vietnamese sense of style and theatrics, the horn was—of course—a custom. It had reverb.
The van pulled into town, and I was thankful to be still. Stepping out into the vast grey sky, a sharp damp cold greeted me. My shoes wouldn’t stay dry, and the constant light sheet of rain chilled me to the bones. I had never experienced that kind of cold before. A jarring juxtaposition to the humid and stifling heat of the south.
The locals told me that during harvest season in late August to September, the rice fields carved out onto these hills turn golden, glowing in the sun. Golden as far as the eyes can see.
I trekked through the muddy rice paddies and dense bamboo forests. Their branches hung heavy, drawing up archways across the landscape, like shrines or portals. I stepped through many that day.
Sapa landscapes. Vietnam, 2025
In the spring, I came to Sapa for the first time. A dense fog blanketed the land—I watched from the window while cradling my heart in the pit of my stomach as the driver deftly glided through the winding mountain roads, one hand on the horn the entirety of the journey. True to the Vietnamese sense of style and theatrics, the horn was—of course—a custom. It had reverb.
The van pulled into town, and I was thankful to be still. Stepping out into the vast grey sky, a sharp damp cold greeted me. My shoes wouldn’t stay dry, and the constant light sheet of rain chilled me to the bones. I had never experienced that kind of cold before. A jarring juxtaposition to the humid and stifling heat of the south.
The locals told me that during harvest season in late August to September, the rice fields carved out onto these hills turn golden, glowing in the sun. Golden as far as the eyes can see.
I trekked through the muddy rice paddies and dense bamboo forests. Their branches hung heavy, drawing up archways across the landscape, like shrines or portals. I stepped through many that day.
Sapa landscapes. Vietnam, 2025
In the spring, I came to Sapa for the first time. A dense fog blanketed the land—I watched from the window while cradling my heart in the pit of my stomach as the driver deftly glided through the winding mountain roads, one hand on the horn the entirety of the journey. True to the Vietnamese sense of style and theatrics, the horn was—of course—a custom. It had reverb.
The van pulled into town, and I was thankful to be still. Stepping out into the vast grey sky, a sharp damp cold greeted me. My shoes wouldn’t stay dry, and the constant light sheet of rain chilled me to the bones. I had never experienced that kind of cold before. A jarring juxtaposition to the humid and stifling heat of the south.
The locals told me that during harvest season in late August to September, the rice fields carved out onto these hills turn golden, glowing in the sun. Golden as far as the eyes can see.
I trekked through the muddy rice paddies and dense bamboo forests. Their branches hung heavy, drawing up archways across the landscape, like shrines or portals. I stepped through many that day.
Sapa landscapes. Vietnam, 2025
In the spring, I came to Sapa for the first time. A dense fog blanketed the land—I watched from the window while cradling my heart in the pit of my stomach as the driver deftly glided through the winding mountain roads, one hand on the horn the entirety of the journey. True to the Vietnamese sense of style and theatrics, the horn was—of course—a custom. It had reverb.
The van pulled into town, and I was thankful to be still. Stepping out into the vast grey sky, a sharp damp cold greeted me. My shoes wouldn’t stay dry, and the constant light sheet of rain chilled me to the bones. I had never experienced that kind of cold before. A jarring juxtaposition to the humid and stifling heat of the south.
The locals told me that during harvest season in late August to September, the rice fields carved out onto these hills turn golden, glowing in the sun. Golden as far as the eyes can see.
I trekked through the muddy rice paddies and dense bamboo forests. Their branches hung heavy, drawing up archways across the landscape, like shrines or portals. I stepped through many that day.
Sapa landscapes. Vietnam, 2025
In the spring, I came to Sapa for the first time. A dense fog blanketed the land—I watched from the window while cradling my heart in the pit of my stomach as the driver deftly glided through the winding mountain roads, one hand on the horn the entirety of the journey. True to the Vietnamese sense of style and theatrics, the horn was—of course—a custom. It had reverb.
The van pulled into town, and I was thankful to be still. Stepping out into the vast grey sky, a sharp damp cold greeted me. My shoes wouldn’t stay dry, and the constant light sheet of rain chilled me to the bones. I had never experienced that kind of cold before. A jarring juxtaposition to the humid and stifling heat of the south.
The locals told me that during harvest season in late August to September, the rice fields carved out onto these hills turn golden, glowing in the sun. Golden as far as the eyes can see.
I trekked through the muddy rice paddies and dense bamboo forests. Their branches hung heavy, drawing up archways across the landscape, like shrines or portals. I stepped through many that day.
Sapa landscapes. Vietnam, 2025
In the spring, I came to Sapa for the first time. A dense fog blanketed the land—I watched from the window while cradling my heart in the pit of my stomach as the driver deftly glided through the winding mountain roads, one hand on the horn the entirety of the journey. True to the Vietnamese sense of style and theatrics, the horn was—of course—a custom. It had reverb.
The van pulled into town, and I was thankful to be still. Stepping out into the vast grey sky, a sharp damp cold greeted me. My shoes wouldn’t stay dry, and the constant light sheet of rain chilled me to the bones. I had never experienced that kind of cold before. A jarring juxtaposition to the humid and stifling heat of the south.
The locals told me that during harvest season in late August to September, the rice fields carved out onto these hills turn golden, glowing in the sun. Golden as far as the eyes can see.
I trekked through the muddy rice paddies and dense bamboo forests. Their branches hung heavy, drawing up archways across the landscape, like shrines or portals. I stepped through many that day.
Sapa landscapes. Vietnam, 2025
In the spring, I came to Sapa for the first time. A dense fog blanketed the land—I watched from the window while cradling my heart in the pit of my stomach as the driver deftly glided through the winding mountain roads, one hand on the horn the entirety of the journey. True to the Vietnamese sense of style and theatrics, the horn was—of course—a custom. It had reverb.
The van pulled into town, and I was thankful to be still. Stepping out into the vast grey sky, a sharp damp cold greeted me. My shoes wouldn’t stay dry, and the constant light sheet of rain chilled me to the bones. I had never experienced that kind of cold before. A jarring juxtaposition to the humid and stifling heat of the south.
The locals told me that during harvest season in late August to September, the rice fields carved out onto these hills turn golden, glowing in the sun. Golden as far as the eyes can see.
I trekked through the muddy rice paddies and dense bamboo forests. Their branches hung heavy, drawing up archways across the landscape, like shrines or portals. I stepped through many that day.
Sapa landscapes. Vietnam, 2025
In the spring, I came to Sapa for the first time. A dense fog blanketed the land—I watched from the window while cradling my heart in the pit of my stomach as the driver deftly glided through the winding mountain roads, one hand on the horn the entirety of the journey. True to the Vietnamese sense of style and theatrics, the horn was—of course—a custom. It had reverb.
The van pulled into town, and I was thankful to be still. Stepping out into the vast grey sky, a sharp damp cold greeted me. My shoes wouldn’t stay dry, and the constant light sheet of rain chilled me to the bones. I had never experienced that kind of cold before. A jarring juxtaposition to the humid and stifling heat of the south.
The locals told me that during harvest season in late August to September, the rice fields carved out onto these hills turn golden, glowing in the sun. Golden as far as the eyes can see.
I trekked through the muddy rice paddies and dense bamboo forests. Their branches hung heavy, drawing up archways across the landscape, like shrines or portals. I stepped through many that day.
Sapa landscapes. Vietnam, 2025
In the spring, I came to Sapa for the first time. A dense fog blanketed the land—I watched from the window while cradling my heart in the pit of my stomach as the driver deftly glided through the winding mountain roads, one hand on the horn the entirety of the journey. True to the Vietnamese sense of style and theatrics, the horn was—of course—a custom. It had reverb.
The van pulled into town, and I was thankful to be still. Stepping out into the vast grey sky, a sharp damp cold greeted me. My shoes wouldn’t stay dry, and the constant light sheet of rain chilled me to the bones. I had never experienced that kind of cold before. A jarring juxtaposition to the humid and stifling heat of the south.
The locals told me that during harvest season in late August to September, the rice fields carved out onto these hills turn golden, glowing in the sun. Golden as far as the eyes can see.
I trekked through the muddy rice paddies and dense bamboo forests. Their branches hung heavy, drawing up archways across the landscape, like shrines or portals. I stepped through many that day.
Sapa landscapes. Vietnam, 2025
In the spring, I came to Sapa for the first time. A dense fog blanketed the land—I watched from the window while cradling my heart in the pit of my stomach as the driver deftly glided through the winding mountain roads, one hand on the horn the entirety of the journey. True to the Vietnamese sense of style and theatrics, the horn was—of course—a custom. It had reverb.
The van pulled into town, and I was thankful to be still. Stepping out into the vast grey sky, a sharp damp cold greeted me. My shoes wouldn’t stay dry, and the constant light sheet of rain chilled me to the bones. I had never experienced that kind of cold before. A jarring juxtaposition to the humid and stifling heat of the south.
The locals told me that during harvest season in late August to September, the rice fields carved out onto these hills turn golden, glowing in the sun. Golden as far as the eyes can see.
I trekked through the muddy rice paddies and dense bamboo forests. Their branches hung heavy, drawing up archways across the landscape, like shrines or portals. I stepped through many that day.
living, thus caring for both the living and dead. Cần Giuộc, 2025-2026
living, thus caring for both the living and dead. Cần Giuộc, 2025-2026
living, thus caring for both the living and dead. Cần Giuộc, 2025-2026
living, thus caring for both the living and dead. Cần Giuộc, 2025-2026
living, thus caring for both the living and dead. Cần Giuộc, 2025-2026
living, thus caring for both the living and dead. Cần Giuộc, 2025-2026
living, thus caring for both the living and dead. Cần Giuộc, 2025-2026
living, thus caring for both the living and dead. Cần Giuộc, 2025-2026
living, thus caring for both the living and dead. Cần Giuộc, 2025-2026
living, thus caring for both the living and dead. Cần Giuộc, 2025-2026
living, thus caring for both the living and dead. Cần Giuộc, 2025-2026
living, thus caring for both the living and dead. Cần Giuộc, 2025-2026
living, thus caring for both the living and dead. Cần Giuộc, 2025-2026
living, thus caring for both the living and dead. Cần Giuộc, 2025-2026
living, thus caring for both the living and dead. Cần Giuộc, 2025-2026
living, thus caring for both the living and dead. Cần Giuộc, 2025-2026
living, thus caring for both the living and dead. Cần Giuộc, 2025-2026
Sapa, 2025
In closing my reflection of a short time in this mountain town, I thought a lot about the children that will inherit this land–the lives that they will lead, what will change and what remains.
Today, my thought extends beyond the misty Sapa to the children of occupied Minneapolis to Palestine, Iran to Kyiv, from the detention camps of Texas border towns to Brooklyn, NY. May the future be kind and caring.
Sapa, 2025
In closing my reflection of a short time in this mountain town, I thought a lot about the children that will inherit this land–the lives that they will lead, what will change and what remains.
Today, my thought extends beyond the misty Sapa to the children of occupied Minneapolis to Palestine, Iran to Kyiv, from the detention camps of Texas border towns to Brooklyn, NY. May the future be kind and caring.
Sapa, 2025
In closing my reflection of a short time in this mountain town, I thought a lot about the children that will inherit this land–the lives that they will lead, what will change and what remains.
Today, my thought extends beyond the misty Sapa to the children of occupied Minneapolis to Palestine, Iran to Kyiv, from the detention camps of Texas border towns to Brooklyn, NY. May the future be kind and caring.
Sapa, 2025
In closing my reflection of a short time in this mountain town, I thought a lot about the children that will inherit this land–the lives that they will lead, what will change and what remains.
Today, my thought extends beyond the misty Sapa to the children of occupied Minneapolis to Palestine, Iran to Kyiv, from the detention camps of Texas border towns to Brooklyn, NY. May the future be kind and caring.
Sapa, 2025
In closing my reflection of a short time in this mountain town, I thought a lot about the children that will inherit this land–the lives that they will lead, what will change and what remains.
Today, my thought extends beyond the misty Sapa to the children of occupied Minneapolis to Palestine, Iran to Kyiv, from the detention camps of Texas border towns to Brooklyn, NY. May the future be kind and caring.
Sapa, 2025
In closing my reflection of a short time in this mountain town, I thought a lot about the children that will inherit this land–the lives that they will lead, what will change and what remains.
Today, my thought extends beyond the misty Sapa to the children of occupied Minneapolis to Palestine, Iran to Kyiv, from the detention camps of Texas border towns to Brooklyn, NY. May the future be kind and caring.
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