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Personal Moments & Random Views by Nainiu | 被射中の奶牛

Hey there! I’m Nainiu

  • The Solitary Road: Finding Ourselves on the Pilgrimage

    Today, I watched the movie “The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry” which is based on a novel, and it left me with a deep sense of reflection. It’s the story of a man who sets out on a seemingly simple quest—to walk—and in doing so, begins a profound inner journey.

    It raises a question: Why is a solitary, tranquil journey so necessary?

    We live in a loud world, always connected, always moving. We can get so lost in the noise that we lose ourselves. A pilgrimage, whether it’s across a country or just a quiet walk through an unfamiliar city, is a way to find our way back.

    The Outward Journey to the Inward Self

    What does a journey like this really change? It’s not about changing the final outcome of events. The world remains as it is. What changes is the person’s perspective of that world. The true meaning of things is not hidden deep beneath the surface; it is found directly in the thing itself, in the act of paying attention.

    Like Harold Fry, the farther one walks, the farther they travel from their old, stagnant life. But in another sense, the farther they walk, the closer they get to their real self. The walk is an external process, but it forces an internal dialogue.

    In this quiet, we begin to see ourselves. We are not who we think we are. We only truly recognize ourselves when we are reflected off the world—like seeing the ancient, enduring domes of a city against a modern skyline, or meeting the gaze of a stray cat that is perfectly, peacefully alone.

    Facing the Wounds of the Past

    A solitary journey is difficult because it leaves no room for distraction. We are forced to walk with our own thoughts, and often, with our own pain.

    A person cannot become better by hating themselves; the greatest tax on our energy is the constant war we wage against ourselves. Trauma is like a wild beast: the more you run from it, the more ferocious it becomes. But if you turn and face it, it often retreats.

    Life is cruel in that it offers no “restart” button. We cannot go back. Rather than drowning in old wounds, we must learn to see them as a gift. We learn to grow from suffering, to mature from failure, and to awaken from pain. This is the homework of a lifetime.

    The past, like our “native family” in psychology, is a concept meant to help us understand, not a tool for blame. No one’s past is perfect. But if we let resentment occupy all the space in our hearts, love has no room to enter. A life without that nourishment will eventually wither.

    Breaking the Loop of “Fate”

    There is a powerful way to understand destiny. “Fate” is your default reaction—the response your ingrained personality and habits will always produce when faced with a challenge. In this sense, “fate” is predetermined.

    But “destiny” or “luck” is what happens when you make a different choice. It’s the moment your reaction differs from your usual habits.

    This is how you change your destiny. You are not changing some grand cosmic plan; you are changing your own deep-rooted habits.

    Most people, by age 30, are in a way “dead.” They become a shadow of themselves, and the rest of their life is just a repetition of their past. Harold Fry’s pilgrimage was the start of him rewriting his tragic fate. He broke the loop.

    The Power of Clarity

    Life, in the end, is a simple process: recognize yourself, refine yourself, and willingly change yourself. A person who only looks outward is dreaming. Only the person who looks inward is truly awake.

    In this noisy world, we chase distant, unreal fantasies and lose the happiness that is right within our grasp. We have grand ideas but scoff at the small, simple actions required to achieve them. We watch our “summer dreams” turn to ash in the “winter” and forget how to light a new fire.

    Grief is not meant to be a frozen statue; it is meant to melt and flow. The only way for pain to retreat is for you to keep walking forward.

    There are as many pilgrimage roads as there are pilgrims. Each path is unique, walked step-by-step by the traveler. It cannot and does not need to be the same as anyone else’s.

    Perhaps you can start your change right now. It begins by simply putting one foot in front of the other. To change the world, you must first change yourself. I hope everyone can find, and begin to walk, their own pilgrimage road.

  • The Crystal Turning Point

    Snow is a peculiar state of existence

    We think of water in its other forms: as a liquid, it is shapeless, flowing wherever it is led. As vapor, it is an invisible, formless gas. In these states, it represents a kind of passive endurance—it is changed by its environment, obstructed and altered.

    But snow is different.

    The Resolve of the Crystal

    As a resilient crystal, snow is water’s most beautiful and resolute moment. It is utterly pure, beautiful, and cold. It is not passive; it has a defined form and a quiet strength.

    At the peak of the cold, the snow begins to fall. In a single night, it completely changes the world. The familiar landscape is hidden, and everything is made new, covered in a silent, white blanket.

    A Symbol of Renewal

    This transformation is more than just a change of scenery. It feels like a turning point, a definitive moment of change.

    It is a powerful symbol: that from the most extreme cold, a new beginning can emerge. It signifies that the worst has passed, and a time of peace and renewal is on its way. Looking at this still, white landscape, the world feels reset and full of a quiet hope.

  • The Field, The Sunset, and The Self: Finding Clarity in Nature

    Humans are social creatures. We build communities, we seek connection, and we thrive on interaction. However, it must be said that a moment of true tranquility, of deep contact with nature, is an equally fundamental need.

    Finding yourself in an open field as the sun dips toward the horizon, watching the light catch the edges of every leaf and stalk, is an unparalleled experience. It is a moment to empty oneself, to let the noise of the everyday fall away and gain a moment of profound inner peace.

    This is not escaping the hustle and bustle of the city or the perceived shackles of repetitive work. To frame it as escape misses the point. This is communication. It is a quiet dialogue with the world around us, a chance to re-center and reconnect with something more elemental.

    In this stillness, the mind is free to wander. The experience becomes a catalyst for deeper thoughts—about the essence of time and space, about the randomness of a seed landing in this specific field, and the choices that led us to stand here. We reflect on fate and destiny, and on the simple, beautiful act of living, gaining memories and experiences that shape who we are.

    I hope to have more opportunities to come here, to stand in this space and simply be. I especially look forward to returning and sharing this peace with my pets, to watch them play as the day ends.

  • The Grace of Expecting Nothing: A Philosophy of Cosmic Flow and Inner Freedom

    The Freedom of No Expectation

    You will eventually discover that life only begins to flow smoothly when you stop expecting anything from it. When you are no longer afraid of loss, you can no longer be controlled. Instead, you gain the freedom to navigate life with ease. Don’t be afraid to lose, because what you lose was never truly yours to begin with.

    You may think you are in control of your life, but in reality, you are merely walking in rhythm with the universe’s breath. Stars rise and fall; planets cycle through creation and destruction. In the same way, your joys, angers, sorrows, successes, and failures are all just fluctuations within this invisible, cosmic respiration.

    Our Cosmic Identity

    The American astronomer Carl Sagan once said, “We are a way for the cosmos to know itself.” This isn’t just romantic rhetoric; it’s a literal truth. The carbon, nitrogen, and oxygen that make up your body were all forged in the fiery explosion of ancient stars. Your very existence is a way for the universe to continue and experience itself.

    Life was never meant to be bound by excessive attachment. You don’t need to fight against fate, because you are a part of fate. The universe neither “loses” nor “possesses” anything; it simply flows, endlessly creating new forms. What you lose is merely one part of that flow. What you gain is only a temporary convergence.

    Flowing with the Uncontrollable

    The British physicist David Bohm proposed a concept called the “holomovement.” He argued that the universe is not made of separate things but is a single, undivided, whole movement. All existence is simply the unfolding and enfolding of this totality. A flutter of your heart, a new encounter, a painful separation—these are all just ripples of cosmic energy moving through you.

    When you desperately try to grasp a specific outcome, you are like someone trying to hold a river in their hands. It will inevitably slip through your fingers. But when you open your hands, you move with the water, and you find that it can support you, carrying you forward.

    The Greek philosopher Epictetus said in his Enchiridion that some things are within our control, and some are not. We control our thoughts, our actions, and our choices. We cannot control external events, the decisions of others, or the designs of fate. The root of most human suffering is the attempt to control the uncontrollable. Once you let go of that, you realize that true freedom isn’t found in the external world, but in your own inner non-attachment.

    A light cone illustrates the boundaries of causality and control. From our ‘Present Event,’ our ‘Freedom to Choose’ is limited to the Future Light Cone. The Past Light Cone is our ‘Unchangeable History.’ True inner freedom comes from acting within our cone of influence and accepting that all events ‘Outside of Influence’ are beyond our reach.

    Beyond Fear and Attachment

    When you no longer fear loss, you can no longer be controlled. This is because the root of all control is fear, and the root of all fear is attachment.

    In Pale Blue Dot, Carl Sagan described our Earth as “a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.” On that vast scale, all of our triumphs and tragedies, all our grievances and anxieties, are so small they are nearly transparent.

    From a cosmic perspective, your gains and losses are nothing more than the redistribution of energy. The universe never owes anyone anything; it is simply, and always, balancing itself.

    When you truly understand this, your heart will begin to quiet. You will no longer doubt yourself after a small setback, nor will you renounce life after a great loss. You begin to see that expectation is a fantasy we create, while moving with the natural current—letting things be—is the true nature of the universe.

    Reaching a State of Grace

    When Heisenberg studied the quantum world, he discovered that no particle can be perfectly predicted. It is both here and there; its state is one of permanent uncertainty. This is how the universe operates: unstable, uncontrollable, and yet, brimming with creativity.

    If you can learn to accept this uncertainty, you can find true peace within the chaos. When you stop trying to control the outcome, you leave space for new possibilities to emerge. What you thought was a missed opportunity may have been a course correction toward a greater purpose. What you thought was a devastating loss may have been the universe clearing a path for what is truly meant for you. What you mistook for an ending may, in fact, be a new beginning.

    The universe is in no hurry. Its rhythm is measured in eons. Your task is simply to feel, to experience, and to flow within your limited time, with a heart unburdened by attachment.

    We are governed by fear because we mistake an interruption in our plans for a threat, when it is really just the natural rhythm of life. To let go of expectation is not to give up; it is to trust. Trust that the universe has its own design, and that if you trust it, every step you take will be guided.

    When you stop resisting change and fearing loss, you will find that life becomes surprisingly smooth. This isn’t because the world around you has suddenly improved, but because you have finally stopped fighting against the current. When you expect nothing, everything aligns, for you are finally at peace in the flow.

    Don’t be afraid to lose. What you lose was never yours. On the grandest scale, you own nothing, and you possess everything. You are a convergence of stardust, a fleeting form of light, the universe borrowing your body to experience itself. When you know this, “letting go” is no longer an act of cold indifference. It becomes an act of profound compassion—a way of making peace with yourself, and with the universe, in the midst of its eternal flow.

  • The Mythical, the Mostly Orange: Da Huang

    He sometimes sleeps very deep.

    He is the most majestic, most baffling, and certainly the most orange creature currently residing in my humble abode: Da Huang.

    “Da Huang? Isn’t that just Mandarin for ‘Big Yellow’?” Yes. Yes, it is. And while it may lack the poetic flair of names like “Prince Marmalade the Third” or “Whiskerbottom von Fluffington,” it perfectly captures his essence: He is big. He is yellow-orange. And he makes no apologies for it.

    Da Huang wasn’t born with a silver bowl. He started his life as a tiny, squeaking stowaway—one of a litter born to a tough, scrappy stray mother who briefly graced my garden before vanishing back into the urban wilderness. I took him in, a little ball of fluff the color of a bruised tangerine. He grew up on my couch, on my lap, and occasionally, directly in the middle of my dinner plate.

    To the outside world, he is just another fat, common “tang cat”—the kind that dominates 80% of all internet cat content. But to me? He is the Lord of the Living Room, the Sovereign of the Sofa, and a truly indispensable member of the household. He doesn’t just live here; he is the reason we have this house. (I suspect he views me as the overly complex vending machine that occasionally dispenses tuna.)

    The Paradoxical Life of Da Huang

    The most remarkable thing about Da Huang is his dedication to the pursuit of absolute nothingness. He has truly mastered the art of leisure. If procrastination were an Olympic sport, Da Huang would be banned for using performance-enhancing naps.

    The Great Television Mystery:

    Sometimes, we share quality bonding time, usually in the evening. I’ll be watching a documentary about deep-sea bioluminescence, and Da Huang will hop up onto the ottoman, positioning himself squarely in front of the screen. He doesn’t just glance at the TV; he watches.

    His head will tilt slightly, his massive, luminous yellow eyes fixed on the moving pixels. He will sit there, motionless, through an entire episode of political commentary. The debate rages, pundits yell, and Da Huang looks intensely contemplative.

    Does he understand the complex geo-political nuances? Is he perhaps a secret policy expert, judging the effectiveness of trade tariffs? I am convinced that he believes the entire cast of “Game of Thrones” is just a series of very rude, loud squirrels who need to be dealt with. And every time a horse gallops across the screen, he swishes his tail with the gravity of a disappointed film critic. I will never truly know what goes on in that tiny, fuzzy orange brain, but I respect his dedication to the viewership.

    The Sacred Sleep:

    Watching TV is occasionally acceptable, but the true purpose of Da Huang’s existence is the attainment of peak restfulness.

    Da Huang doesn’t just sleep; he enters an alternate dimension of profound catatonic tranquility. He achieves a density of sleep so deep you could probably vacuum around him, call the fire department, or stage a marching band performance, and he wouldn’t budge. He can sleep upside down, draped precariously over the armrest, his tongue slightly exposed, looking like a forgotten, hairy piece of soft-serve ice cream.

    The only thing that penetrates his slumber is the highly specific, high-frequency sound of me opening the canned food cupboard two rooms away. His ears twitch, his eyes snap open with the speed of a ninja assassin, and he appears at my feet, demanding tribute, looking utterly refreshed and indignant that I dared disturb his sacred sabbatical.

    He can get along with my other pets well.

    Philosopher in Fur:

    When he is neither sleeping nor demanding sustenance, Da Huang is practicing the advanced discipline of Just Lying There.

    Leisure time at home.

    He finds a spot of strategic sunlight—a patch usually measuring exactly one square foot, requiring him to take up three square feet of surrounding space—and he simply lies. He doesn’t groom. He doesn’t twitch. He just exists, like a furry, slightly melted landscape feature.

    I often wonder, what deep existential questions occupy the mind of a creature whose greatest challenge is gravity? Is he pondering the origin of the kibble? Is he formulating a complex escape plan for the laser pointer dot?

    I sometimes approach him gently and ask, “Da Huang, what are you thinking about?”

    He doesn’t even bother to open his eyes. He just lets out a slow, rumbling sigh—the sound of a creature who has figured out the secret of life and found it to be incredibly exhausting.

    The answer, I’ve concluded, is probably nothing at all. He is simply vibrating at the frequency of perfect content, proving that sometimes, being a simple, ordinary, very orange cat is the highest form of enlightenment. And that, truly, is the best thing about my magnificent, philosophical stray, Da Huang.

  • Sleepy partner

    Meet Keke: My Long-Backed, Low-Riding Shadow

    I’m thrilled to finally introduce the co-star of this blog: my faithful, highly unusual companion, Keke. He’s one of the two furry overlords who run this house, but he’s the one who provides 100% of my current personal heating supply.

    Now, for the part that always makes people pause: Keke is a Corgi-Whippet mix.

    Yes, I can practically see the question marks floating above your head right now. You’re likely picturing a contradiction: the sleek, mile-a-minute elegance of a racing Whippet mashed together with the sturdy, low-to-the-ground stubbiness of a Corgi.

    And let me tell you, that wonderfully bizarre image that just popped into your brain? That’s exactly how magically ridiculous he is. Keke has the long, graceful torso and the narrow, inquisitive snout of a hound, but his legs appear to have been sourced from a separate, clearance-rack dog. They’re just a few inches off the floor, giving him the gait of an absolute champion waddle. He is, quite simply, an absurdity of canine engineering.

    My Dedicated Escort Service

    Beyond the visual humor, Keke’s most defining characteristic is his need for proximity. He’s not just “by my side”—he is my constant, furry shadow. If I stand up, he is immediately up. If I move from the couch to the kitchen, he performs a swift, low orbit around my ankles to ensure I make it safely.

    We’re talking extreme loyalty here. Keke is my dedicated co-worker, my reading buddy, and, yes, my official bathroom companion. There is no escape. The moment the latch clicks, I know he’s settled just outside the door, waiting patiently for my return, sometimes offering a soft sigh of reassurance. He takes his bodyguard duties seriously, even when the perceived danger is just a bottle of shampoo.

    The Ultimate Space Heater

    Right now, in the chilly transition period before the heating system decides to finally engage, this beautiful, low-slung weirdo has become my crucial source of warmth.

    He’s not just a dog; he’s a furry, living hot-water bottle. I can be wrapped in three blankets, but nothing beats the sheer density of a Corgi-Whippet mix wedged firmly against your back on the sofa. He generates the kind of internal heat only 30 pounds of deeply committed snuggler can achieve. He’s my natural furnace, and frankly, I’m using his warmth as much as he’s using my lap space.

    He’s weird, he’s needy, and he’s the best darn companion a person could ask for. Expect plenty more photos and stories of Keke (and his soon-to-be-introduced sibling!) right here. Welcome to our cozy corner of the internet!

    Every morning when I wake up to see this sleepy partner, I feel like it will be a nice day.

  • The Mugshot of a Master Chewer

    Nice shoes (image from Little Red Book).

    I saw this photo flash across my screen, from little red book, and I nearly spit out my tea. This absolute unit of a rabbit, splayed out on the cool tile floor, face buried in a corner like he’s having a profound existential crisis, but wearing tiny, adorable, impossibly useless slippers on his enormous back feet.

    This amusing and ridiculous masterpiece immediately took me back to my own memories of having kept rabbits for a long time.

    Meet Bartholomew, the Sentient Dust Bunny

    The Anatomy of an Accidental Destroyer

    The rabbits I’ve raised over the years—usually one at a time, each unique in their ability to charm and destroy—were defined by a spectacular contradiction. They are creatures of incredible, heartbreaking gentleness. With those long, radar-dish ears, massive kicking feet, and dense, quiet fur, they look like sentient dust bunnies designed purely for contemplation and petting.

    But don’t be fooled. Look closely at the scene in the photo. Tucked right next to this magnificent beast is the damning evidence: a table or cabinet leg, completely, violently ravaged. It’s not a bite; it’s an architectural demolition. The moment I saw that frayed wood, I felt a familiar, phantom pain in my wallet.

    The Quiet Reign of Terror

    The truth about keeping a rabbit is this: they are nature’s tiny, furry demolition crew. Despite not being true rodents, they share the same biological imperative to gnaw. It’s not malice; it’s maintenance. And they treat your home not as a sanctuary, but as a vast, stimulating landscape of chewable materials.

    My rabbits taught me hard lessons in cord management. I distinctly remember the Great Headphone Massacres of the early 2010s. I’d set down my expensive noise-canceling headphones for one single minute, only to return to find a beautiful, clean, 1-inch separation between the speaker and the plug. Snip. The execution was silent, precise, and utterly final.

    Then came the data cables, the phone chargers, and—the true heart-stopper—the mysterious chewing sounds emanating from behind the sofa where the actual electrical wires were located. It’s a constant battle between keeping the house aesthetically pleasing and making sure the entire perimeter is secured with hardened plastic conduits.

    The Mystery of the Slippers

    Now, back to the star of the show. I have so many questions about the footwear.

    Why is this massive, relaxed rabbit wearing tiny house slippers? Is this a desperate, last-ditch attempt by the human owner to enforce some kind of house rule? “Bartholomew, if you must sploot on the cool floor after chewing the dining room set, you WILL wear proper footwear.”

    Or perhaps the slippers are meant to thwart the chewing—an ingenious but clearly failed plan to keep his massive back feet from providing leverage for the next furniture attack.

    Whatever the reason, the slippers are the cherry on top of this crime scene. They turn a moment of typical rabbit naughtiness into a comical, high-fashion mugshot. He is flopped there, utterly spent from his day’s work of destroying valuable property, seemingly in a deep remorseful sleep—a sleep which I guarantee will end with a twitch of those radar ears and the silent decision to move on to the baseboards.

    We accept this chaos because the quiet companionship of these strange, gentle giants is worth the occasional destroyed appliance. But trust me, every rabbit owner who sees this photo knows exactly what came before the serene flop: the relentless, focused sound of wood turning into shavings.

    I hope that poor cabinet leg has seen the last of him. (Spoiler alert: it hasn’t.)

  • Beach Day with the Dynamic Duo

    This is a stunning image and a perfect introduction to your dynamic duo! We can highlight the humor by playing up their physical differences and their complementary personalities.

    Here is a long, funny, and engaging introduction to Keke and Nana:

    Keke (The Gazelle) and Nana (The Loaf of Joy)

    Look at this picture. Just look at the pure, unadulterated sunshine and dog happiness captured right here on the beach. This image, crafted by the magical digital wizards at Gemini from my actual dog photos, perfectly encapsulates the two creatures who currently run my life and are responsible for approximately 90% of my daily serotonin intake.

    Allow me to introduce the reigning champions of my heart, the most visually mismatched pair of best friends you’ll ever meet: Keke and Nana.

    Keke: The Towering Sensation

    Keke is the tall one—the elegant, long-legged specimen who looks like he should be modeling activewear on a mountain peak. He’s part Whippet (or so we assume, given the legs), part… something that grants his enormous, floppy, expressive ears.

    Keke operates at the emotional altitude of a teenager who just discovered punk rock. He is cautious, deeply sensitive, and believes that the floor is lava unless the exact moment calls for a full-speed sprint.

    On the beach, Keke is a blur. He doesn’t run so much as unfurl himself across the sand. He is the embodiment of graceful speed, capable of clearing twenty feet in two bounds. But he is also terrified of the small, foamy edge of the ocean wave. Watching his approach the water is like watching a highly trained secret agent attempt to defuse a puddle: all cautious steps, sudden retreats, and rapid head tilts that scream, “Is that water going to touch me?”

    He looks like a gazelle, but his brain is perpetually set to “Anxious Housecat.”

    Nana: The Low-Rider Legend

    And then there is Nana. The little one. The Corgi (Whippet mix, remember from the earlier post!), whose entire body seems to have forgotten the “legs” part of the instruction manual. Nana looks like a loaf of bread that suddenly grew a smile and decided to run a marathon.

    Nana has one defining philosophy: Life is short, run fast, and look adorable while doing it.

    While Keke is busy pondering the philosophical implications of the tide, Nana is bulldozing straight into the water, regardless of the wave size. If Keke is the elegant sprinter, Nana is the unstoppable, low-to-the-ground tank. She can generate impressive velocity despite her four-inch clearance, and she manages to look delighted while simultaneously tracking mud and sand all over everything I own.

    On this beach, Nana is the party organizer. She runs with a permanent, ecstatic grin plastered across her face, her short legs paddling furiously, scattering sand like a tiny, furry earthmover. She doesn’t just run; she churns.

    The Odd Couple Dynamic

    The real joy comes from watching these two operate as a team. They are the perfect comedy duo, a study in contrasts:

    • When they play chase: Keke has the top speed, but Nana has the cornering ability. Keke has to slow down for turns; Nana just pivots on her belly, using her low center of gravity like a canine drift car.
    • When they cuddle: Keke, with his long legs and tendency toward personal space, always acts too cool for school. Nana will simply launch herself, head first, into Keke’s side, treating her long, sleek body like a personal, highly mobile bolster pillow. Keke will sigh dramatically, but he never moves.
    • The Food Scam: Nana is the brains of the operation. She knows if she whines quietly, Keke will get nervous and back away from his bowl, assuming he did something wrong. Nana then calmly waddles over and attempts to finish both meals before I catch on. (Keke falls for it every time.)

    Together, they are the beautiful chaos that makes coming home the best part of the day. Keke brings the drama and the watchful loyalty, making sure I never leave his sight. Nana brings the unrelenting, joyous noise and the sand, always the sand. They are my tall, nervous gazelle and my sturdy, stubborn loaf of sunshine—and every perfect, sandy photo like this reminds me why they are the most important sources of happiness I could ask for.

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