Five years ago, I left my job to work on a ship. After working as a junior doctor, I was willing to take the risk.1 for adventure, I boarded a ship in Singapore with 2, 000 passengers and crew. To my2 , the hospital was well equipped, with an X﹣ray machine and a blood analyzer.

As a doctor, I was3 for the 600 crew. Far from4 seasickness and sunburn, I had to deal with other diseases. The ship's medical centre was5 a floating emergency room, and we didn't have a team of specialists on hand for a second6 . With long and unpredictable hours, it required mental7 .

Many of the passengers were elderly. Heart attacks don't8 geography and emergency evacuations （疏散）were difficult to arrange. I recall one such patient, who was taken off the ship halfway through the Panama Canal. After a9 ride in an old ambulance, I was relieved that the patient10 long enough to arrive at the hospital in Panama City.11 , there were several unexpected benefits to the job. I regularly12 the passenger facilities. On rare days off, I13 as a tour guide on trips ashore.

Now, I understand being a ship doctor is not a job﹣it's a way of14 . One year at sea became two. I lost my career ambitions,15 I redefined happiness in my life.

When I was a child my father taught me five words that I've used all my life — in my acting career, as a mother, in my business activities. If I 1 that I was afraid of the dark, or if I seemed worried about meeting new people, Dad would say, "Stand porter to your 2 . "

A porter is a gatekeeper who stands at a door letting people in or out. Dad would get me to picture myself stopping 3 things — such as fear — at the door, 4 saying "Come in" to faith, love and self-assurance.

As an actress, before I went on camera, I'd make sure anxiety stayed out and confidence in my ability came in. As a mother, when I was anxious about my children, I would try not to let worry in but would 5 my mind with trust in them.

Of course, there were always times I'd 6 those words.

In 1972 my husband, Fillmore Crank, and I opened the doors to our own 7 in North Hollywood. This was a new business venture for us, and it was a lot more 8 and complicated than we had 9 .

We were on call 24 hours a day. Something was always going 10 . Electricity went on the blink (失灵), food wasn't enough, employees called in sick. Once, a flu epidemic suddenly left us with no maids. Fillmore gave me a choice: scrub (擦洗) floors or do the laundry. For 10 days I folded enough sheets to 11 the whole state of California.

Then there was the 12 crisis. The price of gasoline doubled, and tourism in California 13 . How could we fill our beds? What if we kept losing money? What if we failed? Fear and worry were sneaking in. But I caught them just 14 I stood porter.

I stood in the door of my mind and sent fear packing.

These days at the hotel, whenever fear tries to 15 , I just smile and point to the sign that reads "No Vacancy".

When I began to study flower arranging （插花）, I was slowly developing a deeper understanding of the 1 between all life. 

In our first class, my teacher said that flowers can 2 talk and that they each have their own 3 of being beautiful. They have "prana" life force, so you have to pay full attention to them, rather than 4 your own ideas of beauty on them. So I began to ask the flowers how they wanted to be 5 and what positioning would make them 6 most beautiful. I waited and listened. 

Even after the flowers had been 7 in the vase, I would discover sometimes that in the morning they had rearranged themselves during the night. Even if they were secured in the 8 , hey always seemed to b silently straining （尽力） t find their 9 place. 

At the same time, they were not 10 independent; they needed loving care. They were dependent on me, or whomever their 11 was for the day, to water them. Watching other people spraying water on the arrangements sometimes, I would feel so 12 by the scene. Small drops of water on the flowers touched the source of life and nourished the heart of beauty. 

This experience made me feel how 13 it could be, if our minds are set in the right way to water not only plants, but 14 , to treat all living creatures in a way that 15 them their right to be beautiful, in their own 16 and time. 

What we came to notice was that flowers could also 17 . Our teacher urged us to always 18 the flowers when we passed how beautiful they were and to thank them for sharing that 19 with us. 

When we made our arrangements with this kind of 20 , we found that the flowers remained beautiful and fresh for many more days than expected. 

It was a Sunday and the heavy storm had lasted all night. The morning after the storm, though, was beautiful: blue skies, warm air and a calm, inviting sea touching the shore gently.

My father realized it was a good day for fishing and invited my sister and me to go with him. I was only 14 and fishing had never been my thing, but I decided to go all the same. I'm so glad I did.

On the road to the harbour we could see the terrible destruction on the coast, but the harbour itself was in fairly good shape. After all, it was protected by the arms of a bay that had only one tiny channel to the sea. As we got on board, we noticed two big hums (脊背) in the distance.

On approaching them, we saw it was a mother whale with her baby. We couldn't believe it—there aren't any whales along the coast here. The storm must have driven them across the ocean into the bay, in which the still water was so badly polluted that nothing could survive.

The little baby whale—actually as big as our boat—was obviously stuck and could not move. The mother dived under the water and came up suddenly, making big whirlpools (漩涡) and waves. "She's trying to help her baby, but on the wrong side," my father said. At this point, my father moved our boat in a semicircle to the other side and, heading the boat towards the baby whale, pushed it gently. With our several gentle pushes the big hump turned over and disappeared under water. Then it swam up right beside its mum. They struggled in their desperate attempts to escape but missed the exit and started heading in the wrong direction. We hurried up to the whales and tried to lead them towards the bay channel. Slowly, they let us lead them, sometimes rising from the water right beside us to breathe—and to give us a trusting (信任的) look with those huge eyes. Once they hit their first part of clean water flowing straight from the sea, the mum gave us a wave with her tail and off they swam into the distance.

In the excitement it had felt like only a few minutes, but we had been with those wonderful animals for almost an hour and a half. That was the simple and lasting beauty of the day. Nearly four decades later, I still look back fondly to that golden day at sea.

Grief ran through the first decade of my career. I photographed stories about terrible topics: immigration, conflict, war. On the cover of my notebook in 2019, I wrote, "Discover the joy again." It was intended to remind me to play more.

Sometimes I'd get a rare assignment where I could breathe — for example, photographing an article on tea for an airline magazine. I took the job hoping to make interesting, almost movie images, but at the end of the day, I found I'd made nothing of the sort. Packing up my camera, I felt like a failure.

On the drive back to the hotel, I noticed heavy steam rising from a building up ahead. Arriving at the scene, I opened the car door — and realized it was a tourist attraction traditionally pulled by a steam engine. Then, out of nowhere, a figure ran toward me. I picked up my camera and quickly made three pictures. One was out of focus. One was poorly composed. But one worked.

When I submitted my pictures to the editor for the tea article, this one wasn't chosen to be published, but I knew it meant something to me. I had been looking for good luck in my own life. This photograph symbolized exactly that.

I was 27 when I first traveled to India after the sudden passing of my father. Over many months, with my best friend, I traversed India with no phone, with limited Internet, and with healing as my compass. I climbed mountains, swam in the sea, and lived in relief entirely.

As I learned to travel to some of the world's cities with the largest population, I began to see life with more color and magic. I permitted myself to walk aimlessly, with no goal but to observe, and each moment became a dance. If this journey taught me anything, it's that what comes next will bring its own magic.

Upon my arrival at Falconwood Apiary, Kaat Kaye is already engrossed in the meticulous inspection of the apian domiciles, oblivious to my arrival. I find myself privy to her soft murmurings directed towards the bees, their mellifluous drone resonating through the atmosphere, interspersed with her gentle words of encouragement and compromise.

Kaye was born with profound auditory impairment. Although she has the capacity to perceive sounds with the aid of auditory prosthetics, she often dispenses with them during her labors. "Acoustic sensations are alien to my experience," she elucidates. "I revel in the tranquility and stillness. In the company of bees, aural perception is superfluous. My concentration is heightened when not beset by incessant auditory distractions."

Adorned with naught but her cowl, apiarian instrument, and device for the emission of smoke, Kaye proceeds with a measured and deliberate gait. In contrast, I am excessively attired, having donned a comprehensive protective garment for our encounter. She advises me to shed the gloves I've brought along and directs me to a position that will minimize the agitation of the bees. Kaye's tender and cautious methodology instills a sense of calm in my presence among her charges. As our time together accrues, my admiration for Kaye's fervor for apiculture and the manner in which her auditory limitations have sculpted her distinctive methodology deepens.

In her vocation, she champions organic apicultural practices that minimize the utilization of chemical treatments. Moreover, she gathers all the requisite intelligence for the stewardship of the hives by depending on her non-auditory senses. Perhaps most notably, what renders Kaye an extraordinary apiarist is almost metaphysical. Excelling in her vocation is inextricably linked to adaptability, navigating the myriad uncertainties that emerge on any given day. Is precipitation excessive? Scarce? When will the flora reach full bloom? Will it yield a bountiful harvest of honey? She responds with alacrity, ensuring not to disrupt the bees' cadence and equilibrium.

"There is a profound, almost spiritual dimension to the craft of beekeeping," she remarked. "You cannot exert absolute dominion over them, akin to any element of the natural world, indeed. Some years bestow upon us an abundant honey harvest. Other years are fraught with adversity, resulting in the loss of half of the hive. There is considerable sorrow but also considerable delight, too, in simply toiling in the great outdoors with these sentient beings—a living, complex superorganism."