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.

I hadn't got exercise lately and felt a bit dizzy. I was a little1 . One of my friends invited me to show up to see a2 that they said would help me feel better. Little did I know that I was about to see something I would never forget.

They introduced a young3 , Mr Patrick Henry Hughes. He was4 onto the stage in his wheelchair and began to play the piano. His fingers5 across the keys as he made beautiful music. He then began to sing as he played, and it was even more beautiful. For some reason,6 , I knew that I was seeing something special. Ten minutes later, someone came on the stage and7 a video of Patrick Henry Hughes.

Patrick was born with no eyes and a tightening of the joints which left him8 for life. Before his first birthday, he9 the piano. On his second birthday, he asked to play it. His father was10 . "We might not play baseball, but we can play music together. "

Today, Patrick is a11 at university. His father attends classes with him and he has made nearly all "A" s. He is also a trumpet player of a band. He and his father do it together — they12 all the band practices and the half-time performance in front of thousands of people.

But even more than his13 musical talent, it was Patrick's attitude to gratitude that touched me. I will never forget that night, that smile, that music, but most importantly, that14 attitude to gratitude. Gratitude can change your attitude,15 your life forever.

I often wondered what it would be like to have cancer.

I didn't expect to find out, though, at last not for decades. I have always been healthy and strong; I regularly do hot yoga and swim two kilometers in a bay near my home in Sydney.

But now I know: it felt as if I was carrying a baby. Tumors (肿瘤) that silently grew inside me suddenly became bigger one weekend.

Then, one Saturday in June, I was struck with sharp pain and ended up in the hospital.

My doctor said it might be very serious. I spent two weeks waiting for the operation, not knowing if I'd live to the end of the year.

In the days before the operation, I turned off my phone and computer. I prayed so hard that I grew unnaturally calm.

The operation lasted five hours. The mass was fully removed, but it was unexpectedly complicated. I was in special care for eight days, in the wires, machines, with pipes in my lungs and liver.

Luckily, the operation was very successful and I am slowly growing stronger. I am walking upright again and waking without great pain. I can now drive, and am preparing to return to work. My prognosis (预后) is good, but I will need to live with the fear of return.

Everyone suddenly seems consumed with foolish worries. I have a different idea about the complaints posted by some Internet users who had the flu, were upset by the upcoming exams or burdened by work. I want to scream: BUT YOU ARE ALIVE! Alive! Each day is a gift, especially if you are upright and able to move with ease, without pain.

I'm still struggling with what all of this means. But in this short time, a truth became even clearer to me.

We should not have to move to the woods like Henry David Thoreau to "live meaningfully". It would be impossible and frankly tiring to live each day as if it were your last. My doctor asked me a few days ago how I became so calm before the operation. I told her: I prayed; I locked out negativity and drew my family and friends near; I tried to live meaningfully.

She said, "Actually you should do that for the rest of your life."

I've had many opportunities to experience living in a foreign culture, but my first experience came in an unexpected place—my own country. When I was 20, I got an internship (实习职位) in New York City. It was my first time to 1 outside of my home state of Texas.

With my move north came culture 2 . I grew up in a big city in Texas. But it was no comparison to the tightly 3 New York with their 8 million citizens. I was used to life at a 4 pace; New York moved fast. The saying is true—this city never 5 . I had to adjust.

My first reaction was fear. Fear I would 6 at my new internship in the 54-storey office building. Fear of getting lost on the subway. Fear that the locals wouldn't have 7 for my frequent moments of confusion. My 8 ranged from reasonable to silly. But I 9 my fears and kept trying.

I learned quickly never to 10 a New Yorker always speaks English. New York is home to people of all walks of life, from all corners of the world. At weekends, I would spend hours 11 along Canal Street in Chinatown—the closest I'd ever been to an 12 country.

By the end of my internship, I was a little older, a little wiser and sick of big city life. I 13 the skyscrapers, tourists and the high price I had to pay for a cheeseburger and fries. But I had 14 , too. I was quicker, smarter and more independent. I knew I would miss that feeling of having the world right at my doorstep. But it was good 15 for the life of travel I'd soon begin.

On their {#blank#}1{#/blank#}（arrive）in Toronto ，Li Daiyu and her cousin spent a few hours touring the city and having dinner with Lin Fei ， {#blank#}2{#/blank#} was Li Daiyu's mother's old schoolmate. She told the girls there were a few more Chinatowns in the Greater Toronto Area and there were many Chinese people  {#blank#}3{#/blank#}（live） in Canada. Therefore ，they could get all {#blank#}4{#/blank#}（kind）of great food there from all over China.

At night ，the train left late and arrived in Montreal early the next morning. {#blank#}5{#/blank#} surprised the girls was that all the signs and advertisements {#blank#}6{#/blank#}（be）in French and many people spoke English with {#blank#}7{#/blank#} accent. As their train wouldn't leave until evening ，they spent the afternoon  {#blank#}8{#/blank#}（go）around the city. When they sat in a restaurant ，a young man named Jean-Philippe joined them. He told them something about the city and hoped they would stay a little {#blank#}9{#/blank#}（long）to visit wonderful sights of the city.

On the train towards the province of Nova Scotia ，the cousins dreamt {#blank#}10{#/blank#}（happy）of the beautiful cobblestone streets ，old brick buildings ，and the red maple leaves of Montreal.

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.