This morning, as I drove my kids into the city through Chiang Mai’s winding traffic, we were a little late. The kind of late where you know you’re pushing it—checking the clock, muttering to yourself as the streets fill with motorbikes zipping in every direction like a school of startled fish. The weather has been strange lately for the winter dry season here in Northern Thailand. Rain has swept through in fits and starts, and today the clouds hung low and heavy, tinged a sulfur yellow with the weight of it. The sky felt off, a reminder that even seasons can be unpredictable.
But then, we turned north from Chiang Mai Gate, and everything changed.
The sun, breaking through a corner of the clouds, slanted sharply across the city. The faces of buildings, coated in light, stood out like something alive—angular edges picked out by bright warmth while their opposite sides fell into deep, sharp shadows. The light was so clear, the contrast so stark, that for a moment the chaos of traffic faded away. I told my older son, who studies architecture, “You know, this would make a perfect drawing challenge—just look at the light and shadow. The way it cuts and highlights, the depth it gives to everything.”
He agreed, though his acknowledgment was laced with the distracted tone of a teenager thinking about his own to-do list. Still, for me, that sight lingered—a fleeting moment of stillness and beauty amidst the daily noise.
By the time I dropped the kids off, I couldn’t shake it. That interplay of light and shadow wasn’t just something for architects and artists. It spoke to something deeper, something that felt profound even if I couldn’t quite articulate it yet.
The Balance of Light and Darkness
Years ago, in college, I studied religion. One class, in particular, stayed with me: Taoism, taught by my Zen studies professor, Dr. Carmine Anastasio. Taoism, with its elegant simplicity and timeless wisdom, offered ideas that still hum quietly at the back of my mind whenever I sit to write or reflect on life.
The central concept of Taoism is balance. Yin and Yang. Light and darkness. You can’t have one without the other because they aren’t opposites—they are two sides of the same whole. Light exists because of darkness, and within darkness, there is always a sliver of light.
This truth applies to life as much as it does to art. To relationships as much as it does to storytelling.
The Light and Shadow in Writing
As a writer, I’m constantly aware of the balance between light and darkness in my stories. The most compelling characters are flawed, carrying their own shadows while striving for moments of light. No hero is perfect, no villain is without depth. Without that balance, a story becomes flat—unrealistic, uninspired.
The same applies to world-building. When crafting alien worlds, civilizations, or intricate histories, I can’t simply fill them with utopia or endless despair. Life—real or imagined—comes with its dualities. A prosperous empire might carry the weight of exploitation. A backwater frontier world might be full of hardship but also brimming with freedom and opportunity. Even in the ruins of fallen civilizations, I often write in details of rebirth—life sprouting from the cracks of decay, hope emerging from desolation.
This balance gives stories their power. Readers connect to characters who struggle, who live in shades of grey, because we live there too.
The Light and Shadow in Relationships
The Taoist philosophy of balance has always resonated with me, not just in my writing but in life. Every relationship has its share of light and darkness. People are imperfect—ourselves included. There are moments when relationships feel like those slanted rays of light, warm and golden, cutting through the noise of the world. And there are times when shadows creep in—misunderstandings, flaws, disappointments.
But the truth, I’ve learned, is that you can’t have one without the other. The light is brighter because of the shadow it falls against. The most meaningful relationships are not those without imperfection but those in which we choose to accept the balance, to see the good even within the bad, and to remember that even in the darkest moments, light exists if you know where to look.
A Personal Journey
This morning, that fleeting contrast between light and shadow wasn’t just a visual marvel; it felt like a reminder. Writing, relationships, life itself—they all require balance. There are days when writing feels like the light—ideas flow effortlessly, and the story comes alive on the page. Then there are days of shadow, when words won’t come, and self-doubt settles in like a fog.
But if I’ve learned anything from both my writing and my life, it’s this: you keep going. You keep looking for the light even when it’s hidden. You accept the darkness not as a failure but as part of the process, a counterbalance that makes the light all the more meaningful.
As I sat down to write this post, I realized that’s what I’ve been doing for years. Finding light in small moments—whether it’s the beauty of sunlight on a crowded street in Chiang Mai or the thrill of creating a new alien world—and sharing it with others. Maybe that’s why I write at all: to give others a glimpse of that light, even when shadows fall heavy.
An Invitation to Reflection
Where do you find light in your life? Maybe it’s in a quiet morning, a conversation with someone you love, or a story that reminds you of hope. Maybe, like me, you see it in the oddest places—yellow clouds over traffic, or sunlight cutting across the faces of old buildings.
Whatever it is, hold onto it. Because even in the chaos, the uncertainty, the darker days, there’s always light if we choose to see it.
And in the words of the Tao, even within the light, a shadow keeps it real.
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