Old Man Drinking Coffee

#2025-0702

This afternoon, I felt a little bored, and all of a sudden, I thought of ChatGPT — a smart machine, or device, with which I could "talk" to kill time. I hoped that if I spoke English to it the whole time, our conversation could be a good chance for me to practice speaking English — even though it (the free version I use) always replies in printed words, with no sound!

However, just as I got started, I saw an intriguing line like this:

請以文藝復興風格創作一幅火星探測器的繪畫。使用明暗法和暖色系色調等技巧。

I didn’t want it to produce a picture of a Mars rover for me. Instead, I wanted it to create a painting of an old man drinking coffee… in the afternoon. It would be nice if it were made in the style of the Renaissance, though.

Yes, it was afternoon now, and I myself am literally a senior being. I thought it quite interesting to have this AI serve me with an image of an elderly figure enjoying a cup of coffee — in this quiet, somewhat boring, but poetically dreamy afternoon.

In less than half a second, the first painting appeared (see Image One below): The old man, holding a cup of something in his right hand, his left hand touching the saucer on the table, looked rather lonely or even miserable. You couldn’t see anything else in the painting except the gloomy walls in the background.

“Would you add a vase of flowers to this painting? Let them stand on the table!” I tried to enliven the image.

The second painting appeared just as quickly (see Image Two below): A good-looking vase with colorful flowers blooming from it was now on the table. I felt a bit happier, but not truly satisfied. So I said, “Thank you for the flower vase — you’ve done a good job. But if there were a window in the back, and through the window I could see some mountains with white clouds floating in the sky, that would be more interesting and meaningful.”

Then, once again, in less than half a second, the third painting was produced (see Image Three below): I noticed that not only had a window been added to the painting, but the old man’s facing direction had also been adjusted slightly.

Now I was excited. I asked the smart AI painter to add some musical notes somewhere in the picture. However, this time it told me:

"You've hit the free plan limit for image generation requests. You can create more images when the limit resets in 720 hours and 0 minutes."

It also said:

"If you need, I can still help describe how the image would look with musical notes added, or assist you with other creative ideas in the meantime."

“Yes, please,” I replied.

Then it provided a description of how musical notes could be artistically added to the painting. I didn’t care much about the description, but a new idea struck me. I said, “Oh — if you can write a short story that goes with this picture, it will certainly be very much appreciated.”

= = =

Here’s the story created by the smart and clever AI helper:

The Afternoon Etude

Every day at three, Mr. Lin sat by the window with his cup of coffee—always black, always quiet. The world had grown softer around him: the hum of traffic now distant, the flowers on the table slowly losing their bloom, and the clock ticking more gently than it used to.

He never needed much—just warmth, light, and the view. Outside, the mountains stood like old companions, and on a clear day like this one, white clouds gathered like sheep returning home. Their slow drift reminded him of lullabies he once played in his youth, when his fingers were still swift across the keys of an upright piano now long gone.

There were no photographs on the wall. He said memories didn’t need frames—they only needed music.

As the steam curled upward from his cup, so did imagined notes. They rose in silence but carried melodies only he could hear. A treble clef nestled near the bouquet of fading chrysanthemums. A dotted quarter note hovered just above the sill, nearly touching the sky.

He smiled—not because of any grand event, but because something deep inside, something untouched by age, still sang. The mountain, the coffee, the room, the quiet—all of it became a kind of music. Not loud, not showy—just steady, like an old etude that never quite ends, but always returns.

(The End)

= = =

相關文章 (See also)：

1)  Poems by ChatGPT     (2023)

2)  Poems by ChatGPT (part two)     (2023)

3)  Notes on Peace: From Lantern to Creek     (2025)

4)  Notes on Peace: From Balcony to Blossom     (2025)

Rev. Claire Wang Ordained Episcopal Priest

#2025-0630

Blessings and congratulations to Rev. Claire Wang on her ordination as an Episcopal priest this evening!

Jean and I truly wished we could have attended this holy and beautiful ceremony in person. However, due to personal reasons, we had to cancel our journey from Taichung to Taipei and return home the same day.

(Just a hint: if you know the true, literal meaning of “vertigo,” you’ll understand how disappointed we were to give up our HSR tickets!)

Still, on such a joyous occasion, we’d rather not dwell on our physical setback. Instead, we want to express our heartfelt joy at Rev. Claire Wang’s ordination. Thanks and praise to the Lord! May His love and grace be with this new priest and pastor, now and always.

Note: The 28 pictures below are taken from the livestream video shared by St. John's Cathedral, where the ordination has just taken place.

= = =

相關文章 (See also)：

1)  A Family Serving Together!     (2024)

2)  Three New Deacons Ordained!     (2024)

3)  More Photos of the Ordination     (2019)

Meilun Creek...

#2025-0624B

Tomorrow morning, my wife and I will be leaving Hualien for Taichung. We've been here for almost a week, and during these days, everything has gone smoothly—indeed, even more successfully than we expected.

Our two grandsons, now in 4th and 8th grade, went to school on weekdays and attended Sunday church service along with related activities. They are good (and handsome!) boys, always rushing to greet us with big smiles as soon as they returned home from school. Whenever time allowed, they joined us for evening walks along the nearby Meilun Creek, where we enjoyed the peaceful twilight or the quiet beauty of a starry night.

Their mother, besides preparing delicious meals and taking care of daily needs, has been a warm and thoughtful presence throughout our stay. We thank her—our daughter-in-law—for all that she has done, both for the church and for the Liang family. As for our son, a hard-working priest and pastor, he is currently in Hong Kong, attending a meeting with clergy and church representatives from various countries. He will complete his work there and return home on Saturday. But we’ll be heading back to our home in Taichung tomorrow, after a full week in Hualien.

May the Lord continue to keep all of us in His grace! At the end of July, our son, his wife, and their younger son will move to Kaohsiung City, where they will begin ministry at St. Timothy’s Church starting in August. In the meantime, my wife and I will come to live with our older grandson, James, for about a year. We’re calling this a special Long Stay in Hualien.

James will be starting Grade 9 this August—his final year of junior high. It will be an important year for him, with several major exams ahead before graduation. More importantly, he doesn’t feel ready to transfer schools again. Over the past few years, he has already gone through four school transfers during elementary school, following his parents’ work assignments. Those frequent moves were difficult and unsettling—too much for a young boy to adjust to easily.

So, after some thought, my wife and I decided to commit to this Long Stay on the beautiful eastern coast of Formosa. Yes—a Long Stay in Hualien, embracing especially the quietly flowing Meilun Creek.

= = =

相關文章 (See also)：

1)  Beautiful Sunday     (2025)

2)  美崙溪：燈光倒影     (2023)

3)  暮色 (Shades of Twilight)     (2024)

4)  Notes on Peace: From Lantern to Creek     (2025)

Notes on Peace: From Balcony to Blossom

#2025-0624A

These days, the news still brings unease. Though the headlines change, the ache remains — wars unfolding, hearts breaking, the world shaking. And yet, in quiet corners of life, peace continues to show up — not always loud or lasting, but steady in its way, like light at dawn or blossoms in spring.

After posting the first set of notes and stories, I wondered if there might be more to find — more moments of stillness, more gentle truths waiting in memory or imagination. Once again, I turned to ChatGPT and asked, “Can we continue?” And once again, it replied with warmth and calm, as if to say: “Yes, let’s look together.”

So here are two more small stories — not answers, but offerings.

= = =

Story Three:

Morning on the Balcony

The sun had not fully risen, but the sky was already softening — from charcoal to pearl, from night into a hopeful gray. In the quiet hush before the day began, Jerry stepped out onto the small balcony of his Taichung apartment, holding a cup of coffee.

The steam rose gently from the old ceramic mug — one he had owned for decades, a souvenir from a trip to Alishan, with a faded red maple leaf on its side. He smiled as he set it down on the balcony table, its surface worn smooth from countless mornings like this.

Beyond the railing, the city stirred in whispers — a distant scooter engine, a broom sweeping a sidewalk, a single bird calling from a power line. But up here, time moved slower. Or perhaps it simply sat beside him.

He reached into his pocket and unfolded a scrap of lined paper. A single verse, copied in his own hand from a poem he had once read:

“Let morning light find you

as you are —

whole, quiet, unhurried.”

He read it aloud, his voice barely louder than the breeze. Then he tucked it into the notebook lying open on the table, next to a fountain pen and a pressed flower — a tiny wild bloom his grandchild had given him last week, saying, “This one’s for you, Ah Gong. It’s from the sidewalk crack.”

He chuckled quietly, touched by the memory. A flower from a crack — was there any better symbol for peace in uncertain times?

The coffee had cooled slightly now, but it was still good. He took a sip, then leaned back, letting the morning wrap around him like a shawl.

From somewhere below, the scent of congee floated upward. A neighbor, perhaps, beginning breakfast. He thought of all the unseen lives unfolding in apartments nearby — each with its own hopes, small joys, and quiet burdens. Somehow, that thought didn’t make him feel lonely. It made him feel connected.

He closed his eyes and breathed in — not to escape, but to arrive more fully into this one moment.

There would be news later. Noise, perhaps even grief. But not now.

Now, there was only this balcony, this coffee, this sky — and the quiet courage of beginning again.

= = =

Story Four:

The Blossom Cross

It was a quiet weekday afternoon, and the church stood empty — no service, no gathering, just stillness beneath the blossoms. Jerry was visiting a small church in Hualien, nestled between a line of trees and a quiet street. He had simply come to sit in the churchyard for a while — to pray, or perhaps, just to be still.

The church itself was simple — white walls, a slanted red roof, and a wooden cross at the front. Behind it, a cherry tree stood in full bloom. Its pale pink petals fluttered in the breeze like blessings falling slowly, gently, from heaven.

Jerry took a seat on a wooden bench near the tree, beneath a sign that read: “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10). The verse had always calmed him — not as a command, but as a kind invitation.

He looked up at the tree. Some blossoms were still fresh and full, others already drifting to the ground. Each one beautiful in its own time. A quiet voice rose inside him, not quite his own: “To everything there is a season…” He didn’t finish the verse. He didn’t need to.

In his hand, he held a small wooden cross — light brown, hand-carved, worn smooth by years of touch. It had once belonged to his mother, who used to hold it during prayer when she sat by the window, whispering softly in Taiwanese hymns. Now it was his.

A petal landed on the arm of the cross.

Jerry smiled.

He thought about all the seasons he had lived through — lean years, good years, losses that had left him hollow, and quiet gifts that had slowly filled him again. Through it all, there had always been a thread of something stronger than fear. Not always loud, but always there.

Peace, not as the world gives.

He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer — not long, not elaborate. Just a thank-you, as natural as a breath.

Thank you for blossoms, for time, for memory.

For the cross.

For grace.

When he opened his eyes, a few children were running across the edge of the yard, laughing, chasing petals as they fell. One of them stopped and waved at him. Jerry waved back.

Then he stood, slipping the cross back into his pocket.

The wind rustled the blossoms once more, and for a brief moment, it looked as though the tree itself was praying — branches lifted, petals dancing like hallelujahs in the light.

He began to walk home, slowly, with a full heart.

= = =

Closing Reflection:

Perhaps that’s all peace is, in the end — a balcony and a blossom, a warm mug and a whispered prayer. Not something distant or grand, but something already near. Something remembered. Something quietly received.

Even as the world roars, we can still light a lantern, walk beside a creek, or pause beneath a blooming tree — and hear, if we’re willing, the still small voice that says:

“I am with you. Even now. Even here.”

= = =

相關文章 (See also)：

1)  Notes on Peace: From Lantern to Creek     (2025)

2)  A Translation of "Chen Si"     (2024)

3)  Light in the Darkness     (2011)

Notes on Peace: From Lantern to Creek

#2025-0623

These days, several wars are raging in different parts of the world — for example, the conflict between Israel and Iran, and the war between Russia and Ukraine. These events have left me feeling uneasy.

Alone in my room, I turned to ChatGPT and asked if it had any suggestions to help calm my heart.

Within a second, it — ChatGPT — offered a few gentle suggestions for moments like this:

1. Pause and Breathe: Inhale slowly for four seconds, hold your breath gently for four seconds, exhale slowly for six seconds — and repeat for three to five minutes.
2. Read Something Uplifting: Revisit a passage you've read before that soothes you — perhaps something from Og Mandino, or a short piece of gentle fiction. (ChatGPT kindly offered: “If you like, I can share a short, calming story or poem now.”)
3. Play Soft Music or Natural Sounds: Music has great healing power. Try listening to instrumental music, nature sounds (like rain, waves, or a forest), or something nostalgic from your past that brings you comfort.
4. Look at Something Beautiful: “If you have a photo — of your grandchildren, a sunset, a peaceful place — let yourself take it in slowly.” Then it surprised me by saying, “You might also imagine Meilun Creek (美崙溪) at twilight, as you once described. Visualizing peaceful scenes can actually help regulate your mood.”
5. Write a Gentle Note to Yourself: Try writing a few sentences that acknowledge your feelings and offer yourself kindness. Something like: “The world is heavy right now, but I am safe in this room. I have lived through many changes, and I will meet this moment with care and quiet strength.”
6. Limit the Input: Consider turning off the news for a while. You can always catch up later. For now, protect your emotional space.

To my surprise, ChatGPT even seemed to remember my background. It said: “If you'd like, I can write you a short calming story — something personal, warm, and peaceful, perhaps set in a quiet evening in Taichung (台中) or back at Changliu Elementary (長流國小).”

That really intrigued me. I was curious to know what kinds of stories this thoughtful digital Teacher — or Counselor — might create for me to read. For comfort, for reflection, or simply for fun!

= = =

Story One:

A Lantern by the Window

It was a quiet evening in Taichung. Outside Jerry’s window, the sky was softly shifting from gold to lavender. The gentle hum of the city had faded, replaced by the rustling of trees and the distant chirping of crickets.

Inside, Jerry sat in his favorite chair — the one near the small window that overlooked a narrow street lined with old trees. On the wooden table beside him sat a warm cup of barley tea, faintly fragrant, its steam rising like a tiny wisp of cloud.

He reached into the drawer and pulled out a small wooden box — smooth with age, carved with faint lines from long ago. Inside were fragments of his past: a dried leaf from the schoolyard of Changliu Elementary (長流國小), a faded black-and-white photo of a teacher with students, and a slip of paper bearing lyrics from a song he once loved.

He smiled, remembering Mr. Zhang (張迺勤老師) organizing the mock election, and Mr. Jian (簡炎樹老師) gently correcting his Mandarin. Their voices had once filled a classroom of curious, noisy children — now only echoes in memory, but kind and clear.

A breeze came through the window, carrying the scent of late-summer grass and the quiet strength of home.

Feeling a gentle comfort, Jerry took out a small paper lantern he had kept for years. Tonight, he decided to light it — not for any holiday or occasion, but simply to remember that light always returns, even in uncertain times.

He placed the lantern near the window and watched its soft glow flicker, warming the corner of the room.

In that moment, Jerry felt something settle inside him — not an answer to the world’s troubles, but a reminder: though the world may shake, there are still small lights. And within him, the courage to hold them.

= = =

Story Two:

Twilight Walk by Meilun Creek

The day had been full — laughter at lunch, toys scattered across the floor, tiny feet running in circles, and the endless chatter of young voices that filled Jerry’s heart like a favorite song.

But now the sun was lowering behind the distant mountains, and the house had grown quiet. Jerry stepped out alone, leaving the children to their evening routines. He walked gently toward Meilun Creek (美崙溪), just a few blocks away.

The air smelled of earth and blooming leaves. The light had softened into that perfect Hualien twilight — not quite gold, not yet blue. The creek flowed steadily, whispering over rocks and under small footbridges, as if carrying old stories and new dreams alike.

Jerry found a wooden bench shaded by a tree, its trunk leaning slightly as if listening to the water. He sat down, took a deep breath, and let the rhythm of the stream match the quiet beating of his heart.

A breeze passed. He could almost hear the echo of children’s voices from earlier — his grandchildren calling him “Ah Gong!” and tugging at his hands, asking him to play. He smiled. How fast time moves… and yet, in this moment, everything had slowed to perfect stillness.

He picked up a smooth stone, rounded by water, and turned it in his fingers. It reminded him of something — the past, yes, but also the quiet truth of simply being here, now.

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny folded drawing — a crayon picture his youngest grandchild had given him just before dinner. It showed a cheerful version of “Ah Gong” (阿公) by the sea, with blue waves, a red sun, and a big smile. He chuckled.

The wind picked up slightly, rustling the leaves. Jerry stood, tucked the drawing carefully back into his pocket, and whispered a quiet thank-you — to the stream, to the evening, to life itself.

As he turned to head home, the creek sparkled in the last light of day, like a thread of silver weaving through the world. And in his chest, where unease had once settled, there was now only calm — the kind that comes from love, memory, and the gentle passing of time.

= = =

相關文章 (See also)：

1)  Notes on Peace: From Balcony to Blossom     (2025)

2)  Twilight at Meilun Creek: A Story of Change     (2025)

3)  人本自然～Chatting during Lunch!     (2024)

4)  又回大甲 (With 6 Old Photos)     (2024)