In downtown Thimphu, a charming open-air stretch dubbed the Thimphu Handicrafts Market or Authentic Bhutanese Crafts Bazaar runs along Norzin Lam, opposite the Nehru Wangchuk Cultural Centre. Here’s what makes it special:
📍 What is it?
A vibrant bazaar featuring roughly 80 wooden huts manned by skilled Bhutanese artisans, many of whom come from rural areas to showcase their craft . Stalls overflow with:
It’s a sensory journey through Bhutan’s 13 traditional arts (Zorig Chusum), celebrated in a grounded, local setting . You can mingle with the artisans, often hear their stories, and handpick a meaningful souvenir while watching them work.
📏 How long is it?
The bazaar stretches roughly 0.5 kilometres along a pedestrian-friendly lane . With around 80 stalls, it’s easy to spend 2–3 hours browsing, chatting, and sampling local handicrafts .
✨ Why visit it?
Preserves and promotes authentic rural craftsmanship Ideal for spotting genuine Bhutanese art (not touristy replicas) A lively community hub: artisans welcome you to learn the craft and price items with a smile
🕚 Tips for visiting:
Open daily, roughly 10 AM–6 PM Better to visit in the morning or afternoon for a less crowded stroll Bring cash—many vendors don’t take cards Haggling is acceptable in moderation
In these final days in Thimphu, I find myself pausing more—lingering at street corners, watching prayer flags flap like they’ve known me all along, and letting the sky stretch over my head like an old friend saying goodbye without words.
There’s a strange ache in leaving a place you never thought would matter so much. Bhutan crept up on me. Not with fanfare, but with quiet rituals: butter lamps flickering at dawn, locals offering warm nods on cold mornings, coffee shops that became sanctuaries. This town didn’t ask me to belong—it just let me.
Now, everything feels like a last.
Last rainy afternoon walk up the hill.
Last caramel latte at the café where I wrote about mountains and memories.
Last time the wind rushes over my face as I glance at the dzong tucked under storm-stirred clouds.
I feel both full and hollow. Full of the moments I’ve lived here. Hollow because I can’t carry them all with me.
There’s no guidebook chapter for “how to leave a place you quietly fell in love with.” So I’m doing what I can—taking photos, walking without earbuds, letting the final days mark me in the way only Bhutan can: softly, profoundly, without noise.
I suppose the only way to leave a place like this is to promise you’ll never forget the way it changed you. And to keep that promise.
Goodbye, Thimphu. You were never loud, but you were everything.
The world flipped in a glass sphere—just like this past year. Thimphu, Bhutan, where the murals are mountains and life is in cafés. No street art to chase, so I learned to sit still. To look closer. To let quiet places hold me.
A traditional Bhutanese mural. The mural is painted above a doorway or entrance, which is significant: such imagery is often used to guard thresholds, protecting the space from evil influences.
I take the long way around campus, I watch the clouds drift in low over the hills like they’ve done every day.
I’m leaving Bhutan soon.
And I find myself trying to walk it into me. All of it. The sound of monks chanting in the distance. The rhythm of archery matches on weekends.
I want it to stay.
So I walk. Through Changlam’s narrow streets.
Some days I walk with purpose. Others, I let myself drift. But every step feels like a soft recording of memory. A way of telling this place: I’m still here. I’m paying attention. I won’t forget.
Bhutan teaches you how to be still, even while moving. How to see the sacred in the everyday. How to belong, even if only for a season.
I know I can’t take the mountains with me. Or the scent of pine rising after a rain. Or the way the valley lights glow just before dark.
New Book Release: Using AI as a Tool, Not a Crutch
Why I Wrote It, Who It’s For, and What Comes Next
I’m excited (and a little awed) to announce the release of my new book: Using AI as a Tool, Not a Crutch: A Practical Guide for Students and Teachers.
This book didn’t come from a trend. It came from a classroom. From conversations with students who were both fascinated and overwhelmed by the possibilities of generative AI. From fellow teachers asking: How do we keep integrity alive in the age of ChatGPT? From countless moments where I saw potential—but also pitfalls—in how AI was being used in education.
The Journey
This began as a few notes for my students and colleagues here in Bhutan. A practical guide to using ChatGPT responsibly. But as the weeks went on, those notes grew into something bigger: a framework, a toolkit, a manifesto of sorts.
I’ve always believed education is a shared space—dynamic, curious, ethical. And like any new tool, AI can either enrich that space… or flatten it. The difference lies in how we use it. That’s the heart of this book.
The Why
Because we need more than rules. We need reflection. We need resources that don’t shame or restrict, but guide and empower.
Too often, AI is framed as something to fear or ban in the classroom. But that’s a short-sighted approach. What students and teachers really need is a philosophy of use—how to wield this tool with curiosity, clarity, and care. That’s what this book offers.
The What
Inside, you’ll find:
Clear chapters for students and teachers alike
Practical prompts, templates, and classroom ideas
Guidance on ethical use, academic honesty, and critical thinking
Chapters on how to write with AI, revise with AI, and teach prompting as a literacy
Reflections on metacognition, bias, and responsible collaboration
It’s built for real classrooms and real people—not just policy makers or tech insiders. Whether you’re a student trying to improve your essay-writing process, or a teacher looking to integrate AI meaningfully into lessons, this book has something for you.
The What For
This book is part of a larger conversation. One that says: AI is here. Let’s teach with it. Let’s learn with it. But let’s not lose ourselves to it.
Let’s remind ourselves—and our students—that thinking still matters. Creativity still matters. Human judgment, human voice, human curiosity… still matter.
That’s why it’s not called Using AI Instead of Thinking. It’s Using AI as a Tool, Not a Crutch.
Where to Find It
The book is now available on Amazon: https://a.co/d/0N9D0ra . If you’re interested in teaching it, hosting a workshop, or just want to share your thoughts, reach out. I’d love to connect.
And if you’ve read it already—thank you. Your feedback means the world. This journey isn’t over. In fact, it’s just the beginning.
— Here’s to a future where tools make us better thinkers, not lazier ones. Here’s to teaching, learning, and adapting—with integrity.
Prayer Wheels in Bhutan: Turning Compassion into Motion
In Bhutan, prayer wheels—called “mani khorlo” in Dzongkha—are cylindrical wheels inscribed with sacred mantras, most commonly “Om Mani Padme Hum.” They are an integral part of Bhutanese Buddhist practice, found in temples, monasteries, roadside stupas, and even streams powered by water.
What They Represent:
Each turn of the wheel is believed to release the power of the prayers inside, multiplying the blessings as if the practitioner had recited the mantras themselves. Turning a prayer wheel symbolizes the movement of compassion and the continuous cycle of life (samsara) turning toward enlightenment.
How They Are Used:
Clockwise turning: Always turn the wheel clockwise, in harmony with the direction the mantras are written. With intention: Devotees often spin the wheels while reciting prayers or walking around temples (kora), offering merit to all sentient beings. Mechanical variations: In Bhutan, you’ll see prayer wheels spun by hand, wind, or even water—each creating a physical manifestation of spiritual momentum.
Why It Matters:
In a land where spirituality blends with everyday life, prayer wheels serve as a quiet, spinning reminder: even the smallest gesture—when done with mindfulness—can carry immense spiritual weight. In Bhutan, turning a wheel is not just a ritual; it’s a moving meditation.
Built in 1629 by Zhabdrung Ngawang Namgyal, the founder of Bhutan, Simtokha Dzong is the oldest dzong in Bhutan with both religious and administrative functions. Perched on a ridge at the entrance to Thimphu Valley, its name means “Atop the Demon,” marking the site where the Zhabdrung is said to have subdued a powerful demoness.
I rarely, if ever, think to get photos of myself at all of the places I travel, but sometimes you get a taxi driver/guide, who insists…My taxi driver, Tek, who became my impromptu guide at the Dzong
Stone walls, prayer wheels, and ancient murals whisper stories of Bhutan’s unification and spiritual resilience—making Simtokha not just the oldest, but perhaps the most symbolically layered of Bhutan’s dzongs.
For twenty-two years, traveling has been as natural to me as breath. A flight, a bus ride, a long walk to a border—none of it ever felt heavy. I moved through countries the way others move through days: with routine, with comfort, with a deep sense of rhythm. I knew how to land lightly, to observe quickly, to adjust to my new surroundings almost instantly. I rarely hesitated. I rarely questioned.
But lately… something has changed.
It’s subtle, and I almost didn’t want to admit it at first. There’s a strange new hesitancy as I think about the next move. I find myself lying awake, thinking not just of logistics, but of something harder to name. A quiet weight. A kind of unease. The unknowns I used to welcome now feel vaguely threatening. I catch myself wondering if I’ll get to know the next place deeply enough, if I’ll be able to slip into its rhythms the way I always have.
There’s a loss of grip—not on the world, perhaps, but on the way I’ve known myself in it. I used to feel grounded, even while constantly in motion. Paradoxically, I always felt rooted in my rootlessness. Now, though, there’s a faint sense of becoming unmoored. As if the thread I’ve followed for so long has begun to fray at the edges.
I don’t say this with regret. I say it with curiosity. And some caution. But mostly with honesty.
Maybe the change is not in the places, but in me.
When you’ve lived this way for as long as I have, the line between home and not-home becomes blurred. You create meaning in movement. You build familiarity in the unfamiliar. But now, something inside me wants to pause and ask: Where, exactly, am I going? What am I still looking for? Not in the dramatic, life-redefining way. Just in the gentle, persistent way that feelings shift when you aren’t looking.
It’s not fear I’m feeling—not quite. It’s more like… grief. Or the awareness that a chapter is quietly closing, even as the next one begins to open. Maybe it’s the realization that I can’t keep arriving in places expecting them to fill the same space they used to. That’s not what they were meant to do. And maybe I’ve changed, in ways I haven’t fully acknowledged. Maybe I’m asking for different things now.
Still, this doesn’t mean I’ve lost my love for travel. It just means I need to meet it differently. With slower steps. With more intention. With the courage to not know a place fully, and still find meaning in it. With the humility to realize that being untethered can also be a form of freedom—even if it feels shakier than before.
If you’ve felt this too—this shift, this stirring—I want to tell you: it’s okay. The road is still yours, even if it feels different beneath your feet. You haven’t lost your way. You’re just learning to walk it in a new way. That’s not failure. That’s growth.
And growth, after all, is the truest form of movement.
