Slow Productivity
It’s Tuesday, and my arm is making itself known. After a long session of self-massage, I think I’ve found the source. Just below the elbow there’s a tender knot — dense and unmoving — the kind of place where everything seems to stop. Pain, or perhaps simply a blockage. Either way, it feels informative.
I like these small discoveries. They suggest something is being learned, even if it’s happening slowly. Little by little, I’m finding ways to listen more closely, to work with the body rather than pushing through it.
Slow productivity feels like the right phrase today.
Doing less.
Fewer things.
Working at a natural pace.
Trying to do it better rather than faster.
That also raises a question about when to speak and when to stay quiet. Most of the time, saying less feels right. But there are moments when something simply isn’t working. Like trying to train while jackhammers tear into the background day after day. After a month of constant construction noise, the patience wears thin. It’s hard to study in the middle of it.
It doesn’t seem to bother everyone. That’s fine. Still, I’m realising I don’t have to endure it either. Choosing a different place to train isn’t avoidance — it’s just a choice that better serves what I’m here to do. It might look selfish from the outside. It doesn’t feel that way from here.
The evening session stretched on. One of those nights that feel longer than they should. Balance slightly off. Timing out of sync. Still, I didn’t let it spiral. I kept going. Kept trying. In the end, it wasn’t great — but it wasn’t bad either. Just uneven.
That seems to be part of the larger rhythm. Training here has carried me through both highs and lows, often without warning. One moment lifted, the next knocked flat. Like being carried to a summit and then pulled under by a heavy wave.
What matters is not staying in the turbulence too long. Keep moving. Keep breathing. Find a way back to calmer water and begin again.
And when the day ends, it simply ends. Nothing to fix. Nothing to claim. Nothing to regret. That simplicity still feels quietly beautiful.
As I drift off, there’s a clear sense of being exactly where I want to be, doing exactly what I once hoped I could do. Those two things feel like enough.