The Longer Way

Sunday sleep-ins seem to be a thing of the past. My eyes opened well before the alarm had any intention of going off. After a few moments staring at the ceiling, it was clear there’d be no drifting back. I got up and headed downstairs to work on the sword form that continues to resist easy recall.

Training alone in the yard, without obligation, has its own quality. The atmosphere is different. I’m there by choice, working through something that isn’t really a problem — more a matter of patience and memory finding each other in their own time.

Why Tai Chi sword feels harder to learn doesn’t seem that important. What it really does is point out how much distance there still is ahead. Every form takes time. Every form asks something different. And eventually, each one becomes familiar, even friendly.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the two paths that seem to exist in our increasingly technical world. The quick one, assisted and accelerated. And the longer one — slower, more traditional, demanding attention over time. Both can produce results that look fine on the surface.

What lingers for me is the question of experience. What does the journey feel like if the easier path is taken? And what gets missed along the way?

The shortcut often brings a sense of cleverness. Efficiency. But I wonder what happens to the deeper learning when the struggle is removed. The brain is remarkable, but it isn’t just a processor. It’s housed inside a feeling, imperfect animal. That combination — data and emotion — is messy, prone to error, and capable of insight precisely because of that.

Most of what I’ve learned in life has come through mistakes. Through missteps I didn’t plan to make. That’s where the texture seems to come from.

It’s satisfying to feel capable. Still, I find myself questioning what I truly know if I haven’t taken the time to work through it, to fail, to adjust.

The rest of the day unfolded quietly. A small meal. A gentle Tai Chi session. Nothing remarkable. Exactly what a Sunday might ask for.

It’s strange how loneliness can show up even when surrounded by hundreds of people. I’m not resentful of it. This is something I’ve chosen. Still, there are moments when it would be nice to share a laugh.

This trip has carried a certain weight so far — as if something important is riding on it. I can see now that much of that pressure is a story I’ve been telling myself.

For now, it feels enough to be here.
In my own company.
As it has always been.