Three Hundred and Fifty Bodies, One Roof

Summer has kept its heat, but I somehow forgot how much rain arrives alongside it, and how little I enjoy training in it. That needs clarifying; I've never minded rain itself, never let it stop me from anything I wanted to do. The trouble here isn't desire. It's geometry.

I'm a tall man. I take up a generous share of space when I move. And when the rain comes, three hundred and fifty students all need somewhere dry to stand, which means what little indoor space exists gets divided into something far too small for what's being asked of it.

Today I slid into the old habit, fixed on what I couldn't do, frustration building without producing anything useful, and the whole day turned long, disjointed, unproductive. My Tai Chi felt off from the first step, not helped by socked feet on a wet wooden floor, and I couldn't seem to drag myself back out of it. That's the part that actually worries me. Not the slippery floor. The spiral itself — the not-yet-mastered art of reining in a mind that's already decided today is lost.

Tomorrow I reset. Try again, with a clearer intention to meet whatever the day offers rather than resenting what it doesn't.

The genuinely good news: mornings now begin with Qigong, and I'm loving what it does to the hours that follow. Five Animal Qigong lands like a current running straight into the body, a way of meeting a new day that I can't presently imagine improving on.