The sun is shining and the world feels calm.

This morning I spoke with an old friend from America. Every time we talk, I’m reminded what contentment looks like in human form. His ambitions are modest. His rhythm is steady. There’s no urgency in him, no need to impress, no subtle competition disguised as conversation.

Just presence.

We don’t fix anything. We don’t manufacture drama to solve. We just let time pass honestly and quietly. And somehow that feels like enough.

The school is changing again.

It always is. The rhythm of this place is shaped by the students who arrive and leave, like tides reshaping a shoreline. Yesterday a handful of English-speaking students turned up — and strangely, I knew them all.

It was good to see familiar faces.

And yet, something in me felt… older.

I’m not the oldest here. Not the youngest either. But when faces return and time has clearly moved on, I feel its weight more than I expect. I’m not entirely sure what that means.

Maybe it’s my endless belief that I should be better by now.

The last few days of training have been normal.

And yet, they’ve felt strange.

There’s a tiredness that has settled in — not sharp, not dramatic — just constant. The movements are still there. The forms haven’t disappeared. But the pace feels dulled. The explosiveness muted.

It’s as if I’m training in thick mud, every step negotiating resistance that wasn’t there before.

The longer it lingers, the heavier it feels.

After three days of rest, it was back to training today — and I was genuinely looking forward to it.

Wudang is not a place overflowing with distraction. There isn’t much to do here apart from train. And the strange thing is, that’s exactly why I love it.

Today marked the beginning of something new: the Bo Staff. A long spinning stick that, for reasons I can’t fully explain, immediately makes me smile. That feels like a good sign.

I’m entering this form without expectation. No grand ambition. Just the usual agreement — I will learn its language slowly, and in time it will reveal itself. Every form begins as a stranger.

Another day of rest as the New Year celebrations continue.

Even so, I notice students quietly running through their forms, as if two days off might undo months of work. I understand that feeling well. These arts require embodiment. If you stop completely, progress doesn’t explode — it leaks. Slowly. Subtly. Like a bucket with a small hole at the base.

For me, four days is about the limit before momentum needs attention.

I wandered into town for a change of view, only to discover everyone else had the same idea. Wudang, usually sleepy, feels overrun at peak holiday time. Families, laughter, colour. It’s all good. I found a quiet corner in the sun and did nothing in particular — some writing, a little reading, a lot of watching.

The first day of the new year was… strange.

The more I rested, the more tired I felt. It was as if stillness amplified the fatigue instead of dissolving it. No matter what I did, the heaviness remained.

So eventually, I stopped trying to fix it.

I surrendered.

And did nothing.

Which was probably exactly what I needed.

Sunday.

Bitter cold. Wind howling. Rain sharp enough to threaten snow at any moment.

On Sundays I always tell myself I’ll sleep in.

6am. Wide awake.

There’s something beautiful about waking early when there is nowhere urgent to be. The day stretches out in front of me with no demands attached. I’ll lightly run through a few forms — enough to move, not enough to exhaust. Just to keep the body honest.

Seven straight days of training have come to an end, and I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck that didn’t slow down out of courtesy.

The body is done. Completely.

And with the end of this week comes the end of the Chinese year. For some reason, this New Year’s Eve feels different — more relevant, more aligned with where I actually stand.

Perhaps it’s the immersion.

The Western calendar now feels like something glimpsed from a passing train window — still there, still real, but no longer central to my rhythm. This winding road I’m on has no clear destination, yet I continue moving toward something that feels important, even if I struggle to define it.

The goal remains blurry.

It’s been a long week.

Six days straight of revisiting two Wushu forms — Baji Fist and Xuan Wu Quan. Both physical. Both demanding. Both unwilling to let you hide.

I’ve loved the narrow focus. There’s something powerful about stripping everything back and committing fully to just two forms. But the truth is, it’s been tough turning up day after day to the same intensity.

The body feels it.

And yet, I wouldn’t change it.

Waking up tired and sore is no longer an exception. It’s the rhythm.

There are mornings when I long to feel loose, rested, ready — when I wish the body would greet the day with enthusiasm instead of resistance. But even through the heaviness, I know something important:

It’s working.

The endless repetition. The quiet discipline. The simple act of turning up when I don’t feel like it.

Six months ago, certain movements felt unreachable. Now they live in my body. Not perfectly — but undeniably there.

I’ve been back at school for two days, and I’m happy to report that everything hurts.

Shoulders. Hips. Ankles. A deep, familiar tiredness wrapping itself around me like an old companion who never truly leaves.

And strangely, it makes me happy.

I haven’t started anything new. Instead, I’ve returned to two fast forms — Xuan Wu Quan and Baji Quan. Both demanding. Both unforgiving. Both beautiful in their own direct, uncompromising way.

Yes, learning them the second time is easier. The body recognises patterns more quickly. The mind anticipates transitions.

But practice is no less brutal.

The sun was shining, but it still felt like winter.

Today unfolded slowly — the kind of gentle day that carries no great expectations. That was, of course, until an old friend appeared out of nowhere.

I hadn’t seen her in nearly two years. Suddenly she was back in town with her dance students and, for reasons still unclear to me, thought it would be a good idea to film TikTok dance videos.

Now, I know many things. One of them is that I cannot dance.

But when greeted with a kind smile and an enthusiastic request, I find it very hard to say no.

And so we began.

Day one of the second six months begins — or at least, that is how it feels.

Walking back through the school gates last night, I didn’t need words to tell me I was where I belonged. My body knew before my mind caught up. My heart rate slowed. My shoulders dropped. My nervous system, which had been humming quietly for two weeks, finally exhaled.

That was all the confirmation I needed.

I slept deeply — the kind of sleep that only comes when something inside you feels settled.

“Welcome home.”

Two simple words, spoken softly as I crossed the border back into China.

And just like that, something inside me lifted.

I hadn’t realised how heavy I had been carrying myself over the last two weeks until that moment. The lightness was immediate. A grin I couldn’t suppress. A quiet surge of relief moving through my body.

So I think it’s true.

China is home.

Yesterday I really tried to enjoy Hong Kong as a tourist. I wandered for hours, camera in hand, attempting to let the world move around me without attachment.

On the surface, it worked. I walked for nearly six hours. I saw plenty. I took photos.

But the truth is, I didn’t enjoy it.

It wasn’t wasted time — just time spent in a version of life that doesn’t resonate with me. Hong Kong rises in steel and glass, a vertical world where people move quickly through narrow spaces between ambition and necessity. Everyone seems busy. Busy doing what, I’m not entirely sure. Most faces are angled downward, lit by the soft glow of a screen.

I slept like a king last night.

Maybe it was exhaustion.
Maybe it was relief.
Or maybe it was simply the comfort of having a plan.

For the first time in weeks, there is direction. Two more days in Hong Kong, then back to China. Back to training. Back to rhythm.

It’s amazing how much easier the mind rests when it senses forward motion.

Today was a rollercoaster.

This morning, over coffee, the email finally came through.

Refused.

No drama. No explanation beyond a brief note: too many student visas in a row. No written rule. Just a decision. Final.

For a few moments, I panicked.

I started searching for alternatives immediately — Jakarta, another application, another route. But it seems the system now speaks globally. Doors that once felt open may not be anymore. Three months, maybe more.

My life feels suspended at the moment.

Six working days have passed, and there has been no movement on the visa. I’ve called. I’ve asked. The response is simple: be patient.

I am just not sure where patience ends and passivity begins.

This “quick” visa run is costing time, energy, and certainty. Bureaucracy has a way of making you feel small — like your life is paused while someone else decides when it may resume.

This morning I felt it properly. The worry. The frustration. The creeping uncertainty about what comes next.

A simple Sunday as a tourist was exactly what I needed.

I walked for hours with a camera in hand, drifting through the busy streets of Hong Kong alongside millions of others doing much the same. There was something strangely calming about moving anonymously through the crowd, just observing, framing, noticing.

By sunset, I was exhausted in the best possible way — legs heavy, mind quiet — yet when I finally lay down, sleep refused to arrive. I tossed and turned into the early hours.

If I’m honest, I suspect the visa sits quietly behind it all. Not the paperwork itself, but the waiting. The lack of movement. The not knowing.

That brings an end to a week of waiting in Hong Kong. And since nothing seems to be moving, I might as well become a tourist for the weekend.

I’m not sure what I’ll do. Maybe just get lost in the sprawl of the city. There are worse ways to pass the time.

I practised today, partly to shake off the frustration of a morning writing session that didn’t go the way I expected. That’s fine. Some days feel slightly misaligned — or perhaps it’s just me who feels that way right now.