-me, so long ago, and just as afraid, just as confused
looking at photos, I'm afraid
to go back and let the memories
be real. I'm afraid
to go home and face progression,
see the path I walk.
bluebird in the falling leaves,
when do the questions stop?
when do we become the destination?
The word for kata is 型, xíng in Chinese. It is "shape," cut into the earth. A form you've practiced so many times the floor beneath you retains its imprint. How much of the Path is just digging down with our heels by habit, how much of it is breadth and how much depth?
The question of finding yourself is such a western matter. If we are all birds, the Chinese sing beautifully, but it's all the same song; the Americans fight to make their own songs, but some are never able to sing at all. What a shame that flying takes us nowhere, that the whole world reminds us only of home.
For the last week here, I'm planning a trip to Yunnan, "South of the Clouds." I can't say anymore that I'm going places to look for answers, because I know how foolish the idea of answers is. Mistakes and regrets and inevitable; but it's always better to do than to not. Just make sure your house is in order first. What do you really owe to yourself and to people at this moment?
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