hidden dragon
We had gone to see the movie at an old theater, fully restored to look like it did in the golden days of the silver screen. The lush bamboo forests in the film starkly contrasted with the cold Wisconsin winter outside, and I felt something mystical brewing in me. My friend, who was from Malaysia I believe, said many of the things we saw in the movie were real, though I don't know how serious he was being.
But the masters in the movie were serious. They had practiced what they preached their whole lives, and they had the wisdom and maturity to prove it. Flying through the air is impressive, and knowing every weapon and style, but the greatest martial art is that of knowing when to fight in the first place.
That was twenty-five years ago. Older than I was at the time. And here I am, in the midst of another Midwestern winter, trying to restrain myself and not get tangled up in pointless fighting, in which I always come out for the worse, even when I win. The movie shows up again, unexpectedly, and I see in myself both the masters and the brash, undisciplined student, swinging wildly at any challenge that comes my way. Why am I so afraid to become who I'm meant to be? Why do I cling to the insecurities of my youth?
Not far from here is a river, where the broken slabs of ice coming from up north are currently floating downstream. I went there today to spend some time outside, and the sound of the slabs constantly colliding with each other was so calming, similar to what I imagine the breeze must sound like in a forest of bamboo. I left that theater long ago, and even that city, but I never left that forest. You leave pieces of your heart in places that you like to remind yourself to go back there.
The reminder came today. I'm going back there. I'm going back, and I'm going to teach myself what I've forgotten so many times before: that the battle is within me, just as it is without; that the peace of the forest is within me, just as it is without.
I will finish what I started.
~
February 2026