I spent the afternoon watching Dragon Girls, which had been on my to-view list for about two years. The film stirred a potpourri of feelings that I can’t articulate, but there was one question that kept nagging me: where are these girls now? The frustration with these types of documentaries is that I become attached not to the stories but to the people. And when I see a nine-year-old girl understand why she can only visit her father twice a year, my breath crumples. “Kung fu means to train and train and train again.” That’s resilience, that’s inspiration, that’s heartbreaking.
The film magnified today’s evening walk by tenfold—it was overwhelming to see the trees drenched in sunlight. I walked through the freeway underpass, out to the river trail, and sat down on a flat rock to watch the water. To meditate. It was bright, everything was filled with lighght and dogs and kids riding bicycles and soccer balls and all the furnishings of a beautiful life. And I felt it. Amidst whirling thoughts on wushu, taijiquan, writing essays, poetry workshop letters, the somatosensory cortex, sight-reading a Mendelssohn piano trio—heavens and stars I felt at ease at peace at love at loss at home.