The forest

How do we notice change? It’s not like leaving your office on a Friday and returning on Monday to find everything more or less the same, save for a little dust and grime. No, the forest at the edge of town tells a different story—walk through it after 24 hours, and change is everywhere.

Maybe it’s the fresh dog turd on the path, reminding you to put your dog on a leash. Or the tiny rabbit droppings that suggest, if you’re still and quiet enough, you might catch a glimpse of a little thumper darting by. Perhaps it’s the fallen pines, poorly rooted and now lying on the forest floor, commanding you to stop and pay your respects.

It could be the vibrant greens of late autumn nettles, pushing through the earth, or the first buds of almonds, promising full bloom in two months. Maybe it’s the last bleached-yellow fig leaves, clinging before finally falling as you pass. Whatever it is, the forest always offers signs of change.

But how do we truly recognize change? Is it just through our eyes? Or is there something deeper, beneath our feet, that compels us to pause and absorb our surroundings? Perhaps it’s in the cool air that wraps itself around your fingertips as you stroll, urging you to stop, breathe, and feel—not just see—what’s unfolding around you.

This is all information—just as, if not more important, than what enters through the eyes or ears. So when you practice Tai Chi, forget about copying. Forget about trying to look like your teacher. Don’t chase someone else’s appearance. Instead, engage all your senses—every one of them—because life is a constant flow of change.

We are not an abandoned office left to gather dust over the weekend. We are the living, breathing forest, always shifting, always alive.