We live so many actions that trail by us, lost in the time that they happened. Did they occur, did we live them, were we really there? A sound dies away and then it is gone, and although recording can make it emerge again, it's movement, it's ephemerality, are what defines it. So difficult to capture. Where are our thoughts when we are cutting vegetables, taking a shower? There and gone. What is a thought? From where does it come and where does it go?
I watched myself doing forms yesterday, played alone in a large hall, and felt a want of presence.
The kanji for wind took a lot of work this morning. There is an enclosure in it that frames the rest, straight lines in several directions with different types of starts and stops, some never stopping. I spent a long time studying it, looking at the movement on the page that Sensei had created, practicing the stroke order and spacing with a pencil, experiencing it with a brush, and then looking back on it. Over and over, practicing presence, practicing time. There's something religious in it, untouchable, mysterious, yet more familiar than one's self.