Her eye is like any other if she looks away for a second. But when she turns to look at me, the eye lights up with a wild intelligence like a living lighthouse flashing through a dark, Atlantic night.
She seems to know my intentions, mood, and character in a single, lightning-quick glance. I suspect she knows me more thoroughly than most of my human acquaintances ever could—and certainly far better than I know myself, which, to be fair, isn't a high bar by any means.
She isn't afraid of me, not in the slightest. She follows me as I ladle birdseed on the fence posts, fully confident in her ability to easily outmaneuver me. She's like a chess grandmaster who realizes I don't know how to play the game.
Her keen awareness reminds me of Master Wen's teachings in the dào chǎng—those intense martial arts sessions where understanding your opponent was as essential as understanding yourself. Mimi would have been Wen's favorite student, capable of seeing through any pretense and likely correcting my form while she was at it.
The young squirrel, Zwiggy, peeks cautiously through the fence, tempted by the walnut pieces I placed on the fenceposts. His little body quivers excitedly, suggesting he can hardly wait for me to move farther away. It's a common struggle shared by squirrels and people—concern for our physical well-being versus the temptation of snacks.
He keeps me company as I walk the fencerow but always out of reach. He lacks the level of confidence that defines Mimi. He doesn't know me enough to trust me. To him, I am unknowable, like quantum computing.
His relationship with me is like the relationship I have with most of my human acquaintances. I feel confident enough to spend time in their company but not enough to let them really know me.
My fear isn't rooted in any specific knowledge about my associates but in my uncertainty. I lack Mimi's self-confidence, that assuredness that comes from truly knowing one's abilities and recognizing one's limits. It's a peculiar form of existential stage fright—being on stage in front of the audience and unsure of your next line.
Master Wen would undoubtedly raise a questioning eyebrow at my current state of uncertainty. He would be right to do so. This is precisely why I'm returning to the Brunswick dào chǎng tomorrow morning—not as a retreat but as a pilgrimage back to self-understanding.
I intend to know myself as thoroughly as Mimi knows me, with a lighthouse's unwavering clarity. In tomorrow's post, I'll let you know how it goes. I'm happy you're here. See you tomorrow.
I love this story. Truth is in it.
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