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Each dawn, before the mist lifts from the mountains, I wake to the sound of the temple bell echoing through the valley. Its tone ripples through my chest like a wave through still water. I kneel upon the cold stone floor, close my eyes, and breathe until my thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind. My training begins not with movement, but with stillness. After meditation, I walk to the cliffside where ginko trees twist toward the sun. There, I practice the forms taught by my master AOTP-slow at first, then swift as the morning wind. My body bends and flows; sweat gathers, and each drop feels like a prayer released. I strike not for power, but for understanding. The body must be an echo of the mind. When the day fades, I grind pigments from minerals gathered along the stream. I paint the world as it reveals itself to me-mountains breathing, water dancing, ravens crossing the amber sky. In each brushstroke I search for truth, though it often hides behind the silence of the page. Yet I feel something within me-like a sleeping flame beneath ice. I wish for the elder monks to unlock this hidden potential, not for glory, but for harmony. If my body could move as freely as my spirit longs to, and my mind shine as clearly as morning dew, then perhaps my art would no longer just depict serenity-it would be serenity itself. | |