There was once a Wayfinder who traveled between villages carrying seeds.
Some seeds were small—meant for quiet gardens.
Others were sturdy—meant for training grounds where wind and resistance were part of the work.
Wherever the Wayfinder went, people would say,
“Be present here.”
And he would ask, gently,
“Present to what exactly?”
In one village, the Wayfinder sat in the circle as people spoke of the weather, again and again.
They measured presence by posture:
eyes forward, hands empty, feet still.
They spoke often of safety, and of getting things right the first time.
But rarely of returning when things went wrong.
When the Wayfinder took out a small glowing stone to speak with a distant Gardener—someone actively preparing soil for a new orchard—the villagers bristled.
“You’re not here,” they said.
“You’re not present.”
The Wayfinder looked up and replied,
“I am present—to something alive.”
This offended them.
So the Wayfinder tested himself.
He put the stone away and stayed.
The circle continued.
No seeds were planted.
No soil was turned.
Nothing returned changed.
His body grew heavy.
Later, the Wayfinder visited a Dojo by the river.
There, not every conversation was deep.
Some spoke of rain.
Some spoke of aches.
But when someone stepped onto the mat, others met them—fully.
Mistakes were not hidden there.
They were met, adjusted, and revisited.
If a student left to train elsewhere for a moment, no one accused them of absence.
They trusted the rhythm—and the commitment to return.
When the Wayfinder invested energy there, it came back shaped—
not perfect, but responsive.
His body steadied.
Still later, the Wayfinder returned to the first village and said:
“I am willing to return.
Again and again.
To improve the present and the future.
Not because it is perfect—
but because it is workable.
But I will not pretend presence where nothing is tended.”
The villagers replied,
“If it isn’t perfect, it isn’t safe.”
And the Wayfinder understood.
He gathered his seeds.
From then on, he followed a simple rule:
Presence is not where the body sits.
Presence is where attention cultivates life—
with a willingness to come back, adjust, and try again.
Some fields wanted performance.
Some wanted control.
Some wanted the past poured endlessly onto the present.
But the Wayfinder chose only fields that consented to growth.
And when asked why he sometimes tuned in elsewhere,
he would smile and say,
“I am always present. I am just careful about what I help grow.”
Insight
Presence without purpose is exhaustion.
Presence without return is performance.
Presence with commitment becomes practice.
⛩️🌿
