The days passed with a rhythm not marked by a calendar or a count, but by subtle shifts in the texture of life. Morning came with the sound of birds. The afternoon with heat seeping into the earth. The evening with lengthening shadows. And the night with a silence different from the daytime quiet.
Within this cycle, Li Yuan and Chen Ming found their own rhythm, one that wasn't forced but emerged naturally from their continuous presence.
One morning, Li Yuan woke with a thought that had been settling for several days. He had wrapped his Wenjing passive effects, experiencing the world without the usual layer of spiritual perception. In that experience, he began to notice things he'd previously missed—small details of how Chen Ming navigated his world.
How he felt the ground with his bare feet before fully committing his weight.
How he tilted his head slightly when someone spoke, not to see but to orient himself to the sound.
How he touched each plant with a deliberate gentleness, like greeting an old friend.
Li Yuan stepped out of the hut with a fresh awareness, his eyes seeing but now observing with a different kind of attention. Chen Ming was already at the vegetable plot, kneeling among the plants in a familiar posture. Li Yuan approached silently, his footsteps deliberate on the soft ground.
Chen Ming didn't turn, as he never did, because visual confirmation provided no information. But he spoke without stopping his hands from touching the leaves.
"Morning, Li Yuan. You're up early today."
"How do you know?" Li Yuan asked with genuine curiosity.
"Usually I hear you leave the hut when the sun is higher. Today... the sun is still low. The air still has the coolness of the night." Chen Ming stood with the help of his staff, dusting soil from his hands with a worn cloth. "And," he added with a hint of humor, "you smell different in the morning. Like someone who has just woken up, not yet fully settled into the day."
Li Yuan felt something shift in his understanding.
He doesn't just navigate with the absence of sight. He navigates with the presence of all his other senses. With an attention to detail that most people ignore.
They walked together to the old tree, a morning ritual that had become an unspoken routine. And Li Yuan observed, truly observed. He saw how Chen Ming used his staff not just to detect obstacles but to feel the texture of the ground: a smooth stone, soft dirt, thick grass. How he turned his face slightly toward the sun, using its warmth as a compass. How he paused occasionally, listening—not for anything specific, but for the overall soundscape, to get a sense of his surroundings.
Every movement is deliberate. Every sense is active. Nothing is wasted, nothing is taken for granted.
That afternoon, as they sat under the tree, Li Yuan spoke with a thoughtfulness that had matured over days of observation.
"I've noticed," he began with caution, "that you don't just cope with blindness. You thrive. You've found a way to experience the world that is, in certain ways, richer than someone who relies on vision."
Chen Ming smiled, a soft expression that Li Yuan now recognized as a sign of genuine pleasure from being understood.
"Vision is a powerful sense," Chen Ming said in a reflective tone. "But it's also... dominating. People who can see tend to rely on their eyes until their other senses become secondary, just background noise." He felt the staff in his hands, his fingertips tracing the smooth bamboo. "I didn't have a choice but to rely on my other senses. So I developed them. I listen more carefully. I touch with more attention. I smell and taste with an awareness that most people don't cultivate."
"And," he added with a quietness that carried weight, "I've learned to feel presence. Not in a mystical way, just an awareness of space, of the energy people carry, of the way the world changes when someone or something is nearby."
Li Yuan absorbed these words in a thoughtful silence.
This is a form of cultivation, he realized. Not spiritual cultivation in the formal sense. But a cultivation of awareness, of presence, of a connection to reality that is unmediated by a single, dominating sense.
Chen Ming, without knowing the terminology or the framework, has developed something that parallels what I have pursued for thousands of years. Only he arrived at it through necessity rather than choice, through limitation rather than power. And perhaps... perhaps that makes his achievement even more profound in a certain way.
The days continued with a similar pattern: mornings with Chen Ming working in his vegetable plot, afternoons under the tree, and evenings with a simple farewell. And in those days, Li Yuan observed with increasing depth. He noticed how the children who usually mocked Chen Ming sometimes also showed moments of kindness—bringing him water when they passed the well, warning him about a loose stone on the path, or offering him fruit they had picked.
He noticed how Auntie Zhou, though gruff in her manner, adjusted her timing so Chen Ming wouldn't have to walk too far for groceries. He noticed how Mr. Wu, whose children had taken the staff, now made a point to greet Chen Ming with a deliberate warmth and a respect born from guilt that had been transformed into genuine care.
This community is imperfect, Li Yuan observed. They mock, they ignore, they're sometimes cruel in their thoughtlessness. But they also care. In small ways, which are easy to miss if you're not paying attention, they show that Chen Ming is part of their fabric, that he's valued even though—or perhaps because—he's different.
And Chen Ming, for his part, received all of this with equal grace. Mockery without bitterness. Kindness without excessive gratitude. Cruelty without resentment. Care without dependency.
He exists in a state of equilibrium, Li Yuan realized with quiet awe. Not defensive, not demanding, not withdrawn. Just present. Open. Accepting what comes without being defined by it.
This is a wisdom I'm still learning after sixteen thousand years. And he lives it without effort, without an elaborate philosophy, without a complex technique. Just by... being.
One evening, as the light began to fade and Chen Ming prepared to return home, he paused under the tree.
"Li Yuan," he said in an unusual tone, not uncomfortable but vulnerable, as if he were about to share something he rarely spoke about.
"Yes?"
"I... I appreciate you being here. I appreciate that you don't treat me like a project to fix or an object of pity." He felt the staff in his grip, a subtle, nervous adjustment. "Most people, when they spend time with me, do so out of obligation. Because they think it's the right thing to do. Or because they feel sorry for me."
"But you..." he paused, searching for the right words, "you sit with me as if I am... an equal. As if I have something to offer, not just something to receive. And that... that is rare. That is valuable."
Li Yuan felt an emotion rise, gratitude mixed with a profound humility.
"You do have something to offer," he said with absolute sincerity. "You teach without teaching. You show without showing. Just by living with authenticity, with acceptance, with grace... you demonstrate a wisdom that I'm still trying to fully understand."
Chen Ming smiled, a warm expression that transformed his weathered features.
"Perhaps," he said gently, "we teach each other. In ways that don't require words or explanations. Just by being present, by being open, by being willing to see—or in my case, to sense—the value in another person."
They remained in silence for an extended moment, their understanding deepening without a need for elaboration. When Chen Ming finally stood to leave, with a casual wave and a simple farewell, Li Yuan remained seated.
He reflected on the days that had passed, on the lessons he had learned—not through instruction but through observation, through presence, and through a willingness to recognize wisdom in an unexpected form.
I didn't need to make myself blind to understand, he realized. I only needed to... watch. Listen. Be present with complete attention. Chen Ming lives with a profound limitation. But he is not limited by that limitation. He has transformed constraint into capability, absence into presence, darkness into a different form of clarity.
And someday...
The thought paused, incomplete.
Someday, if the timing is right, if the lesson needs to be deepened... maybe I will choose to experience blindness directly. To walk in the darkness not as an observer but as a participant. But not now. Not yet.
For now, the learning comes from watching, from listening, from honoring the wisdom that Chen Ming embodies without trying to claim it as my own through premature imitation.
The day passed.
Observation continued.
Understanding deepened.
And in the simplicity of a shared routine, in the richness of a mutual presence, a cultivation that had no name but was real in its impact continued.
Without fanfare.
Without a declaration.
Just by being.
As always.