I go back to the training yard because routine has always been how I survive things that do not make sense. When the world shifts under my feet, I look for repetition. Familiar motions. Predictable outcomes.
Morning drills. Packed dirt under my boots, cool and solid. The familiar rhythm of bodies moving together in practiced lines. The snap of commands cutting cleanly through the air. The smell of sweat and stone and metal. It should ground me. It almost does.
My body moves too fast now.
I do not feel it at first. That is the worst part. I am focused on form, on breath, on the way the air shifts when someone commits to a strike. I am listening to footfalls, to heartbeats, to the subtle tells of balance and intent. My wolf is alert but calm, tracking movement with a clarity that feels ne
