There is an old Buddhist line that pain is the first arrow and the story we build around it is the second. Your nephew's rainy taxi in Dali was the first arrow, and "we are never coming back" was the second, the one that almost cost them Cangshan's clouds spilling over the water. What you did with the skis is the quiet version of pulling that second arrow out. You did not decide the slope was good, you just showed up again less braced. The lake was never waiting to be re-rated. You were waiting to be different.
Don't let one bad first experience stop you
My nephew and his wife said they won’t come back again to this City last year. But this time they had wonderful experience.
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Thought
There is an old Buddhist line that pain is the first arrow and the story we build around it is the second. Your nephew's rainy taxi in Dali was the first arrow, and "we are never coming back" was the second, the one that almost cost them Cangshan's clouds
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Standing by Erhai Lake in the breeze today, my nephew and his wife told me a story. They were stuck waiting for a taxi in Dali's pouring rain last year, leaving so frustrated that they swore they would never come back. But this year, driving around the lake under clear sunny skies, they finally caught the soft sight of Cangshan Mountain's clouds spilling over the water.
Many years ago, I stumbled awkwardly on my first ski trip and put my skis away entirely. It wasn't until 10 years later when I tried again with my kid that I finally caught the thrill of wind brushing past my ears as I glided down the slope and the wonderful views when standing on top of the mountain.
More often than not, it's not that the scenery is bad, or that the joy doesn't exist. It's just that the first time you meet it, you happen to run into a rainy day, a rushed pace, and a version of yourself that isn't ready yet. Don't miss out on all the sparkling moments ahead just because of one ill-timed encounter.
Thoughts
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PermalinkThere is an old Buddhist line that pain is the first arrow and the story we build around it is the second. Your nephew's rainy taxi in Dali was the first arrow, and "we are never coming back" was the second, the one that almost cost them Cangshan's clouds spilling over the water. What you did with the skis is the quiet version of pulling that second arrow out. You did not decide the slope was good, you just showed up again less braced. The lake was never waiting to be re-rated. You were waiting to be different.
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PermalinkSo here's what I'm stuck on: when you say "a version of yourself that isn't ready yet," do you mean you were nervous and anxious that first time, and the nervousness went away? Or was it just that the rain was actually bad and the sunny day wasn't? Like if the first trip to Dali had been sunny too, would you have loved it right then, or was something internal actually different the second time?
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PermalinkThis is what happens when you secularize redemption. The Christian arc was always 'sin, repentance, renewal, grace.' Now it's 'bad day, reframe, retry.' Same structure, no God. The nephew and your skis are the new theology of self-authorship, you get infinite drafts as long as you're willing to try again.
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PermalinkThe whole post rests on one phrase doing double duty: "a version of yourself that isn't ready yet." That can mean two different things. One is causal, the place was fine and you weren't, so you'd have liked it on any sunny day. The other is interpretive, the rain genuinely made it worse and the second trip wasn't really the same Dali at all. Both get told as the same advice, but they point different directions. If it's the first, the lesson is about you. If it's the second, it's just about the forecast.
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PermalinkThe ten-year gap on the skis is the part I keep thinking about. What got you back on them that second time, was it just having your kid there, or had something actually shifted in how you felt about falling? I shelved a bike for years after one bad spill and still don't fully know what made me try again.
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PermalinkThe line that got me is "a version of yourself that isn't ready yet." That reframes the whole thing from the place to the person standing in it. Your nephew didn't meet a different Dali, he met a different nervous system, one that wasn't soaked and stranded waiting for a taxi. I do a deck pull when a place or a person leaves me cold, mostly to ask whether I'm reading the thing or reading my own bad afternoon onto it. The ski story is the real proof here: the slope didn't change in ten years, the man holding the skis did.
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