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“Careful with the brush, my dear. Remember, no need to press. A light stroke and a gentle twist. The tool does the heavy work for you; what remains is for you to guide it.”

Taylor exhaled and hung her brush limply over the rough paper. With gingerly hands, she dragged the brush along the paper. Ink trailed after the hairy tip, a wobbly line that, ever since her teacher gave her the brush, she never seemed to draw straight. 

Wukong, however, merely smiled at the attempt. “You focus too much on the line and not the destination. Uncertainty taints your stroke. Keep one eye on the end of the road and the other on your feet, and let your fears fade with the brush.”

“I’m trying,” Taylor insisted. The stacks of paper beside her were proof enough, filled with countless strokes and symbols.

“This Old Sun does not mean to belittle your progress, dear child,” Wukong countered. He picked up one of the pages from the table and traced a finger along one of the lines. “Rather, he commends you for it. You display a studiousness both in the study and in the yard worthy of any cultivator, and a firm grasp of the simpler characters is within your reach. Yet you…stumble. A leap you fear to take before the stroke can be completed.”

Taylor flushed at his words and set about drawing a circle. Even when he commented negatively about her drawing, Wukong lacked the apathetic sting of her former teachers or the cruel barbs of Emma and her cronies. His tone never rose or settled into a deadpan, but was always gentle, and his criticism was constructive rather than disparaging.

‘Even if he sounds like a fortune cookie,’ she inwardly grumbled while maintaining a face of sheer concentration. Start at one point and return to it, simple as that. ‘Okay, maybe not all the time, but he can’t help sneaking in one of those cheesy proverbs into every sentence.’

She finished drawing the circle and Wukong leaned over, rubbing his furry chin. After a few seconds of humming at her work, his smile grew wider and he nodded. “Excellent, my disciple. A perfect circle, with even ink and no gaps.”

“Thanks,” she replied, satisfaction filling her. “I can draw better circles than lines.”

“It is natural for certain strokes to feel easier than others.” He grabbed two blank pages and set one in front of him. “Let’s try something new today.” Plucking his own brush from behind his ear, her teacher dipped it in the inkstone and raised it over his paper. With utter serenity, he drew four elegant strokes. A short, vertical one, followed by a long curve, ending with an upward flick. Above it, he almost tapped the paper - that’s how brief it was - and two short, diagonal dots crowned the hook. 

Taylor had no idea how he was able to make writing appear like a show, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away. Her mother had excellent penmanship and always insisted on signing her name in flowing cursive. A few signatures still adorned her notes back home. In those Wukong’s demonstrations of calligraphy, she couldn’t help but be reminded of those signatures.

“This is xīn. In your tongue, its literal translation is ‘heart’, but as with many symbols, it can hold many meanings beyond the obvious. It can represent the physical organ beating in your chest,” he reached out and tapped her sternum. “But it also refers to your center. Spiritual or mental is irrelevant; there is no difference with xīn. Thoughts are formed from logic and emotion, all within the xīn.”