前幾天翻日記，翻到幾年前寫的一段話：

物理的基本定律是兩點最短距離為直線，或許這對效率而言是很好的認知，但現在能夠每件小事都慢慢來，等待它將來發芽的感覺，也是令人充滿期待的。埋首於喜歡的事物上，就算常常以為自己迷失方向，也還是咬牙把身上的灰彈掉，再向前走，得到些許的進步，這才是所謂的享受吧。

看到的當下，我愣了一下。

這不是現在的我會寫出來的句子。用詞很生澀，甚至有點笨拙。

但也不是現在的我會反對的句子。

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那句話，等了我好幾年才被聽懂

寫下那段話的時候，我還不知道自己在說什麼理論。

我只是活在裡面。

兩點之間最短距離是直線，這是我們從小就熟悉的邏輯：有效率、看得到終點、走得越快越好。

但生活裡真正讓我覺得「這值得」的事情，幾乎都沒有走過直線。

是繞路。

是等待。

是常常以為自己走偏了，還是把身上的灰彈掉，再往前走一點。

那時候的我，其實已經隱約知道這件事。

只是還沒有足夠的語言，把它說清楚。

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一場越野賽之後，這句話被命名了

今年一月跑完 HK100 之後，我開始讀到一個概念：心理富足（Psychological Richness）。

快樂讓人生舒適，意義讓人生站得住腳，而心理富足則提醒我們，人生還有第三個維度——多樣而深刻的經驗、觀點的改變，以及對複雜與不確定的開放。

它不一定舒服。

但有些經驗，會因此把人生打開。

那場比賽對我來說，完全不是一段「快樂」的過程。

身體接近極限，腦袋裡不停播放著「我不行了」的聲音，一個人在山徑上，一步一步跟疲憊、孤獨和自己對話。

但也正因為那些不舒服，我被迫重新認識自己。

我怎麼定義極限？

當身體和腦袋都想停下來時，我會怎麼決定下一步？

我一直以為自己撐不下去的時候，身體為什麼還能再往前一步？

跑完之後，我才慢慢想懂：

那些過去被我叫做「繞路」的選擇——離職、重回校園、改變工作方式、把人生過得不那麼有效率——其實沒有白走。

它們一直都在往同一個方向累積。

不是累積成就。

而是累積一個更立體、更真實的自己。

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直線最短，但發芽需要時間

後來我才慢慢明白，幾年前寫下的那段日記，和這幾年真正活出來的東西，其實是同一件事的不同說法。

效率的邏輯沒有錯。

它只是不是唯一的邏輯。

有些事情適合直線前進。

但有些東西，你越急著規定它最後要長成什麼樣子，它反而越長不出來。

它需要被種下去。

被照顧。

被等待。

甚至有一段時間，看起來完全沒有發生任何事情。

然後有一天，你回頭才發現：

原來它早就開始長了。

「咬牙把身上的灰彈掉，再往前走一點點。」

這句話，我幾年前寫過。

前陣子又重新活過一次。

直到現在，我才真正聽懂它在說什麼。

回頭看這十年，我曾經很長一段時間都覺得：

我是不是一直在漂流？

但現在，我比較想這樣形容：

我不是在漂流，我是在收束。

只是這個收束，從來不是一條直線。

它比較像一顆種子。

你不知道它會從哪一邊冒出芽，也不知道什麼時候會長成你認得出來的樣子。

能做的，只是把它種下去。

好好活。

慢慢等。

然後讓它，用自己的時間發芽。

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Let It Grow in Its Own Time

A few days ago, I was flipping through an old journal when I found something I had written years ago:

In physics, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Maybe that is a useful way to think about efficiency. But there is also something deeply hopeful about taking small things slowly and waiting to see what they might grow into. To keep returning to the things I love, even when I think I have lost my way—to brush the dust off, keep moving, and make just a little progress. Maybe that is what it means to truly enjoy the process.

I stopped when I read it.

It is not a sentence I would write today.

The language feels rough, a little awkward, almost naïve.

And yet, it is not something I disagree with.

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It took me years to understand what I had written

When I wrote those words, I did not know the theories behind them.

I was simply living inside the question.

The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. It is a logic most of us learn early: be efficient, know where you are going, get there as quickly as possible.

But when I look back, the things that have made my life feel most worthwhile have rarely followed a straight line.

There were detours.

Long periods of waiting.

Moments when I was convinced I had gone the wrong way.

And still, somehow, I would brush off the dust and take another step.

Some part of me already knew this years ago.

I just did not yet have the language to explain it.

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After a trail race, the feeling finally had a name

After finishing the HK100 this January, I came across the idea of psychological richness.

Happiness makes life feel good.

Meaning gives life something to stand on.

Psychological richness points to another dimension of a good life: diverse and deep experiences, shifts in perspective, and an openness to complexity and uncertainty.

It is not always comfortable.

But some experiences open our lives in ways comfort never could.

That race was not a happy experience in the usual sense.

My body was pushed close to its limits. My mind kept repeating, I can’t do this anymore. I spent hours alone on the trail, moving through exhaustion, discomfort, and my own thoughts.

But those moments forced me to meet myself differently.

What do I actually mean when I say I have reached my limit?

How do I make a decision when both my body and my mind want to stop?

Why, when I am convinced I cannot go any farther, can my body still take one more step?

Only afterward did I begin to understand something else.

The choices I once called detours—leaving a job, returning to school, changing the way I work, allowing my life to be less efficient—were not wasted time.

They had all been accumulating in the same direction.

Not toward a longer list of achievements.

Toward a fuller, more dimensional, more honest life.

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A straight line may be shorter, but growth takes time

Eventually I realized that the old journal entry and the life I have been living these past few years were saying the same thing in different languages.

Efficiency is not wrong.

It is simply not the only logic worth living by.

Some things benefit from moving in a straight line.

But other things cannot be forced into shape.

The more urgently you demand that they become something specific, the less room they have to grow.

They need to be planted.

Tended.

Waited for.

Sometimes, for a long time, it looks as if nothing is happening at all.

And then one day you look back and realize:

it had already begun to grow.

Brush the dust off and take one more step.

I wrote that years ago.

Recently, I lived it again.

Only now do I fully understand what those words were trying to tell me.

For a long time, when I looked back at the past decade, I wondered whether I had simply been drifting.

Now I would describe it differently:

I wasn’t drifting. I was converging.

It just never happened in a straight line.

It was more like planting a seed.

You do not know exactly where the first shoot will appear, or when it will finally become something you recognize.

All you can do is plant it.

Keep living.

Give it time.

And let it grow in its own season.