Today I visited the Chengdu Research Base of Giant Panda Breeding –a place devoted to saving a species that almost disappeared.
The base stretches over three square miles, crisscrossed with paths that look straightforward until you start walking them. I carried a map. I followed the signs. And still, I kept ending up in the same places.
I walked in circles.
It felt familiar.
Before this journey, my life was much the same –motion without movement. Effort without direction. A map of responsibilities, deadlines, expectations. But without knowing where you truly are, even the best map can’t tell you where to go.
I passed Yang Yang again and again –a 28-year-old male panda, unbothered, chewing bamboo as if time itself were optional. Each time I saw him, a different thought surfaced: Maybe I’ve seen enough. Maybe it’s time to leave. Maybe it’s time to go home.
Giving up often looks like practicality when you’re tired.
But I didn’t leave.
I kept walking. I kept choosing the next path, even when it felt repetitive, even when it felt pointless. Slowly, the base opened up. New enclosures. New moments. Pandas I hadn’t yet met. The journey itself became the point.
On the way back to the exit, I passed Yang Yang once more. Only this time, I noticed things I hadn’t before –the angle of the light, the quiet rhythm of his movements, the stillness that had been there all along. I thought I had exhausted this part of the park. I hadn’t.
Even after circling the same ground, new wonders emerged.
And that’s when it hit me.
Maybe this is what returning to Toronto will be like.
The same streets. The same places. The same life.
But with different eyes.
