New beginnings…
It would appear to be an auspicious time, if you believe in auspices, that is. The vernal equinox has ushered in the Spring and the first new moon of Aries has risen. There is much excitement among the astrologically inclined with regard to the coming of the Age of Aquarius. Although it would appear nobody can agree on whether it has already arrived, it seems likely to me that it would approach more like a slow-rising tide than a tsunami. A gradual transition as the Age of Pisces slips away.
We hear tell of a new era of rationalism, of humanitarianism and an opening of consciousness. We turn our backs on religion and worship and embrace science and self-direction. Perhaps it found root in the Age of Enlightenment, and sent out green tendrils with the smog and oil of the Industrial Revolution. We fly rotorcraft on Mars; Voyager 1 still hurtles away from us, 14 billion miles distant, having turned and shown us how fragile we are as a pale blue dot in the vast ocean of space.
We wake up slowly to the devastation of carbon dioxide and plastic. We look upon stranded, emaciated polar bears and strangled whales with empathy. It becomes apparent that our role is not to yoke Earth to our needs and desires, but to harmonise with it. Not to stand separate, but to be within it. To be with it.
Finding harmony and balance is of course one of the fundamental principles of Chinese Medicine. It is the essential character of healing. With regard to emotional dysfunction in particular, the mind is required to reintegrate with the body – to harmonise with it. Not to stand separate, but to be within it. To be with it.
There is an implicit need for acceptance here. A willingness to exist as an embodied entity. Not to push away the parts of us that we dislike, but to acknowledge, embrace, and move beyond. Too often we try to separate out the mind, placing egg white and yolk in isolated containers that no longer communicate. And that way lies disharmony and suffering. We can’t live as disembodied minds. Only when mind and body mix thoroughly can we function as integrated, realised beings.
This mixing of body and mind is a central aspect of Daoist meditation practices, for only when the mind is absorbed into the body can transformation occur. It’s also a key characteristic of Qi Gong, whereby mind, breath and body move as one, and in Taijiquan, whereby the postures and movements reflect the continual exchange and transformation between Yin and Yang.
Within each of these opposing and mutually supporting forces we find the seeds of the other. Within Yang, there is a seed of Yin; within Yin, a seed of Yang. When one reaches its fullest expression, it is inevitable that the other will find a chink and begin the cycle anew.
New beginnings…
As part of my Chinese Medicine studies we were invited to try a divination using the Yi Jing. My Baguazhang practice had already led me to this ancient text, which I viewed with cautious interest. I’d stopped short of an actual reading, though. The college tutor suggested we use a website to attain our reading, but this kind of impersonal, computerised randomisation seemed to me to be at odds with the Daoist outlook. Despite their commonality in binary language (1, 0 or solid line, broken line), there is no awareness, no mind, involved in a computer-generated result.
A decade or so ago I would have been highly sceptical of this kind of “woo-woo”. But my understanding has changed. A clear mind is a powerful and perceptive entity. It has huge potential for insight and intuition. If an open awareness, not occluded by desires, aversions or false ideas of itself, is mixed with a perception of reality in the present moment, something very special can result.
I had no yarrow stalks so I used some feng shui coins and cast those to determine the hexagram, with an open question in mind about my venture into Chinese Medicine. Number 52: Ken – mountain over mountain. With two transforming Yin lines, leading to number 50: Ting – fire over wind. I have to confess I hadn’t really entered this exercise with any great faith or hope; I was mildly curious but had no real expectations. Yet there it was: a result I could only interpret as highly auspicious and meaningful.
There was a journey laid before me, from a state of stillness, meditation, wu-wei, bodiless repose, to a state of rejuvenation, alchemical transformation, self-sacrifice and supreme good fortune. Here before my eyes was the process of Nei Dan – from silent meditation to the cauldron of inner alchemy.
Which leads the cynical side of me to question: what if the result had been something that seemed irrelevant or ambiguous? Would I have dismissed the whole thing as nonsense? Probably, yes. But intention is a powerful force. It is capable of forcing through circumstances to see the fruition of our will, often to disharmonious and harmful outcomes. Only when intention is light and aligned with the natural unfolding of things does it yield a bountiful harvest. A non-forceful, gentle intent can lead to an experience of gliding easily through life. Things happen for you, not to you. Too little intent, or too strong an intent, and stuff gets in the way. Life becomes a struggle as you try to walk against the current, or drift helplessly at the mercy of fickle winds.
In Chinese acupuncture, too, the correct, gentle but prudent intent of the practitioner in selecting and needling points is crucial to the treatment’s success. Along with the mind-state of the patient in being receptive to the suggestions of the needles, to respond and heal. Was my own mind mixing with reality in the correct way? Was my detached ambivalence just the right kind of unforced intention? I can’t answer that, but the results of the divination nevertheless resonated with me.
The power of intent is very much a part of Xingyiquan – it is the Yi in its name. Our intention is a crucial and determining factor in how we interact with substantial reality. In meditation, the intention should be delicate, like an hypnotic suggestion. If it’s too powerful, the mind is stirred up and cannot settle in the body. It can cause tension and disturbance where we seek relaxation and stillness. But without any intention, there is no instruction to be still. We sit and our attention is pulled around helplessly by our random thoughts, emotions and memories. With a subtle intent towards meditation, we can enter a process of quieting and subduing the mind so that it can sink with the breath and begin to form the lower Dantien – the keystone to opening the channels, unblocking locations of habitual stagnation, and restoring the body to its natural, flowing state of health.
New beginnings…
And so with great optimism did I regard the Spring of 2021. In the internal martial arts there is the metaphor of the dragon awaking and leaving his cave, meaning that the inside of the body mobilises in the correct way for the Jin to be expressed and released. Hence my choice of the Azure Dragon, the Chinese symbol of power, rebirth and vigour, in naming this blog. He is a representation of my own new beginnings in the three pillars of medicine, martial arts and meditation. Altogether, they are a potent elixir for change, touching every aspect of being from posture, to organ health, to peace of mind, to will and creativity. Apparently diverse and unrelated parts of our being reorganise and interrelate as we move towards wholeness.
This all sounds very promising. But then I sprained my ankle.
A stupid, seemingly random, accident. Not even a dramatic one. Just a humdrum but nevertheless painful sprain. Suddenly, unexpectedly, I find myself feeling frustrated. I can’t work (my current job involves a lot of hiking and physical activity). I can’t go running. Can’t do yoga. Can’t circle walk. Can’t practise tai chi. Can’t do turning forms in Wing Chun. Can’t even go for a stroll in the warm, sunny weather that has heralded the passing of winter and, hopefully, the end of the worst ravages of the coronavirus pandemic.
Sure, I can still practise meditation and Qigong. I can still study. But it’s still a shock to have everything else just… stop.
Acutely, as I hobble about the house, wincing, I am reminded that I am not in control. I should expect the unexpected. And, slowly, I begin to realise that there is wisdom to be found in these apparently unfortunate circumstances. There is a Chinese parable about a Daoist farmer, known widely as “Bad luck? Good luck? Who knows?”, in which a series of connected events bring a farmer alternately good results and bad results, such that he can never agree with his peers’ assessments of his good or bad fortune. “Maybe,” is all he replies, unwilling to assign any notion of good or bad.
Likewise, here I stand (slightly lopsidedly), faced with an instruction from the universe not to get carried away by my own notions of how things are unfolding. Like John Snow from A Song of Ice & Fire, I know nothing. Moreover, I’m not an omnipotent dragon; I’m a fragile human body, mortal and transient, with tendons, ligaments, bones, muscles and fascia that pop and tear and break. There’s an opportunity to find humility here.
It’s also a chance to experience and come to terms with pain. To learn to deal with it through acceptance and relaxation, rather than fight and resistance and tension. In some small way, it’s a vehicle too for nurturing greater empathy for those around me who live with far greater or chronic pain every day.
And perhaps here also is an opportunity to briefly enter a more Yin period, stripped of my usual (and possibly excessive) activity, allowing for a time of reflection, slowness and rest. Maybe, it’s just what I needed.
An opportunity for new beginnings, only not as I had intended.
The Azure Dragon 