Uncertain steps…
As 2021 draws to a close, it is an opportunity to move downwards and inwards, to rest in the hammock formed by the bottom of the wheel of the seasons; an opportunity to reflect, be still, and perhaps begin to tentatively plant the first tender seeds for the coming year. It is a time to conserve, be slow, be rooted, and unhurried, but also a time to lazily scan the horizon of a coming Spring, and to soak up the most worthwhile nutrients from the year just gone. There’s no need to go running ahead; it’s best to take some time and enjoy the dark womb of Winter. But at the same time it would be foolish to cut the ropes that tie us to what has passed, or to drift blindly into the new year.
For me it has been a year of exponential growth. Too much, perhaps. So far as possible I would like next year to emphasise consolidation, deepening, and a clipping of unnecessary, complicating shoots. I have been amazed at quite how much I have been able to soak up. In the social lockdowns that brought many things to a clanking, screeching halt since the spring of 2020, my life underwent a kind of acceleration. I have been a sponge for so much, but without consolidation I am in danger of leaking it all back out. I need to integrate things into a more solid routine, and make what I have learnt a part of my being. Some things have gone that way. Others have not. But I’m realistic, too.
When I list things out it becomes starkly apparent how much has gone in over the last two years: much of the Chen style taijiquan form; Xingyi five elements and many of the animal forms; the entire Wing Chun system; various Qi Gong or Dao Yin sets; yoga asanas and nascent Daoist Neidan techniques; Gao style Baguazhang circle walking and nearly half the 64 linear forms; and of course a flood of information from my degree course in Chinese Medicine and acupuncture. Eagerly I’ve soaked it all in, along with continuing existing practices like Zheng Manqing. Yes, certain things have fallen to the wayside. I can remember little Aikido, despite religiously practising bokken before the virus struck. And my wooden dummy form is a hesitant parody at best. But then, Baguazhang for example I have assimilated with enthusiasm and there is rarely a day goes by that I’m not walking my solitary tribal circle dance. What felt alien and bizarre not so long ago now feels… right, even necessary. Although we need them to function, to some extent, unconscious habits can often be bad; but conscious, wakeful rituals are a crucial element of human existence, and sorely lacking in many ways from the modern Western world.
For me, having a daily practice of taiji, bagua and meditation has been an anchor. I remember standing in San Ti Shi on balmy summer evenings, bats skimming my head, the air full of the scents of heather and garden flowers. Feeling like I was really present. In sacred communion with the world, with Nature. Stars glinting through the passing dusk. And I, stood there, with keen attention and diffuse awareness. I wonder what I was to the bats. Anything? But when we allow ourselves to wander unconsciously into the world of blue-lit flickering screens, endless scrolling and the turbulent morass of current affairs, opinion and conflict, we miss this presence. The universe speaks to us. It sings to us. But we rarely listen.
Studying acupuncture has been fascinating and intensely enjoyable. And yet, with having to hold down a full time job too, I feel ever in need of more time, more space, more energy. Meditation has been essential for that; for keeping things settled and tethered; for giving a sense of spaciousness. Breathing room. Also, regular exercise like running has helped to keep me feeling vital and able to cope. Our nervous systems are chemical beasts, and to push on mentally beyond the limits of our reserves only leaves us drained, irritable, anxious – even ill. I’ve done okay, I think, but I do need to reign things in. I go to absurd lengths sometimes; I convert our regular Dungeons & Dragons games into full prose epic (and comedic) retellings; I create maps and histories and mythologies; and I spend precious time writing this blog! But it helps to gather my thoughts. And hopefully it helps others to gather theirs, or relate in some way, perhaps. So some things need trimming, certainly, but I’m not prepared to pull any plants out yet. If things start drooping and going rotten, then… I’ve pushed this metaphor too far…
It’s important to acknowledge where you are, and to be comfortable with it, too. Yes, we all inevitably move towards goals. If we stay put we fester. We are dopamine-driven beasts. But you have to find reward along the way. I’m trying to avoid saying ‘enjoy the journey’. (I failed.) At the moment I’m looking up at a vast edifice. I’m a little goat looking up at the immense mountain of Chinese Medicine. And that’s intimidating. But it’s also exciting. It’s important to be able to look at things with a dual perspective. If I stay still for millennia that mountain will roll over me like a wave and crush me, but if I just look up and appreciate it for a little while, and begin my journey with careful steps, looking to the next ridgeline and not the summit, then suddenly that mountain isn’t so scary. There will be some squalls and moments of uncertainty I’m sure, but with determination and lightness the highest peaks are reachable. Determination and lightness. A dual mindset. Flipping, transforming, consuming and feeding each other. Yin and Yang.
It wasn’t always like this for me. Life got very stagnant at one point. I needed a new challenge, a sense of purpose, of meaning. I was unhappily adrift, but too stuck to do anything about it. It took engaging with these Chinese internal arts and philosophies to dig myself out of my self-made ruts. Connecting mind and body, breathing, listening inside, and simply breaking old neuronal pathways, and engaging with something new. Now I feel as though I can create myself anew, from fresh clay, and as much as some old tunnels of thought haven’t yet fully collapsed, I rarely venture down them. It’s better in the light.
But now we’re in the dark. It’s winter. Days are short. But that’s good too. I don’t envy people living in California, with pretty much one season all year round. I think the seasonal cycle is something that really connects us to the world. It’s healthy to be aware of it and to move with it. Of course, Chinese Medicine is closely tied to the seasons. Five Phase (Wu Xing) theory is an elegant model. Elegant because it acknowledges that what circles outside of us also circles within. We are a microcosm of the greater universe we perceive. When we attend to it, we attend to ourselves. When we attend to ourselves, we attend to the cosmos.
New Age horseshit? I might have said so twenty years ago. Now I’m more open-minded. Sceptical, but open-minded. The scientific approach is a good model to adopt, I think. Try it, test it, even if it seems mad. See if it fits. If something doesn’t fit, throw it out. But if it fits, then it’s probably a good idea to throw out what you had before. Newton served us well, but Einstein was better. Even Einstein thought quantum mechanics was too crazy to be true, from what I understand, but nonetheless here we are, with a comprehension of galaxies and black holes and subatomic particles that verges on the incomprehensible. We know quantum physics works, but we don’t know understand it. Waves of Yin and Yang undulating through the Qi of the cosmos. The Taiji of cosmic background radiation making electromagnetic poles from the Wuji of the singularity. The ten thousand things coming into being…
It seems to me it’s just different language expressing the same thing, the same fundamental nature of existence. Yin Yang theory is poetry, wisdom, and science. It speaks to me, anyway. Which is a good thing since it’s the basis of pretty much everything I do. Perhaps I lean on it too much? And why am I pursuing this ‘alternative’, voodoo vocation, anyway? Winter is the time for such consideration. The need for something that resonates with me, something I can become, something that can become me. Without getting too morbid, it’s a great motivator to consider your death bed. Your mortality. It’s easy to forget. It’s easy to become mired, too. But project forwards to your last breaths. Looking back and seeing either a life squandered, or a life lived. It’s an excellent antidote to laziness. And it provides perspective, too. Reveals what really matters. Tibetan Buddhists contemplate death as a formal practice. I’m sure many other religions and animistic or shamanic traditions do, too. Thinking on death is good for you. In the right measure, of course. Like everything else in life, it’s about finding what’s appropriate. How can I navigate this skilfully? Do I need more Yang, more energy, more outgoing, more activity; or more Yin, more density and softening, more passivity and stillness? Do I need my senses to look outward? Or do I need to look inward? So many of us are looking outwards all the time. Interoception is a skill that we could all do with a lot more of in the West. Daoist meditation emphasises embodiment, listening to our bodies, to our organs; listening to our minds, to our thoughts. Ask yourself, what is here? Don’t answer. Just ask, and listen.
I’ve been learning the Eight Silk Brocades (Ba Duan Jin) Qi Gong sequence. The name is telling. Evocative. Silk is soft, luxurious, sensuous. But it’s also tensile and strong. In taijiquan we ‘reel silk’. Coiling. Continuous. Flowing. Snakes and dragons are frequent icons in Chinese internal arts. Relaxed power. Soaring, diving, creeping, rushing, sleeping. Malleable and yielding, but relentless and unbreakable. Like water, like silk. Like so much of the world around us. Look at a pine tree. Look how it droops. Soft-shouldered. Heavy. Relaxed. It lets the wind pass through. It lets the breeze stir its boughs. But it’s strong. Its roots go deep. It grows with relentless power. And just try pushing it over. This is the kind of health that Qi Gong practice aims to foster. We nourish ourselves. Don’t burn yourself out on gym machines and computer screens. Look at your dog. He knows just how to move, and how much. He knows how to stretch. He knows how important it is. He engages his muscles, he lengthens, and he releases. It’s instinctive. Natural. So acknowledge your body’s need. Accept and explore your somatic nature. Again, just ask – and listen.
So we are two forces, two poles forever shifting their balance. We are striving, grasping, driven by dopamine, looking outwards, looking for reward; but we are also nurturing and loving, driven by serotonin, looking inwards, looking for connection and love. We have to admit it all, the dark and the light. We are a circulation. A circulation of air. A circulation of blood. A circulation of lymph. A circulation of Qi. Lung, Large Intestine, Stomach, Spleen, Heart, Small Intestine, Bladder, Kidney, Pericardium, Triple Heater, Gall Bladder Liver, Lung, Large Intestine… round and round, but never the same, always manifesting a new now. Fluid, regenerating, creating a new present. Cycling from Yin to Yang to Yin to Yang to Yin. And so is everything all around us. That’s why breathing practices can be so profound. We take a moment to absorb into our most obvious and fundamental cyclic exchange with the universe. Enjoy it. Appreciate it.
But we can never stay there. We have to move. There is a pervasive trend in ‘alternative’ thought for putting peacefulness on a pedestal. Our goal is peace. To always be peaceful. I’m not so sure. I think it’s important to not be peaceful sometimes. When it’s appropriate. Of course, that mindful awareness is needed. Don’t lose your mind in dis-ease. Don’t lose yourself to anger, to fear. Remain aware. Remain conscious. Perhaps awareness, then, would be a better goal. But whatever you pick, you bring its opposite into being. Duality is the nature of things as we perceive them. Circularity is the way things unfold. And to find harmony with that circuit is the skilful navigation of life. No preference. Nothing in particular. Not nothing, either. Just an awareness and a skilful navigation. Careful steps. Tentative steps. Do what is appropriate. That’s it. We need both our inner awareness and outer awareness to recognise what we must do, and how. We must ask ourselves, Where am I right now? What is my quality? What do I need? Work or rest? Ritual or spontaneity? To look in or to look out? To be alone, or to be with others? Life is not so much a balancing act, in the sense of questing to find stasis at some imagined central hub of perfection, but a skilful (or not so skilful!) movement from one pole to the other. From Yin to Yang. From Yang to Yin. If we can transform our energy with awareness, wisdom and skill, then that I think is something close to Wu-Wei, non-doing. Living naturally, freely, without delusion, and with Dao.
Trouble is, that’s asking a lot! There aren’t very many people with that level of skill around. I’m certainly not one. This is something that would take a lifetime, or many lifetimes, to realise. So we must set about things with some degree of intention. We mere mortals have to do something. And wherever our attention rests, something responds, something is created. For me, doing something has been sticking needles in people and walking round in circles like a becalmed lunatic. Touch the little acu-cave and listen. Wait, with the mind present, and the Qi comes. It’s not some imaginary force, or some black magic – it’s palpable. Primal. There’s something very primal in bagua circle walking too. Something primordial and innately satisfying. It echoes the basic quality of the universe. Resonates with it. To loosely quote Black Elk:
Every single thing a warrior does is in a circle,
And that is because the power of the world always works in circles,
And tries to be round.
The sky is round, and I have heard the earth is round, and so are all the stars.
The wind in its greatest power whirls,
And birds make their nests in circles,
For theirs is the same religion as ours.
Even the seasons form a great circle in their changing, and always come back to where they were.
The life of a man is a circle from childhood to childhood,
And so it is in everything where power moves.
When I first started learning taijiquan, it seemed peculiar, but it felt good, and something resonated with me. Even further back, in my twenties, I read D.T. Suzuki’s book on Zen and was so baffled, and yet so sure I was reading about something profoundly fundamental. Some ineffable wisdom that could only be expressed by silence, by a resonating bell, by a sharp crack from a cane! Something lost in translation, inexpressible in words. But back then I didn’t have the discipline, or the maturity, or the concentration to pursue anything beyond an intellectual understanding. Intellectual understanding – word-knowledge – was all I knew. But words, while sometimes beautiful and profound, put up a barrier between us and direct apprehension of things. By its nature language relies on the relation of subject to object, of this to that, or me to you, of I to everything else. Through thought we create ourselves as ideas. Through thought we narrate ourselves into existence. And back out again. But that’s not how things really are. Subject and object combine and annihilate each other in a moment of clarity, of emptiness, of Moksha, of Kong. Nothing arises of its own accord; everything intertwines. All is process; nothing stands alone for an instant. And yet, here it is. You write it in words and it sounds crazy, but it’s true. We only think we exist. We do exist, but not as we think. There is a bigger process …But I’m getting carried away. This is futile, trying to write about it. The important thing is experience, and through embodied practices – martial arts, Qi Gong, Nei Gong – we have means to connect with what’s real. Our dense, fragile bodies are a vehicle towards enlightenment. Towards refinement and subtlety. Towards finer energies and greater satisfaction, greater health… towards unity. And, at its pinnacle, with something we might call divine.
To make internal practices and Chinese Medicine an integral part of my life has been a way to immerse myself in all this. To not be split. To not have a job that I resent for drawing me away from what seems important or intriguing. I could happily sit here and write about being motivated by a life of service, of helping others, of healing others. The Vow of the Bodhisattva. But in all candidness, that’s not really it. I mean, that’s wonderful, to help others, but that’s not it, in truth. There is no noble calling. If anything, I would say my motivation is kind of selfish. I am motivated towards my own better emotional and physical health. I participate in all these practices, which are largely solitary outside of lessons and clubs, because they make me feel good. But when I’m uplifted, that good feeling goes out to others around me. Like ripples spreading out from a pebble dropped into a serene pool. You can’t help anyone if you’re miserable. You have to look after yourself to help others. Happiness is contagious, but so is misery. You gotta love yourself, man. (Hippy accent.)
There are more mundane reasons too, naturally, for pursuing a career in acupuncture. Greater financial independence. Be my own boss. Be challenged. Develop skill and intuition. Forge an identity. A purpose. Be able to say, “I’m a…” rather than just, “I work as a…”. There’s a difference. But mostly I think it’s about getting up and feeling enthused about what you’re doing. Believing in it. Wanting to do it, rather than doing it because you have to. Most people work with a simmering resentment, a needling frustration, or a hopeless apathy. Or they just numb themselves to it. Or they normalise depression. Or lie to themselves. Next year it’ll be different. If I can just reach this goal… almost there… almost! No, you need to find something you’re passionate about. That’s the secret to getting out of the rat race. To getting out of the gutter. You’ve got to connect to your heart. You’ve got to connect to your gut.
Some say the heart has its own sort of primitive consciousness. Some call the gut our second brain. Maybe they’re not so primitive. Maybe that’s the arrogance of the brain. Chinese Medicine puts many things in the domain of our visceral organs. Fearfulness is disharmony of the kidneys. An inability to let go is disharmony of the lungs. Pensiveness and preoccupation, the spleen. Anxiety and mistrust, the heart. Irritability, frustration, anger – the liver. I simplify a little, but the point is we are whole beings, not just walking, talking brains. We live too much in our heads. Planning. Analysing. Ruminating. Projecting. Worrying. Thinking. Arguing. Reacting. Emoting. Fragmenting. Splintering. Stagnating. We’re stressed out, burnt out, bummed out, pissed off. We kicked out our imagination and set fire to our dreams.
This will do, we think. Just leave me alone and let me go quietly. Wealth, respect, family, security; that’s all. I’m not belittling those things – they’re important, but they’re not everything. Certainly, we need to feel we have a right to exist, to occupy our space without apology, without guilt. To belong. Yes, absolutely we do. That is essential. That is like Peng Jin. Here we are, like an inflatable ball bobbing on a swimming pool. Push us down and here we are still – immovable, present, relaxed. But for most people it is a struggle just to exist; this simple way of being mutates into self-doubt, self-absorption, self-delusion, self-hatred. It’s rife. That’s the real pandemic. Some people aren’t capable of being alone. Of loving themselves. Even of liking themselves, never mind others. People are isolated – from each other, from themselves, from the world around them. Needy little balls of discomfort, crying out, or lashing out. A disconnection propagated by circular, delusional thinking. People are trapped in their own heads. Lost. Frightened. Separated from reality.
Wouldn’t it be better to merge with it? When you lose yourself, when you become an empty vessel, whether that be through trance, meditation, ecstasy, artistic flow, then all this delusion falls away. You are absorbed, and there is nothing else but the present. No sense of self, even – just this, here, now. Wonder. Awe. Love. Lightness. Generosity. Gratitude. Acceptance. Transcendence. Possibility and kindness. But you can’t force creativity and compassion; they have to flow, and from a source that is both beyond and within yourself. Through grace they fill you up and spill out. Yet all too often they are perverted by our own lack of wisdom, of self-awareness. We yearn for ease, for connection. But in that futile, misdirected quest, in the process of that eternal yearning, we reach out for succour, and grasp at shadows. We’re infantilised by own technology, disconnected by our own hyper-connection. Wired into permanent fight or flight. Bombarded by messages that tell us we’re lacking; that we need something out there, something that if we only had it, if we only ran a little faster, pushed a little harder, then we’d be complete. Then we’d be satisfied. Then we could stop chasing ghosts and start to live. But it’s nonsense. It’s a receding horizon. Our real potential is within us. And I’m not saying it’s easy. It’s not easy to sit and do nothing. There’s so much to do! How can I sit and do nothing? But it’s the only way to relax deeply. Being entertained, being distracted, being indulged – that is not relaxation: it’s stimulation. We must start by looking inside. Find some ease. Find some space. Relax, and let go.
Once I was sitting silently. Really still. A timeless, soothing nothingness. Almost paralysed; just listening inward. My breath was deep within me. It wouldn’t disturb a cigarette paper. My mind had washed down through me like something palpable, something heavy. My external posture was quiet, upright, aligned. Internally I was sinking down, releasing, surrendering to gravity. Like the pine tree. Upright trunk. Drooping branches. Everything condensing into my lower abdomen. Breath. Mind. Body. Gathering in, then sinking lower. Denser and denser. Quieter and quieter. And in that place of stillness, a little seed of movement. A little whirr of heat. A little lightness.
I have to sit a long time to feel anything. If my intention is too strong – nothing. Too weak – nothing. It takes a lot of practice, a lot of skill that I can’t profess to having acquired yet, but I believe we can grow that little seed of movement. The blinking white eye of Yang emerging in the expansive, dark field of Yin. At first it’s a mote, a speck. One movement of mind, one little breeze, and it’s gone. But with dedication and perseverance, that Yang can be nurtured and cultivated to nourish the whole system of body and mind. To bring unity to our being. Health is not just being ‘not sick’. Health is something we can feed and grow. That’s why Chinese Medicine appeals so much to me. It’s not about fixing people. It’s not about plugging holes; it’s about building a better boat. It’s looking at the whole picture. A person presents not with a disease, but with a pattern of disharmony. As acupuncturists, we assess the pattern and prompt the body towards healing itself, towards changing the pattern, raising its frequency, returning to a more harmonic state. We can always find greater and greater harmony. There is no perfect health.
It’s the same walking the bagua circle. There is no perfect form. Perfection is an elusive master, but one worth following. Curiosity. Analysis. Intuition. It’s about feeling it out. Adjusting. Settling. Searching. Changing. Placing the mind here, on smoothness, or fluidity, or on placing the feet, or maintaining a panoramic awareness. Feel this sinew channel opening. Feel that internal connection from foot to hand. Tune the mind to more alertness, or to greater calm. Passive; active; relaxed, tensed; pulling, pushing; outward, inward; dark, light; left, right; Yin. Yang. Always turning. Always questioning. Never satisfied. Because when we’re satisfied, we stop. We switch off. We become stuck. We stagnate. We cease to move with the Dao. And then we suffer.
On New Year’s Eve, the fireworks blaze and crackle, hailing 2022. All across the land, an eruption of noise and colour. A ritual. A communion. A panoramic cacophony of tribal drums to mark spotless, eternal Time. An acknowledgement of its passing. The wheel turns. A celebration of change, and an explosion of hope for the Spring. My hope? To have sufficient awareness to plant the right seeds in the right places. Enough darkness. Enough sunlight. Enough moisture and enough minerals. To bed down deeply in rich and plentiful soil, and let things unfold. To know when to dial things down, to step back and reduce; to know when to rise up, move forwards and increase. To know when to not know. To become a master of circles and needles! Okay, perhaps not a master. Just to sprout some healthy shoots would be a good result.
It’s a long way up that mountain, but here’s a step.
The Azure Dragon 