It’s amazing how quickly things fall apart. Yesterday I spent an hour tidying my house in anticipation of visitors. This morning there was already dog hair on the couch (my pug sheds incessantly,) laundry to be done, papers to be organized, and well, you know, the inevitable slide into chaos. And so quickly. How did this happen in just 24 hours? I start again.
First a little tea and a few moments in front of the fire (said pug in lap,) to order my thoughts for the day. Then, tidying up again. I could get frustrated about this tendency of the universe to not stay put. I’m one of those control freaks who gets anxious when my home and work environment get cluttered. Sometimes just walking around putting things in square piles makes me feel better.
My qigong practice has this same ordering effect on my psyche. First the alignment–feet, spine, shoulders, head. Then the calm, natural, relaxed breath. My mind settles. Then I bring my attention to the task at hand. Whatever I’m practicing I must have my attention gently focused on each action. The scattered qi circles softly back into place, like a drift of leaves. Things find their place. I am, as my Quaker friends like to say, “all of piece.” This is clutter clearing, qigong style. And yes, because things have this tendency to keep falling apart, you do it every day.
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Here’s how it usually goes: up at 7:00, take the dog out, rustle up a cup of tea (or coffee), eye on the clock, figure there’s just enough time to check email then, for sure, you’ll have ten spacious uninterrupted minutes for qigong before diving into the shower and preparing to head off to work for the day. (more…)
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This morning when I went out to the frosty meadow near my house to practice I took my elk horn knives. I like to get at least one session a week in with these crescent shaped weapons. They’re a good way to emphasize the curving twisting energy of Bagua. The thing is, circling these things around your body while walking continuous circles with twists and turns woven in is quite a workout. Think of a nice long power walk up and down hills, while swinging weights around in controlled circles the entire time. It gets you breathing. (more…)
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There are many qigong exercises that suggest some sort of visualization, like imagining the roots of a tree under your feet, or the moonlight softly settling about you, or the warmth of the sun descending into your bones. I believe that when the Chinese developed these practices, they weren’t imagining such things, they were actually feeling them. (more…)
I’m moving soon. My landlady’s response to the news was the classic Buddhist/Taoist maxim, “well, after all, the only predictable thing in life is change.” We all know this, but somehow it keeps surprising us. The Chinese were masters of change. The I Ching (or classic of changes) is probably the most well known example of this mastery, but graceful observance of change is at the heart of all Chinese arts including medicine and qigong. The ancient Chinese were so attuned to seasonal change that they developed an entire set of qigong exercises based on two week seasonal adjustments called “qi nodes.” The practice was to do the new posture at the beginning of each two-week period to harmonize with subtle external shifts in the qi. (more…)
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When I first began to study Chinese Medicine back in the 1980’s, it was in response to my fascination with Taoism and martial arts. Here was an ancient medicine based on principles of harmony and an understanding of our relationship to nature. It was radical in its premise that nature is self correcting, and that humans can heal naturally by tuning back in to the rhythm of natural cycles. The doctor’s job was to search out the cause of a patient’s disharmony and help them restore balance. We took the pulse; we listened to the voice; we observed movement, bearing, and skin tone; we asked questions about the patient’s life and their illness. Then we recommended changes in diet and lifestyle; we used needles, moxa, and herbs. We restored balance. Patients got better.
Somewhere along the line, things started to change. It’s been a subtle process, and therefore easy to miss. But Taoist medicine, in which skill is dependent on the refinement of the doctor’s sensitivity over a lifetime of practice, is getting gradually replaced by a westernized approach that emphasizes the constant acquisition of new treatment techniques and diagnostic tools.
I suspect this all started from the justifiable need for acupuncturists in this modern age of technological medicine to make a decent living and enjoy a modicum of respect among other health care professionals. Thus the emergence of what is now called “complementary” medicine (complementary to what I wonder?) and the blossoming of doctoral programs in Chinese medicine that teach us western medical skills so we can fit in better with the medical establishment.
All of this leaves me disheartened. These days, instead of instructing our patients in the art of meditation or qigong, reading their fate in the stars, and adjusting their home environment to correct imbalances, we are more likely to send them for lab tests and spend our time taking courses on which procedure codes to stack up on our insurance bills. Perhaps this is all necessary to survive as a healthcare provider in this strange antagonistic world.
But I long for a return to the Taoist roots of Chinese medicine, when a poem might be the prescription, and a life well lived, not a lab test, was the measure of success.
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Entelechy and Jing
What is this? Definitions first. Entelechy is the implicit tendency that every living being contains to realize its true nature. And Jing is a Chinese medical term. It has several meanings. One is, in a very literal sense, sexual fluids. But in a broader sense it is the part of us that knows how to reproduce itself. By implication then it is the patterning in the DNA that understands how to differentiate cells, how to heal a wound for example.
Many people today are disconnected from their true self and confused about their purpose in life. They are looking for a way to reclaim authenticity and a compass that can keep them on track. Qigong can help us with this. It trains us be attentive to the expression of our own Jing.
Though not a familiar word, entelechy is a more familiar concept because it permeates our western culture. For instance, we can easily understand the idea that an acorn implicitly knows how to become an oak tree. It is much harder for us to understand the Chinese view of Jing as a source of life direction. Qigong practice may be a way for us to learn to see that.
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Sometimes my morning qigong practice consists entirely of sitting and gazing out the window. I used to feel guilty about this, as if I were dodging my commitment, succumbing to laziness, just plain goofing off. But my dog, a Chinese Pug whose ancestors lived in Tibetan monasteries and who knows a thing or two about these matters, is teaching me the value of simplicity. She is a master of the Taoist meditation practice called “sitting and forgetting.”
With the quietude of an old monk, she spends some portion of each day sitting by the window watching life unfold in the yard outside. One morning I took my tea and joined her instead of immediately starting my daily qigong exercise. We sat on the landing halfway up the stairs (her favorite spot,) where there’s a view of the garden from two corner windows. Squirrels dashed about; the neighbor’s black tabby cat sat quietly watching the fish pond; woodpeckers dived at the feeders; a few falling leaves, harbingers of autumn, traced a lazy path through the air. We just sat and watched. I sipped my tea. I thought maybe I should get on with my morning practice instead of wasting time staring out the window. But then I poured another cup of tea, my gesture as simple and natural as the drifting autumn leaves.
Sometimes our practices become self-improvement projects. It’s not easy to notice when this happens. At what point does commitment become drudgery, discipline a lifeless and repetitive routine? How do we stay true to the living moment, the ever fresh and spontaneous movement of the qi? Surely daily practice is important, you argue. We couldn’t just go along doing whatever we want like children at play. After all, we have to show up for work every day. How will we make progress, stay healthy, achieve our goals, if we don’t practice every day? Well, yes. I know these arguments well, and I agree. My daily practice creates a sturdy vessel for me. Anchored by the consistency of that container, I’m better able to handle life’s unexpected and unpredictable events with some measure of grace.
On the other hand, perhaps the ultimate mastery is the practice of “no-practice,” just doing each thing as it comes up. Yes, like a child. Right now, I’m gazing out the window. My dog leans peacefully against me. I reach for another cup of tea.
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