Thoughtless observer

Last night in class we were working on observing. Just observing. Losing the thinking mind and just practicing being in the moment.

It's simple, but in a traditional, typical day, it's something most people (in the U.S.) don't do.

So we practiced standing: feet hip width apart, feeling the entire foot on the floor, with the most of the weight focused at the ball of the foot.

Knees are soft, slighty bent.

Pelvis is relaxed, and just tilted forward, without tensing the stomach or lower back muscles. Just enough so that the curve in the lower spine is lessened.

Shoulders are in their natural curved state.

The neck is relaxed.

The crown of the head is the highest point. (Place the thumb on one clavicle and the third finger on the other. Allow the index finger to reach up toward the chin. Does it touch the chin? If not, lower the chin so it does. Does the finger reach the divit between the chin and the lips or even highter? Raise the head slightly so the index finger gently touches the chin. This is a good guideline for making sure the crown of the head the highest point.)

Stand in this posture and just bring your attention to the palms of your hands. Don't think about them in your head. Don't imagine what they feel like, really FEEL them.

Do you feel a gentle pulse from blood flow? Do you feel air passing by the palms? Just observe what you feel, without evaluating, judging. Just feel.

Do you sense a fullness in the hands? Tingling? Heat? Coolness? Nothing?

Whatever you sense, or don't sense, is okay. You're just here to observe. What you sense is just...what you sense. There is no good, bad, right, wrong.

In class, as we move deeper into this kind of practice, we bring our attention to a bigger part of the body, moving up the arms, adding the torso, the legs, the feet, the head.

As we really sense the body, just observing the changes, the delicate movements, shifts in balance, pulsing, qi, we practice not only being present in the moment, we become aware of the subtle messages we get from our bodies, others bodies and from the environment around us.

The practice moves from the body to just outside. Being aware of the space just outside of our body, connecting into it. Deeper practice allows one to feel connected to everything in the room. Be aware of where things are, if they shift or change.

This is what internal arts masters are so in tune with. This is why, when you try to strike a master, they know your move before it even comes. And you're down on the ground wondering what happened.

People who have trained so deeply to be in tune to their environment aren't separate from it. This is why they respond so swiftly and accurately. There is no pause. There is no "re"action. There just is.

Happy practicing.

Defining the Undefinable

Tao Te Ching Verse 4
I'm a bit warmer to this translation but I'll add Steven Mitchell's below it:

The Tao is an empty vessel; it is used, but never filled.
Oh, unfathomable source of ten thousand things!
Blunt the sharpness,
Untangle the knot,
Soften the glare,
Merge with dust.
Oh, hidden deep but ever present!
I do not know from whence it comes.
It is the forefather of the emperors.

Steven Mitchell's version:

The Tao is like a well:
Used, but never used up
It is like the eternal void:
filled with infinite possibilities.

It is hidden but always present.
I don't know who gave birth to it.
It is older than God.


I used to think that the Tao was another name we could give 'love'. Love is unending. Like the eternal void in this verse. Filled with possibility. Love guides, connects, fills.

When I feel really connected, not only with people around me, but with the moment (you know, not spending this moment thinking about all of the things I have to do, or maybe should have done, or possibly could have done...) I feel love. I am moved to act in loving ways. Listening deeply. Responding instead of reacting. Being instead of doing.

But there have been just as many times when I've been moved by anger...seemingly unending anger! Usually it happens when I've allowed myself to take on much more than I'm able to do and I've had enough. Enough deadlines, caretaking, phone calls, cleaning, emotional drama, disrespect from clients and family, cat hair. You know: enough. And to cut it all off quickly I throw out a few select sharp words in a tone and volume no one can misunderstand - and just for good measure some loud noise like a door slamming or a pounding fist. Whichever seems to be the most effective in making a quick change in the immediate circumstance. The anger gave me what I needed: solitude, disconnection, clearing out. I said yes to too many people, let my boundaries down and I had to have a quick and dirty retreat. At the moment anger was a means to an end.

So if love is Tao, shouldn't anger be Tao also? Anger sometimes feels unending: used, but never used up. Many times filled with infinite possibilities.

And I think back to all of the times anger has saved me over the years. Anger, initially, can spark dramatic change. I remember giving birth to my first child. The umbilical cord was prolapsed, cutting off oxygen to my daughter. The doctor told the staff to prep me now for immediate surgery, so they started milling about to prepare. The doctor dropped into a fury: "I SAID NOW!!" he boomed. His anger (and fear of possibly losing the baby) shook them up and we were in surgery in no time. It was amazing. It was also anger that saved me, when in college, from being pulled down an alley by two drunk young men - fighting and yelling in anger made them take off. It was initially anger, a few years ago, that made me defend several young kids who were being lured into a fight by boys seven to eight years older.

Anger isn't the Tao. No emotion is. Not love. Not peace. Not anger. Tao is not a feeling.

But we always feel better when we can define, describe, compare, evaluate what something is. We have such a need to define that we sometimes do it by what it is not! Because with these descriptions, definitions, comparisons, evaluations...we feel that we know. We understand.

And above all, we have to understand. Wrap our brains around it. Know.

This is how I approached understanding "Tao". This was the only way I knew how to approach it. Break it down into what it's made of, how it works, what it feels like, looks like, tastes like, smells like.

But Tao is different. I had to get over that. Because it is none of those things. It just is.

And to understand it, I really had to work hard. I worked to blunt my sharpness: to stop defining what everything is and is not. Worked to untangle my knots: my stress, anger, love, happiness, curiosity. I had to soften my glare: no more judgment, evaluations, constant thinking. I had to merge with the dust: for a moment, just a moment, believe that I am not separate from anything - ANYTHING: from the stained carpet beneath my feet, from the barking dog outside, from wars beyond my country's borders, from miniscule ants living under rocks, from the garbage lying in the bins outside.

The more I am able to smooth, untangle, soften, merge life's circumstances, that's when I begin to understand Tao, and only then. Because when I don't get it, I realize I'm trying too hard.

There really isn't anything to get.

There is only to be.

Solid, Liquid, Gas

I'm downstairs in the basement waiting for the spin cycle to end when I notice a glass of water on a short, plastic shelving unit next to the washer. The shelf is where the detergent hangs out and other laundry things that I sweep out of the washer at the end of a cycle - like pebbles, coins, hair bands, an occasional dead beetle. I'm assuming it's from my kids' pockets, but I've never asked. Who knows, maybe my husband is a closet entomologist.

So, here I am, checking out the water in the cup. It's vibrating like mad, which is cool. But then I realize that the shelf is free standing, not touching the vibrating washer. So the water in the cup is responding to the vibration of the washer through the cement floor and up the plastic shelf. I touched the shelf to feel the vibration.


Nothing.


I couldn't feel anything at all. But the water - so sensitive - was really vibrating.


The cycle stopped and slowly the water became calm.

Watching this unfold immediately made me think of a couple of days ago when I got a phone call from someone I let shake me up. She called to question me about a blog entry I had written. She didn't understand why I was writing about something that I had experienced a few years ago and 'passing it off' as if it had happened recently.

It's clear, when you read the entire entry, that the experience did take place in the past. But she hadn't read the entire entry.

I was ticked off. And I was short with her on the phone. And I took that short, ticked-off feeling and lovingly spread it to everyone I had contact with for the next half hour. Nice, huh?

Rather than seeing her questioning just as it was - questioning - I also added the baggage of our relationship to it, thinking "Here we go again, she's got to start off the conversation by criticizing me." "She hasn't even read the entire entry and she's complaining about it!" "Once again she's just trying to undermine something that I'm enjoying." Blah Blah Blah.

So, washer, cup of water, phone call, pissy mood. How do these possibly link up?

The caller was the washer, creating vibrations. I was the glass, allowing her vibrations to literally move me, shake me and control my flow. And each one of my negative mental responses were adding more vibration to the cup. I wasn't physically attached to the person talking to me, but I was moving to every word that was said. Just like the cup wasn't touching the washer, but it was totally reacting to it.

I realize all of this was brought forth in a weak attempt to protect my ego from shots that only exist because I have an ego! If I didn't have an ego, I probably wouldn't have even felt the vibrations, let alone reacted to them.

So, the imagery of this leads me to the stages of water - liquid, solid, gas. Liquid feels good to me - flow, allowing yourself to mold into any shape at any time. Steam - the ability to expand and connect. Steam can reach all places, it's big, expansive and connects. And ice - solid, stable, rooted.

You notice that all of these qualities are needed in taiji practice? Ice- you have to have a solid, strong foundation to your stances, a solid structure to you posture, to your intention. Liquid - you have to be relaxed and flexible to move flawlessly through postures, to allow energy to come in and to be released. Steam - to be present, expansive, connected to your opponent.

And all of the qualities are needed in life relationships too. What a great relationship if you were solid in your being, relaxed and flexible enough to accept others as they are, present and connected to those around you?

That would rock.

So thank you, caller, for giving me insight into my ego driven slosh. And I'm sorry for the short, ticked off conversation we had. I have some work to do.

And thank you washer, for reminding me that I don't always have to be water, reacting to everything.

And for clean clothes.



***Hey, if you haven't gotten the phone call yet: today is Election Day.***