Cross-energy: when I earth the left side the right comes alive.
Before forgiveness can be bestowed it must be begged for, otherwise whatever is given is tainted. This is the meaning of prayer: not just generally asking God for forgiveness, but remembering each occasion of sin (where sin is any action or thought that has impeded my own or somebody else's spiritual progress).
Circles, circles, everywhere – set up by turning, always turning. Sinking in taiji is a sinking into circularity – falling, or rather being sucked, into a maelstrom, or rather two maelstroms, each rising up through the body from a foot like spinning funnels, channeling energy both down and up. Such energetic structures only reveal themselves when the Form is practised quickly. The Form is a celebration of movement, above all, turning, and if practised as such then the shapes the body takes as it turns are a consequence of that turning: of centrifugal and centripetal forces, and as soon as movement stops and those forces dissipate, then the body collapses. This is our path to lightness.
Sitting on a park bench, awaiting the next appointment, surrounded by large fig trees. The one closest to me is magnificent, and as I let my eyes follow its trunk upwards into the branches and billowing crown, I also feel, but differently, its roots extending under me. That tree, seemingly twenty feet away, contains me.
Internally each of us is as a ball of yarn with many loose threads dangling. Each of these threads represents a possible becoming – a journey that beckons our embarkation. But also each thread is a vestige of the past – a fragment of our ancestry, genetic or energetic, put in place possibly millions of years ago. So, when we take up the challenge of our destiny and follow one of these threads, instead of swallowing hook, line and sinker, the external demands of society and species, then we are travelling both forward and back at the same time – breaking through the constraints of presence into a true future by remembering a true past.
Eschew the external, especially its claim to represent reality. The external is the detrita of process, in the same way that the artist creates art, the poet writes poems, yet the finished work reveals little of its making, quickly becoming a representative of some dubious artistic identity, a commodity to be bartered or rubbish to be binned.
The function of thinking is not to reveal truth: there is no moral relation between thinking and truth. Thinking simply clears the air – locates and removes obstruction to my flight through life. Thinking creates simulacra (it cannot do otherwise – how could I possibly hold the infinite variables of real life in my puny mind?), not as imposters to truth, but as handholds to haul myself along then immediately leave behind as I struggle with the pitfalls of progress (forward movement) and strive to keep the flow of energy clean and strong.
True humility doesn't give rise to fawning weakness but to ruthless detachment, a detachment from all aspects of self, from everything the mind makes up. Without it the shoulders will always hunch and you'll find yourself reveling in images of the world rather than listening to, or rather being part of, what's there.
When a new life is conceived it is not just a union of sperm and egg, but of an infinite array of effects and energies: time, place, mood, weather, wine, etc; they all bear on the quality and the character of that life. What makes the life a life though is its desire to grow, develop and above all express itself, in its being and its becomings, by consuming experience.