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ACHT IS MEER DAN DUIZEND

PULSATION

Transport your thoughts to the origin of existence, to the beginning of the unimaginably long process of evolution. The very first life forms consisted of a single cell, without a central nucleus. Single-celled organisms with a nucleus would not appear until two billion years later. A tiny lump of life, surrounded by a wafer-thin membrane, separating an…

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7 months ago · Peter den Dekker

The Zen Buddhist tradition of China and Japan has produced a simple illustrated tale: 'The Ten Pictures of the Ox ' or also 'The Taming of the Ox'. The author is the Chinese Zen master Guo-An Shi-yyuan, called Kakuan in Japanese, who lived in the 12th century. It is drawn and written allegory of the challenges the Zen practitioner is bound to encounter on the spiritual path. The situations depicted through the ten drawings and their short accompanying texts were and are easily recognised.

But not only the practitioner of meditation can draw inspiration and encouragement from the tale of the little ox herder and the giant ox. The chi kung practitioner can also benefit from the colourful description of the stages of inner cultivation. All kinds of difficulties that may arise in fathoming posture, breath, habits, and emotion are reflected in the process of taming the ox.

In the first picture, you see a little boy, an ox herd. He has lost his ox. It is his responsibility, his job, to be with the ox all day long - to lead it to juicy grass and drinking water, to take good care of it in everything and to bring it back to the stable in the evening. But now he has not only lost the ox - he has even forgotten WHAT he has lost. Without clearly knowing what he is actually looking for, he has set off on his journey.

In picture two, the boy makes an important discovery: for the first time, he sees traces of the ox. He has not yet discovered the ox itself, but he now has at least an idea of what he is looking for. This first encounter with the ox, even if it concerned only his traces, makes a great impression on the boy and gives him strong motivation to continue the quest.

Finally, after long searching and sleuthing, the boy finds the ox. He sees him in all his colossal size and imposing strength. The ox is stubborn and recalcitrant, but if he could tame him, he would become a powerful companion. But then again, how on earth can you learn to master this primal force?

The fourth picture shows the boy accepting the challenge and actually starting to tame the ox. He pushes and pulls and tries to impose his will on the mighty animal. If he wants to go left, the ox goes right. OK, then it goes to the left, but then the ox walks to the right. When he stops, the ox just keeps on moving, imperturbably. In desperation, he pulls the ox behind him with all his might, it now stands motionless still. No, this is clearly not the right method to tame an ox. This is no way to approach this primal beast. The boy sees that he has to learn to listen and that impatience and force-feeding will get him nowhere.

Step by step, he understands what he should and should not do. Instead of trying to dominate the ox with willpower, he starts making contact. Physical closeness and a growing mutual trust gradually begin to bear fruit. It is a demanding and time-consuming process, but the path of taming the ox has been found.

Then, in the sixth picture, you see the boy sitting on the ox's back, cross-legged, making music, with no fear of falling off. The ox is no longer an opponent to fight or a force of nature to overcome. The boy sits quietly on his back and the ox willingly carries him home.

Home again. The boy sits on the pavement in front of his house, on the threshold of his door. The ox is gone. The boy realised that the ox and himself were never essentially separate. Taming the ox was necessary to fathom himself. It brought him back to himself, brought him home. In fact, the phases of searching, finding, fighting and following were all aimed at recognising his own inner power and urges and taming them.

The archetypal eighth picture is an enso, an empty circle. In the seventh picture, the ox had already disappeared - in this picture, so has the boy. If the chosen discipline was already relative, not of absolute value, in the larger perspective, so are the person and his life path. The boy returned home, even though he had never really left it. He came to an insight that had been within him before his search. A circle came full circle.

In the penultimate picture, you see a stream, a flowering tree, birds singing. Look carefully around you, you don't have to go far - indeed you don't have to go anywhere at all. All around you - and inside you - is life. The origin of things is always here, close by.

Picture ten shows a fat, happy monk. A free spirit, a homeless wanderer - at least someone who lives without excuses and complications. Without boasting any particular philosophy or humanity, he shares his food with others and helps where he can. A cheerful Samaritan. A good-humoured market trader. If you are lucky enough to have met him once, it makes you think. You may realise that you have lost sight of your ox and that you should go and find it.

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'Opening and closing of the kua' is a central chi kung theme. Since it takes place inside the body and is therefore not always easy to recognise, it makes sense to magnify it and make it visible as a large external movement.

For an impressive demonstration of the 'opening and closing of the kua': the frog.

The explosion of force in the hind legs opens the 'kua' and the force passes equally through its left and right sides.

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… I still would return to China many times, but as a traveller I remain even more of an outsider than before. On a tentative last trip, I interrupt commitments and spend a few days at the Taoist Bai Yun Guan, the Temple of the White Cloud, in a suburb of Beijing. In a garden at the back of the complex is a stele, a standing stone, with an engraved drawing and text. It is the Nei Jing Tu, the 'Image of the Inner Landscape'. I had often seen reproductions of the stele's print, but now, in the quiet enclave of the monastery garden, I see in the wondrous image the essence of an entire culture. Simple in presentation, nimble and almost humorous, deep and fundamental in meaning. Mirroring in each other the outer and inner worlds…
An Inner Landscape - chapter 37. Family #3

To get acquainted, we shake hands. However long we hold each other: you remain you and I remain me. As boundaries, our skin is implacable. Through the palms of our hands and fingertips, we don't seem to get much further than each other's surface.

Through the openings of eyes and ears, the world does seem to be able to enter unhindered. That is pretence. The sound something makes and the light it reflects are merely messengers, not the thing itself. And once these touch the eardrum and retina, a conversion to an abstract neurological language follows, which seems to have little more to do with the perceived reality.

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The humans use Arecibo to look for extraterrestrial intelligence. Their desire to make a connection is so strong that they’ve created an ear capable of hearing across the universe.

But I and my fellow parrots are right here. Why aren’t they interested in listening to our voices?

We are non-human species capable of communicating with them. Aren’t we exactly what humans are looking for? …

The Great Silence - Ted Chiang

Ted Chiang's gripping short story is set around the Arecibo Observatory in Porto Rico. In the dense rainforest, a group of parrots watches in wonder at man's efforts to contact another life form, which must be somewhere in the universe. Surely it cannot be that humans, are the only intelligent life in infinite space. A giant telescope has been built and is listening intently and continuously for a possible message, a hint - whispered or deafening - transmitted at the initiative of that other life form. Or sent in response to signals sent out by humans. For the telescope is used not only as an enormous ear, but also as an outsized megaphone. IS ANYONE THERE? Would someone pick up that cry and return a reply? ARE WE ALONE?

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It takes a village to raise a child. But yes, a village, come to think of it. Of endless outdoor play, only the football cage remains. Before we realised it, the old familiar world had turned into a vast city, where everyone does their own thing. A childhood life surrounded by the variety of generations and ages was exchanged for growing up in a defined and single-minded family. Family, the homes of neighbours you could walk right in to, shopkeeper, postman and school teacher, a running troop of children - it was all taken for granted and seemed of little importance, until it just evaporated into a sentimental memory, and then terribly missed.

And just when it seems there is no one left from that village circle, there are the grandparents. If you are lucky as a child, they live nearby, and you see each other often. No need for a village as a backdrop, the wonderful age difference between children and grandparents is the crux. Where the stress of everyday life plays tricks on dads and mums and they often postpone the enjoyment of the wonder of children and push that into the future, grandpas and grandmas are free and available.

Samen naar de apies kijken, samen naar het strand
En als je geluk had ging je samen naar de brand
Samen op het ijs en met een sleetje in de sneeuw
Leuwentemmer spelen en m’n opa was de leeuw
Altijd als we samen waren hadden we plezier
Stierenvechter spelen en m’n opa was de stier
Mijn Opa - Annie MG Schmidt

Are grandmothers and grandfathers the last, remarkably, they were also the first to shape the 'extended family'. Long before humans started living in villages, roaming around in groups as hunters and gatherers. The role of grandmothers in assisting raising little ones in those prehistoric times has been the subject of debate, culminating in the formulation of the ‘Grandmother Hypothesis’.

First of all, the scientific mind wonders about the biological reasons why a woman, no longer able to bear a child herself, still lives for so many years after menopause. After all, nature is relentless, and does not like loose ends. Sweet grannies baking apple pie and reading stories to grandchildren hardly fit into serious evolutionary reasoning. But common sense immediately understands how logical and welcome grandma's contribution was within primal families - yes, crucial for the smallest children to survive the first vulnerable years.

Within the aforementioned hypothesis, there was no role for grandfathers. After all, they remained and remain fertile until an advanced age, a fact that did not give rise to any evolutionary suspicion as in the case of grandmothers. But be that as it may, both grandfathers and grandmothers did need to be fit enough at their age to be an active part of the circle that surrounded small children. Harvard professor Daniel Lieberman therefore suggests the ‘Active Grandparents Theory’.

What stands between a grandfather and a grandson, between a grandmother and a granddaughter, is the hinge of time. Where one looks forward and claims the future, the other leans back after the effort is done, filled with life experience and memories.

I don't need to ask you to walk forward a bit and observe how your immediate surroundings seem to be slowly approaching you. That is everyday experience. Perhaps you read the text Observing that I wrote and posted a few months ago? If so, you may remember the clip of the train driver's field of vision. The future thundered in unimpeded through the locomotive's windscreen.

And now walk backwards for a bit. You will see that the immediate surroundings recede. In the Observation article, this sensory experience was underlined and magnified by a clip filmed through the window at the rear of the train's rear carriage. The landscape slips away, the past disappears.

Walk forward. The foot rolls off. And it is from the forefoot and toes that you make the move forward.

Then walk backwards. The foot rolls off, but now starting at the toes, then the forefoot, the midfoot and finally the heel. Walking backwards plants the heel firmly into the ground.

On the inside of the foot lies a special acupuncture point. It marks the geographical centre of the foot, midway between the forefoot and toes, and the heel. It belongs to the no man's land between the forward and backward movements. It marks the hairline line between the infinity ahead and a similar unlimited space on your backside. The point is the embodiment of the middle of time.

Its name is Gong Sun: 'grandfather and grandson'. I take the liberty of extending the translation to 'grandmother and granddaughter' or simply 'grandparent and grandchild'.

Stand upright with your feet side by side, not in any special way. Look forward, at an object that grabs your attention. Be drawn to it, as if you would like to go there, to take a closer look. Lean forward slightly. The body weight passes Gong Sun and slowly collects in the forefoot and toes. Your body gradually becomes unbalanced and it won't be long until you have to start taking a step towards the aroused interest. Looking forward, desire and curiosity, leaning forward, weight on the forefoot, impatience and imbalance, and the final step. Let all that be symbolised by the life of the grandchild.

A child, absorbed in the game, ready to run away. A football defender or goalkeeper, standing alert in the front foot. A judoka on the mat, ready for action. A runner just before the start. Standing with the weight gathered in the heels, that's not going to be it, you'll be locked.

Then stand neutral again. This time with half-closed eyes. Pay no heed to what is in front of you. Forget any curiosity and future. Let the weight of your body flow back to your heels. Take it away from the front feet. Your back is slightly arched. Settle down where you are standing. The attention that first gathered in the areas in front of you and above you, will move to the areas below you and behind you. The high frequency of wanting to be in action and excitement is exchanged for the lower tonal range and calmness that belongs more to the life of grandparents.

Is it nonsensical to conflate the dimensions of time and those of space? Does this go totally against the stern logic of science? Research on a modest scale hints at how a physical activity - in this case walking backwards - does seem to affect a mental factor - short-term memory.

Henry David Thoreau had the dimensions of time and space intertwined when he noted:

… for I lived like the Puri Indians, of whom it is said that ‘for yesterday, today, and tomorrow they have only one word, and they express the variety of meaning by pointing backward for yesterday forward for tomorrow, and overhead for the passing day.’

Now, for a third time. Stand upright and this time distribute your weight accurately across your entire foot. There is pressure in your heels as well as pressure in your forefeet and toes. Use the location of the Gong Sun point as a balancing point between the two worlds. The intention hidden in this central posture has both a forward and a backward component. The future ahead and the past behind are both in view, and both can be entered.

An important component in practising the Wu Chi posture consists of imagining a balloon that you prevent from dropping on the ground, by holding it with the inside of your knees. Here you need very little inward pressure, as the balloon hardly weighs anything. Holding a balloon will emphasise the inside of the feet. This, combined with distributing body weight between heel and forefoot, will bring the focus of your standing around Gong Sun.

It is mentioned in classical Chinese medical textbooks that Gong Sun is the master point of the Chong Mai, the soft structures in the vertical axis of the body. While the forefoot is connected to the front of the body - including visual perception - and the heel has a connection to the dorsal side of the body, standing with one's weight in Gong Sun directs attention and circulation to the centre of support, the embodiment of the here-and-now.

The 'chi' of 'wu chi' can be translated as 'extreme' or 'polar'. Already standing before you is the infinite space and unlimited possibilities of the future. And behind you the infinite depths of the past. 'Wu' is the negation of, the holding back to enter either of these two extremes. 'Wu chi' refers to the hair-fine line that separates and connects these two worlds: the elusive now-moment.

This is what the first stretch of the Ba Duan Jing series looks like. And not performed by a soldier from Yu Fei's army. Nor by any of the figures on the Dao Yin Tu. A jolly, round-bellied monk has his palms turned upwards and stretches his arms. As if he were lifting a slab of a system ceiling. It apparently takes him little effort, because instead of his face contorted with exertion, his smile could not be more generous. It is not rare to see a statue of this eccentric figure standing at the entrance of a Chinese restaurant, welcoming incoming guests. We are used to doing so with a single open hand gesture pointing to the door. But in the manner of the merry monk, the body in total extension, it can apparently be done that way too.

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During my career as a chi kung instructor, I was regularly asked to give a teaching contribution at martial art festivals, symposia or congresses. The end of such events was often set aside for demonstrations, given by the participating teachers. It was always fun - and sometimes more than fun - to see the various martial arts demonstrated. Tai Chi Chuan form in various styles, Ba Gua, sword form, stick form, pushing hands, Hsing I Chuan and more.

Although my guest classes at conferences and festivals were usually well received by participants and organisers, requests for a demonstration generally failed to materialise. After all, what is there to see about someone standing still for a few minutes? 'Zhan zhuang', standing chi kung, as a viewing event belongs to the same category as 'watching grass grow' and 'snail race'. For the practitioner, 'zhan zhuang' may be the entry point for deep self-examination, but it remains a highly individual experience, and it does not really seem suitable for demonstration.

Clarification is appropriate here.

'Zhan zhuang' 站樁, the cultivation and practice of standing postures is like preparing the instrument, in this case the body. A significant part of I Chuan training time is spent on it. So much so, that 'zhan zhuang' and I Chuan are easily confused with each other.

I remember reading an article long ago in which, Miles Davis was asked where he kept getting these wonderful young musicians. Many, after having played and toured with him, would have wonderful careers as solo musicians or bandleaders: Dave Holland, Tony Williams, Joe Zawinul, Wayne Shorter, Herbie Hancock, John Scofield etc etc. He told how he watched the way they held their instrument, how they sat behind their instrument. There was apparently no need to play a note and it was clear to him how it would sound.

'Zhan zhuang' is like producing only one tone.

As a 'zhan zhuang' instructor, I became aware over the years, that cultivation through immobile standing postures was ideal for a certain group of practitioners. Before coming to classes, they had already experienced some martial tradition, sport or dance. They had already intuitively understood that the quality of movement is found in how the structure of the body is recognised and used. In classes, as an instructor I did not have to peddle and promote the 'zhan zhuang' to them; their motivation was intrinsic. Another part of the aforementioned group consisted of students from artistic backgrounds: singers, instrumentalists, designers, writers. They too understood almost immediately that there was a world to be gained by practicing the silent postures.

Unfortunately, there were also many who dropped out of classes already after a short period. Too boring, snail race, sport for zombies, standing until you weigh an ounce (like the Dutch saying goes). And I usually couldn't blame them. Just as I could not fault the organisers of the congresses and festivals if they did not invite me to a concluding public demonstration.

There are five steps to take after the 'zhan zhuang' to achieve being able to perform such a demonstration.

After learning to handle the instrument and produce a raucous tone or a raucous hit, comes the chapter of transitioning from one tone to another. Like in a scale, in a chord sequence or in a melody. There are an infinite number of possibilities for this, but the advice now is to start simple and commute between two chosen tones.

Within the I Chuan, this is called 'shi li' 試力, literally 'testing the strength', 'testing the potential possibilities'. 'Shi li' is going back and forth between two tones, between two chords, between a tone and a consonant, between a tone and a dissonant. The repetitive movement, eventually in circular form, is performed slowly and thus magnified.

Fast is simple, try slow first. Stretch the movement, by slowing down time. Expand the timeline and the resolution of the movement will become higher. By investing more and more in the 'shi li' approach and integrating it with the standing postures, that resolution will grow a little bit at a time. Gaps can be filled, weaknesses repaired, misconceptions about one's own body straightened out.

‘'Shi li' training looks like time after time the needle skips through a scratch on a vinyl record. It sounds like minimal music. Slow repetition. I believe that in Tai Chi traditions, this phenomenon is called 'reeling silk'. As far as I am concerned, an appealing name.

All possible internal connections between parts of the body are touched upon and made conscious one by one by 'shi li'. Returning to the 'zhan zhuang' practice, all those regained and strengthened connections are activated and made usable for action.

The third component of I Chuan is similar to 'shi li'. Whereas the latter focuses on the upper body, 'zhou bu' 走步 allows the practitioner to retrieve and test the internal connections in feet, legs and pelvis. Through the 'shi li' the higher and middle registers are developed, using the 'zhou bu' the lower tonal range.

All power and movement becomes fully visible and manifest in the upper body, but originates in the legs. 'Zhou bu' is thus a crucial part of I Chuan. It consists of a limited number of repetitive steps and stationary pumping movements of the legs. Good leg work is unremarkable and it is often overlooked, just like in music the bass line. But if it is missing, or poor in quality, the music will collapse like a house of cards.

Listen, and watch, to the bass line in Bach's Brandenburg Concert #6.

Or watch and listen to the modest but brilliant bass lines of James Jamerson, bassist on virtually all golden Motown music.

‘'Shi li' and 'zhou bu' are performed extremely slowly, the timeline is stretched, the resolution of each movement is thus made as high as possible. The action made can then be optimally 'viewed' and inserted. It then becomes 'consciously competent'. Then, using the tools of the fourth segment of I Chuan, the action becomes internalised, shifting to the 'unconsciously competent'.

Unconscious, automatic, you can dream it. Conscious, slow movement is condensed into a flash. Like sneezing or pulling your finger back when you are in danger of getting burned. This is called 'fa li' 发力 or 'fa jing', explosion power. The music that might have sounded contrived and manufactured before suddenly takes on brilliance and spontaneity. You would expect a high degree of concentration, but there is rather the opposite. Or put another way: the concentration is not mental, but carried by the body as a whole.

Then we come to the fifth platform: the field of interplay. Until now, it was you deciding when to start the movement. You decided its direction, speed and power. But now there is a fellow player, who no doubt has other plans and wishes. This soon leads to clash and conflict, but what would happen if you listen and follow what your co-player sets in motion? 'Tui shou' 推手 takes the practitioner from speaking to listening, from initiating to following.

'Tui shou' has different translations - pushing hands, sensing hands - and different modes of execution - single pushing hands, double pushing hands, moving pushing hands. Its essence is to apply all the above - zhan zhuang, shi li, zhou bu and fal li - in a living environment.

Making music alone. Making music with others.

A long while ago, I saw the Balinese gamelan group of I Made Djimat performing. The musicians and dancers came from one village, many were related to each other. I closed my eyes, and heard one person playing.

Pat Metheny and Charlie Haden, both a lifetime of music behind them. Who leads and who follows is no longer in question in Beyond the Missouri Sky.

And then: the skill in your fingertips, good technique, musicality, rhythm and dexterity - but still something is missing. 'Shi sheng' 試聲 training clears the last reservation, it helps to let the action come out of the toes. Within the I Chuan, it teaches how to use the voice, how to focus the outgoing energy, where to let the power come from. This last ingredient adds a pinch of persuasion.

As Zen master Dogen put it: act as if it is the very first time, do it with beginners' minds. And at the same time: act as if it is the last opportunity given to you. As if the devil is on your heels. The body, breath and mind melted together as one. No frills, but compact and sincere and simple action.

And finally: what it was all about, the demonstration. This seventh platform is called 'jian wu' 健舞, 'martial dance', the 'health dance', the seventh stage. It is the spontaneous application of the previous six commands, the previous six levels of training. The 'jian wu' as a demonstration cannot be imitated, no gold standard can be followed, there is no established form. Even the 'jian wu' of one and the same practitioner is never the same twice.

Watch and enjoy a magnificent 'jian wu' demonstration by one of the old masters, Cui Rui-Bin, below. You may be able to recognise the 'zhan zhuang', the 'shi li' and 'zhou bu', the 'fa jing', the 'tui shou', and the 'shi sheng' in it.