There’s no match for the refreshment and recharging that comes from a relaxing vacation…in the summer or any time. Now, as the recent six-week session of T’ai Chi Ch’üan at South Suburban Parks and Recreation District comes to a close, the doors of the season are opening wide. The group reconvenes later in the summer—and the gap between lessons can be approached in several ways.
First and foremost, beginners needn’t be concerned that they will forget everything! I can attest to the fact that muscle memory is much more reliable than “thinking” memory. My own experience as a new student showed me that when I felt most uncertain about being able to remember the sequences, I ended up being more adept than I thought possible. I would show up for a lesson, maybe after a long break, feeling guilty that I hadn’t practiced, and worried that I would embarrass myself. On those days, things would go better than I expected.
Other times, reality fell short of expectations. I would enter the classroom brimming with energy, confidence, even cockiness. Then, I would be confounded by the simplest and most-repeated movements.
A few weeks ago, when reflecting on Waving Arms Like Clouds (also called No Beginning, No End), I thought how appropriate it was for that to be the last lesson in the series before the summer break. After that, we would make our way from the classroom out into a warm June morning, movements and sequences echoing in our minds. The clouds in the summer sky suggest lightness, joy, and freedom. We turn our gaze upward and all is well.
The “cloud arms” sequence can also be a way to discover a kind of soft attention to a specific movement, and to the body’s movement in general.
It’s hard to describe how this works. For me, as a t’ai chi practitioner for 21 years, there have been countless times when I’ve gotten lost doing a movement that I have repeated thousands of times. For whatever reason, and usually for no reason, it just happens. The trick is not to let myself get rattled.
For those who have spent time in canoes or kayaks, I offer this analogy. Let’s say I’m in a beautiful lake, paddling along peacefully and enjoying the experience, and I unknowingly approach a shallow spot. A sudden lurch and grinding noise tells me that the paddle has found bottom—and now I need to take action. If I can deftly adjust my course, only the paddle will scrape the bottom, not the whole boat. The momentum is taking me in the direction of an obstacle, but a gentle course correction can “right the ship” before it runs aground. In the same manner, a small mental hiccup in the sequence of 108 movements can become a big enough distraction to derail the process—if I let it.
My students have observed me many times as I navigate my way through mistakes. When I was a new teacher, I found it mortifying to screw up in front of a class. But after decades of teaching, mistakes for me are inevitable. What I do about them is not.
A week or so ago, I was practicing t’ai chi with a cherished group of friends who are also long-time students. This was the first time I had done this activity with others since a concussion and intracranial hemorrhage following a bicycle accident. I was fortunate to recover, but the neural re-routing process is still ongoing. The healing process has brought unexpected insight into the workings of my brain. I’ve realized that getting “lost” in a movement, or a thought, is not a brand-new experience, thanks to my years of t’ai chi practice. The sudden fear that it brings, based on my recent injury, is the worst part of getting lost. That fear can drive me into the shallows where I can hear the grating sound of the boat on the sand. But the brain itself seems to have its own brand of muscle memory. In the park with my friends that day, I lost track during the sequence of Waving Arms Like Clouds. Somehow, I received the suggestion to just keep moving and eventually I would find my place.
As I write these words, I remember the day I had my first kayak lesson. It was a chilly 40-something-degree day in May, and about half a dozen doughty souls stood shivering in wetsuits at Chatfield Reservoir. We were all trying to be brave so we could learn how to be safe and have fun in the water—which was slightly colder than the air temperature. The instructor gave us a memorable tip on paddling—memorable because it still brings a smile. “Spread the peanut butter, but don’t tear the bread,” was the phrase he used to describe smooth, relaxed, efficient and joyous movement of the paddle. The metaphor made us laugh, which helped us all relax and enjoy the experience, despite the cold.
That’s similar to what went through my mind when it got anxious about making a mistake the other day in the park. I put the lost, panicky feeling lightly and gently aside, so I could ride the riffles without swamping the boat.
Our brains need us to be their good friends—after all, they do a lot for us. Soft attention and gentle steering, using the movements of t’ai chi, are sometimes just what we need to connect to mind, body and spirit.
To register for the fall session of T’ai Chi Ch’üan at the Buck Center, South Suburban Parks and Recreation District, please visit their website, ssprd.org.
