A new challenge (2)
Learning balance
Reading time: 7 minutes. Video: 3 minutes.
Foto: Erik Stout
How funny is it when you set up a blog about ‘jolly balancing’ to find out that with tai chi practice you fall over half the time because the art of balancing on one leg and kicking at the same time is still not mastered?
Anyway, a training rhythm is settling in after six weeks. The arms and legs are in adequate condition and the main area of attention is the ‘core stability’. This manifests itself particularly when the weight has to be moved from one leg to the other and at the same time a kick is distributed while the torso makes a turn.
Instead of keeping my spine/trunk straight when making the turn I tend to lean to the side, so that the balance is already lost before the kick is handed out. Instead of my body center of gravity remaining calmly in the middle, it moves back and forth just as impetuously as the Halve Maen from the Efteling (affectionately called ‘the vomit ship’ by some, including yours truly).
Besides the kick I have also been practicing the ‘great leap sideways’[1] in the past few weeks, in which I have to jump from one leg to the other in an almost spread position. It’s quite a challenge to keep the spine/trunk straight when I move sideways; almost automatically I lean over. However, that is prevented if the abdominal and back muscles are contracted. Great, then let's do that!
Alas, as is often my tendency, I go from barely / not contracting to full force. The instruction ‘move gently’ flies out of the window and I move with the grace of a robot. To which the shifu (师父 – “Shifu”, or ‘Master’) announces: “Erik, do not contract too hard and not too soft. A little in between." Aha, The Tao!
One of the many translations of the Chinese character 道 (tao) is ‘the way’ or ‘the middle way’. Balance is always in the middle.[2] This applies to both body and mind because when my thoughts are completely absorbed by all kinds of worrying thoughts about personal or political, social, economic, religious or climate problems, balancing on one leg for instance becomes quite difficult.
Can we then say that balance in the body indicates balance in the mind and vice versa? Both from my own experience and with clients in the physiotherapy and massage practice, that question can be answered affirmatively. If we are comfortable, it is usually quite easy to stand on one leg; if we can easily stand on one leg, we usually aren’t occupied with too many worries (exceptions and physical limitations aside). Of course, you are free to test this for yourself and please let me know if my theory proves incorrect.
If I lose my balance with certain movements during tai chi training, I continue to muddle along until there is an ‘aha moment’. It then seems as if something clicks in my organism; a movement that at first seemed impracticable all of a sudden feels almost as natural as walking. Only there is a little snake in the grass.
The aha moment seems to come only after I have been muddling for so long that despondency has struck. In every possible way I try to maintain that balance and each time without success. A few times it seems to be...yes...almost...darn, again wrongly performed or not graceful enough. Okay, one more time. Again no success. And again. Despondency is growing by the second.
That despondency manifests itself in a kind of indifference that is characterized by thoughts like: “never mind, it won't work out anyway.” As a formality we try once more, even though we have actually already given up the desire for this supposed ‘perfection.’ And just at that moment we succeed! The perfect balance is there and the movement is carried out almost effortlessly. How can that be? Well, we'll stop thinking about it.
There is a time and a place for everything, also for thinking and thought processes. As long as we are in the process of learning a certain skill, we cannot avoid thinking about it. In learning tai chi it is important to work from the center, that is, the center of the body: just slightly behind and below the navel in most cases. Since I am not used to that, I have to focus my conscious attention on feeling when and how my lower back, pelvis and hip joints move. Only then can I try to move them apart from each other. But before that is fully integrated though, I am constantly pointing my conscious attention to that area to become cognitively familiar with it as much as possible, ergo: by thinking about it. This is essential at every initial learning stage. However, there comes a point where thinking becomes a hindrance.
We cannot learn unless we have an example to learn from. We learn by first imitating someone else. A teacher or someone from a YouTube video shows a certain exercise or movement and that image settles in our mind. It’s fine to take that example as a starting point, but there comes a time when we better forget about it because we can never exactly imitate the chosen example. However, that turns out to be difficult because we seem to be programmed to want to copy exactly our chosen example. Not only that, we have even convinced ourselves that we can do so: music schools, colleges, art schools and universities have been trying for millennia to unravel the methods of geniuses and offer them in curricula in the hope of being able to deliver new ones.[3]
Eventually we recognize that we have to let the supposed safety of our example go, that is, if we want to move forward. The difficulty of course lies in the shifting of our conscious attention from the example to ourselves, and that is often where the trouble starts. For the conviction that we cannot – or ought not – rely on ourselves is so deeply entrenched in so many minds, that the umbilical cord with our example is extremely difficult to cut. Nevertheless, like the example, we are a unique organism, with a unique blueprint and unique approach. Simply put: no one performs tai chi like I do, no matter how graceful or clumsy it looks.
The example of the shifu is for me an ideal starting point and support while practicing the movements. However, as soon as they start to become integrated yet I still desperately stick to the image of the shifu, I get more and more frustrated because I can never imitate the image exactly. Thus frustration builds until despondency strikes because I never seem to ‘succeed’ – which basically means that again my performance is not an exact copy of the shifu.
Then there comes a moment which I call ‘don’t care’. Frustration peaks and the realization that ‘it won’t work out anyway’ is exactly what’s necessary because at that moment I say goodbye to my belief that the only correct execution is an exact copy of the shifu. That change in perception is what is needed to achieve’ perfection', because I can only achieve that in Erik’s way, not anyone else’s.[4]
This principle applies to literally everything we do. Nobody drinks a cup of tea like me, or like you. Nobody thinks, walks or swims like you, or like me. In our diversity we find our unity. We all need an example to learn skills. The trick is to learn to recognize when the example changes from help to hindrance, and then to let it go and start discovering our own way. Whether it is about everyday matters or our greatest passion.[5]
Jolly greetings,
Erik Stout
[1] In’ the Science of Discworld’ Terry Pratchett, Ian Stewart and Jack Cohen magically describe the genesis of our universe, seen through the eyes of the Wizards of the Unseen University on Pratchett's Discworld: a flat world resting on four elephants who in turn stand on the great A’tuin, the cosmic turtle floating through space. One of the first true civilizations is formed by crabs. The moment they are forced by overpopulation and technological development to also colonize the land is called ‘the great leap sideways’.
[2] The Buddha came to the same conclusion after about 30 years in unprecedented luxury and about 7 years in extreme poverty; hedonism only leads to a hangover and total abstinence did not bring peace either. He finally found the balance in the middle with the recognition that the one can’t exist without the other.
[3] The philosophical and (un)practical implications of a successful genetic manipulation project in which only geniuses are delivered are omitted here.
[4] This principle is beautifully described in the book ‘Zen and The Art of Archery’ by Eugen Herrigel. This philosophy teacher is taught archery by a Zen master in Japan for six years. Only when the thinking stops and there is no longer a distinction between the decision to release the arrow and the act of releasing the arrow, the perfect shot is fired.
[5] In this blog post, I present a way to find out how talents and passions can be discovered.