For years I’ve imagined creating a bigger space in my life for a daily t’ai chi chih practice followed with a blog entry. Like Julie Powell’s one year experiment with Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking as detailed in her book, Julie & Julia: 365 days, 524 recipes, 1 tiny apartment kitchen, I want to launch into a regular commitment that requires something more of me … something yet to discover.
Truth be told, it’s been a long time—years!—since I’ve engaged in a daily t’ai chi chih practice. After I moved to the middle of the woods there was always something else to attend to, much of it survival-based: gathering wood, tending the fire, cooking, washing dishes, cleaning and maintaining the house (I’d never been a home owner before!), gardening, paying bills, shoveling snow, to say nothing of work….
But now winter approaches … a quiet(er) time here on the Bayfield peninsula. It’s now or never.
This morning’s t’ai chi chih practice was en-deer-ing. I began in front of the patio door listening to “Circle of Compassion” by Marina Raye, a comforting blend of native flute and acoustic guitar. The sky was overcast, the house dark, the woods grey—brightened only by orangey rust-brown leaves scattered over the ground—and the bird feeders were bird-less. All was quiet, peaceful. One thought floated into my head…. “I wonder whether I’ll spot any deer passing through the woods while I practice.”
Several minutes later I sighted the flash of a white tail flipping up and over. Deer coats blend so completely into their surrounds that it’s hard to spot deer even when they’re standing directly in front of you.
Quickly I noticed another deer … a pair. Soon after, two more deer slipped out of their camouflage and into view. I continued my practice moving softly and slowly. Deer five appeared. Then number six. It reminded me of a card I recently sent to a t’ai chi chih student diagnosed with breast cancer. The card featured a Jim Brandenburg photo of deer lined up in silhouette on a tree-filled hillside. It read, “May peace … and peace … and peace be everywhere.”
That’s the essence of t’ai chi chih practice. Centering, quieting the mind, relaxing into the moment … reaching a stillpoint. Perfection.
And so I submit myself to this commitment: perform a daily t’ai chi chih practice and write about it. Move. Write. Slow down. Write about it. Take note of what I notice within and around me. Detail it on my blog.
Can I do this? It’s hard to know as I’ll be scrabbling for computer time with my partner, a die-hard on-line stock investor. But, for the moment, it’s worth the effort. As Powell writes in Julie & Julia:
A few words strung together, is all. But together, out there, they seemed perhaps to glow, only faintly. Just enough.
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