I Ching News

Tong Ren, Da You, and the Occupy Movement

2012-01-15T23:45:00.000Z

"Role Play"

Photo by Rosa Yoskovsky

Last week in the Brighton study group we looked at Hexagrams 13 and 14, as a pair.

Hexagram 13, Tong Ren, is about fellowship, community, our connections with each other. Tong means “together”: to come together; gathering together, uniting. Ren means “human”. This is about the way that people connect to form a community or a society. The emphasis is not, as in Hexagrams 7 or 8, on leadership; it is rather on the recognition of what each person is, and how they participate in the fabric of society. The Da Xiang reads “The junzi, according to kind and family, distinguishes the beings”. In other words, we differentiate or identify people; we find out who they are and how they are. But the context is inclusive, for the Gua Ci tells us:

Fellowship of men at the frontier:
Fulfillment
Worthwhile to cross the great stream
Worthy of the junzi's persistence.

In other words, reach out to people beyond your usual borders, find out what they are like, get to know them, recognise how they are the same as you, appreciate how they are different, make meaningful connections. Realise that you are kindred spirits who can differentiate your differences and find a common thread.

Hexagram 14, Da You, by contrast, is about wealth. Da means big, or great. You means “to have”, to possess, acquire, gain; to be rich, and also to offer. In ancient times, it meant a good harvest, perhaps the most universally useful type of acquisition, and da you referred to a “best harvest”.

There is no inherent conflict between these hexagrams. In the China of the zhouyi, the pursuit and acquisition of wealth made sense only when it benefitted society. We might think of Tong Ren as the system of relationships that make up society, and Da You as the energy flowing through that system.

These two hexagrams, taken together, raise a lot of interesting questions that are profoundly relevant to our times. What do we do when we have more than we need? How to we avoid arrogance, greed, or complacency? How do we avoid inciting envy in others, or getting hooked into envy ourselves? How can we honour the complex web of life that produced the abundance? How can we use this wealth for the common good?

Although these are worthwhile questions in any age, it would appear that in our time, the system of relationships that makes up society is organised in such a way as to channel most of the energy through a very limited segment of society. Rather than being permeated with a sense of abundance, most of our society is racked with a sense of lack, of disenfranchisement, of being marginalised and alienated.

Furthermore, our social system in the “developed” world is structured so that it alienates us – from each other, from nature, and ultimately from ourselves. This was not the dream of the Global Village. Widespread (in some countries, almost universal) economic migration has torn apart extended families; communities barely have time to form before they are reconstituted, so that many of us have never had the experience of a “village” of people around us whom we know well enough, over enough time, that a self-organising community can emerge. Real communities, which evolve in an organic way, embedded in their natural environment, have a better chance of being organised so that each person's talents are best used, and each person's interests are best served. This takes time. Community is connection sustained over time.

The vast chasm between such an ideal and the current reality is precisely what is being highlighted by the Occupy Movement, which is expressing in the most inspiring terms the fundamental values of human connection (with both each other and the natural environment that sustains us) and the realities of scale (“think global, act local”).

Michael Stone has described the Occupy Movement as a collective awakening to the fact that our corporations and governments are the products of human action, that they aren't serving us, and that it is in our power and in our interest to replace them. He observes that it is "not just about economics, it's about ecology and our love for what we know is valuable: community, healthcare, simple food, and time.... We are not fighting the people on Wall Street, we are fighting this whole system."

The Occupy Movement invites us to bring a fresh view to the relationship between human connection (Tong Ren) and wealth (Da You), and to redefine wealth itself, away from the endless accumulation of goods and back to a focus on the things that genuinely make life worthwhile: community, family, satisfying work.

www.yijingstudies.com

And that's the truth

2011-11-11T14:41:00.000Z

"Hall of Mirrors"

Photograph by Rosa Yoskovsky

Hexagram 25, Wu Wang 旡妄, is formed of Heaven over Thunder: Thunder (Action) following the way of Heaven.

Wu means “no” or “not”.

Wang indicates falseness, untruth, deceit, a lie, to be without foundation – but also reckless, foolhardy, vain, rash, disordered, out of place. LiSe suggests “thwart” as a translation, indicating anything that goes against the grain.

Thus, the meaning of Wu Wang is to be in accord with truth; to do nothing that goes against the natural order.

Huang translates it as Without Falsehood; Blofeld as Integrity, the Unexpected; Lynn as No Errancy; Wu as Without Blame, Without Error; Karcher and Hilary as Without Entanglement; Bradford as Without Pretense. LiSe calls it Natural. Other translations include Honesty, Natural Innocence, Spontaneity. Wilhelm translates it as Innocence, which only partially reflects the meaning; there is nothing childish or naïve about this hexagram.

What are these translators trying to get at, from all these different angles?

To understand this, let's revisit the meaning of the trigram Qian, Heaven. Quoting Bradford:

“Qian … is the symbol of higher order(s) and nature... Although it is a grand design, it is self-organizing, lacking a designer. It is orderly and moves with direction, but lacks both purpose and plan.”

This sounds remarkably similar to David Bohm's concept of the “holomovement”, which brings together the holistic principle of "undivided wholeness" with the idea that everything is in a state of process or becoming. This wholeness is not a static oneness, but a dynamic wholeness-in-motion in which everything moves together in an interconnected process:

"In this view, there is no ultimate set of separately existent entities, out of which all is supposed to be constituted. Rather, unbroken and undivided movement is taken as a primary notion." (Bohm, 1988, p77)

That's the quantum physics version. We find the same idea expressed in a more relevantly personal way, as the central tenet of Buddhism: that all phenomena are arising together, in a mutually interdependent web of cause and effect.

“Our world and sense of self is a play of patterns. Any identity we can grasp is transient, tentative. This is difficult to understand from words such as selflessness or emptiness of self. In fact, my own teacher Achaan Chah said, “If you try to understand it intellectually, your head will probably explode”. However, the experience of selflessness in practice can bring us to great freedom.” (Jack Kornfield, “A Path With Heart” p200)

If this is the true nature of reality, and if the experience of it can bring us freedom, why don't more of us experience it like this?

The answer is partly biological: our animal brains interpret sensory information so as to create the illusion of a separate and more or less permanent existence; our very perceptions obscure the huge, unseen world at work behind the forms that we can see. And it is partly cultural: we (particularly in the “developed” nations) have been indoctrinated to not only believe in, but to value, autonomy and independence. The result is that we pretend we have a separate existence that must be preserved against various perils, privations and threats – and we don't even know we are pretending.

This sets us up for a fall, and the Gua Ci tells us so:

Without pretence

Most fulfilling

Worthwhile to persist

For one without integrity there will be suffering

And not much reward in having somewhere to go

(Transl. Hatcher)

One of the most strongly negative prognostications in the Yi is hui 悔 (remorse, regret). The etymology of the character is “to be many-hearted.” Integrity (literally, “wholeness”) consists not only of being internally unified, but in realising our unity with the world.

Grasping this as a concept is one thing. Living it is quite another, and the question posed by this hexagram is: “How can we ACT in accordance with the Dao, the undivided wholeness-in-motion?”

It's a pretty safe assumption there's no easy answer, otherwise we'd all be doing it. And yet, there have been people throughout history, and in every corner of the world, who have realised and lived this truth, and we recognise them as exemplars of human wisdom.

One of them was Katagiri Roshi. Here's what he said:

“All we have to do is just sit down and completely open ourselves to right now, right here, without being carried away by all the information in our head....This moment is very simple. So why not just take care of it with all your heart?”

www.yijingstudies.com

RETURN

2011-09-28T22:15:00.000+01:00

Photograph by Rosa Yoskovsky

In the East Grinstead study group last week, we looked at Hexagram 24, FÙ: RETURN . The form of this hexagram says it all: into Hexagram 2, KUN, the hexagram of total yin, one yang line has entered at the bottom. This is the hexagram of the first whisper of something beginning.

It is “Return”, because nothing arises out of a vacuum. There is no tabula rasa on which the moving finger writes.... rather, what goes around is coming around again. Causes and conditions of the past are about to take form once more, and because we live not in a clockwork universe, but in one governed by organicity, that form, like a strange attractor, will be unique but recognisable.

FÙ is part of a sequence: Hexagram 23, BO (Stripping Away), represents the last bit of yang being pushed out. BO is the end: the few minutes before midnight, the day before the Winter Solstice, the last residue of the old falling (or being pushed) away. Between 23 and 24 is Hexagram 2, KUN, the fertile void from which everything arises. Hexagram 24, then, is the first subtle tendency of that arising.

The light does not appear five minutes after midnight, nor does Spring begin the day after the Winter Solstice; conception is not the same as birth. By the time we see dawn touch the sky, or the daffodils nosing up out of the earth, or hold a newborn baby, the yang is already well established.

Similarly, by the time we notice ourselves acting, that action is usually in full swing. “Exit and enter without anxiety”, the Gua Ci tells us, “Friends will arrive without fail”. In other words, the yang is on the upswing, and whatever story begins to unfold now will be elaborated, pulling other characters, plots and sub-plots, into its wake.

In “A Path With Heart”, Jack Kornfield writes: “It is not possible to change the patterns of our behavior or create new karmic conditions until we become present and awake at the beginning of the action. Otherwise it has already happened.”

It is at this point, the first quickening of our intention, that we can most easily “true” our trajectory. But in order to do this, we must cultivate the receptivity of KUN, the alertly listening ear that notices those subtle beginnings before they grow big enough to run circles around us and chase us from behind.

www.yijingstudies.com

Two different approaches

2011-06-18T22:35:00.000+01:00

Forli Castle

Photograph by Rosa Yoskovsky

In the Brighton study group last week, we looked at the linked pair of Hexagrams 5 (XU, Anticipation) and 6 (SONG, Contention or Arguing). They are two very different ways of dealing with a situation that isn't going in the way you would prefer.

Xu is the hexagram of patient anticipation: strength (Heaven) inside, in times of danger (Water). You are either waiting for rain (Water = clouds), or you are waiting for the rain to stop. Either way, you are waiting calmly and mindfully, rather than fretting. You don't take the cake out of the oven when it’s half-baked, or pull up your peas to see if they've sprouted. Perhaps more importantly, you maintain a broad perspective, taking in both figure and ground, focus and context, while you wait for the situation to mature. You adopt an attitude of attention and appreciation, rather than prediction and control.

This hexagram represents the person who can patiently wait for the right time for action. He doesn't get distracted or nod off; but he's also not pushing the river. He stays awake to this moment; he doesn't put his life on hold, but enjoys what this moment presents to him. While we are waiting, the DaXiang tells us, we can stay tranquil and cheerful, nourishing ourselves with food and drink, and maybe even music.

Contrasted with this is Song; here the danger (Water) is on the inside, with a show of strength (Heaven) on the outside. The character shows a person in a position of authority, responsible for the distribution and sharing of private goods, ensuring that everyone gets their fair share. There's an implication of a dispute, a civil court case, that requires resolution by someone external to it... which means the people involved in the dispute were so fixated on their preferred outcomes that they were not able to resolve it themselves.

There is a clear counterpoint between the two hexagrams. The GuaCi of both begin with Fu, which carries meanings of truth, sincerity, trustworthiness – but in “Contention” the fu is zhi – blocked or opposed. Both speak of crossing the great stream, but while “Anticipation” says it is (or will eventually be) worthwhile/fortunate, “Contention” says bluntly that it is not.

The GuaCi for “Contention” also contains a wordplay on two different characters, both pronounced zhong: one means “middle”, and it says that it's good to be vigilant in the middle; the other means “end”, and this is misfortune.

So it's saying to pay attention to the process (and its fallout), rather than being fixated on an arbitrary endpoint. It's also saying to meet halfway, not to take it to the wall – and that you may need the help of the da ren, which is often translated as “great man”, and which Bradford aptly translates as “mature human being”.

Ren does not just mean “human”, in the biological sense we tend to hold in the West. The China in which the Yijing was written, like most non-European cultures, had quite a different conception of what it is to be human. In East Asian (and indeed, many other) cultures, our humanity is not given, but acquired. That is, we become persons, and in particular human persons. To quote Peter Hershock, “Personhood is not a minimal fact, but an achievement – a mark of some degree of excellence in conduct...as a particular quality of 'relationship'.”

He goes on:

“In many societies … the primary value-orienting conduct is that of cooperation or mutual contribution. Person training – that is, training in the art of conducting ourselves as persons – emphasizes attention and appreciation. In practice, this means a valorization of virtuosity or the capacity for sensitive improvisation. By contrast, conduct in most Western societies is predominantly oriented by an intense valuation of regulation or control. Instead of personal training focusing on qualities of attention, it emphasizes will and the management of activity and experience.” (Peter Hershock, Reinventing the Wheel: A Buddhist Perspective on the Information Age, p8)

Maybe that's why we have so many lawyers.

The DaXiang for Contention says that the JunZi, in undertaking the work, appraises beginnings. This could be interpreted in any number of ways. WangBi interpreted it as setting boundaries at the beginning to prevent contention from arising – and certainly it is true that transparent and clearly stated rules of governance can prevent a great deal of trouble.

But another possible interpretation is that this is an invitation to consider, from a non-egocentric place, how this situation arose. That is, what story is being played out here, and how can we tell it on in a way that is good – not just good for me, not just good for you, but good for the whole situation and everyone participating in it. That's what a DaRen would do – he wouldn't take sides, but would find the best way for the whole situation to go forward.

And the challenge here, of course, is that we tend to lose access to this impartiality when we are in the middle of a conflict. In fact, that's almost the definition of conflict: me v. them.

It takes a truly exceptional DaRen – the Dalai Lama springs to mind, and Aung San Suu Kyi, and Martin Luther King, and Nelson Mandela – to live under violent oppression and not get pulled into Contention.

Most of us – at least most of us reading this – face conflicts that are truly petty and trivial in comparison. In those moments when we're in the grip of an argument, might it be possible to cultivate an attitude of attention and appreciation, living our lives and waiting to see what will happen next?

www.yijingstudies.com

Beauty

2011-05-30T21:55:00.005+01:00

Photograph by Rosa Yoskovsky

In the East Grinstead study group last week, we looked at Hexagram 22, BI, formed of Mountain over Fire. BI is variously translated as Grace, Elegance, Adornment. Hilary calls it “Beauty”, which I believe captures the essence of it.

Bradford's translation of the Gua Ci reads:

Adornment. Satisfaction.
A little worthwhile to have somewhere to go.

I have always understood this hexagram as distinguishing between whether something is merely superficial show or represents an expression of inner quality. This is a danger of Fire, which can get lost in seeking ephemeral beauty, gaudy but insubstantial. Is it just decoration? Or is it an outward expression of a profound inner quality?

But last week, in our discussion, I got a new angle on it, which feels like an important insight.

Beauty happens when we are mindful of the small details. It's the minute particulars that make the difference between the simple good meal that I serve up, and the meal served by my epicurean friend who takes more trouble, prepares it with more care, and presents it in a way that delights the eye as well as the palate. BI is the care it takes to wear a freshly ironed shirt … or the perfectly laddered, layered stockings of a goth fashionista. It's Lauren Bacall's elegantly lifted eyebrow; it's those painstaking Maori moko tattoos, of which Captain Cook wrote in 1769:

The marks in general are spirals drawn with great nicety and even elegance. One side corresponds with the other. The marks on the body resemble foliage in old chased ornaments, convolutions of filigree work, but in these they have such a luxury of forms that of a hundred which at first appeared exactly the same no two were formed alike on close examination.

It is also the small niceties we show each other, which constitute good manners.

This reading of the meaning is more in line with Wu's translation of the Gua Ci:

Small. Advantage having a place to go to.

Think attention to detail, like a Japanese tea ceremony. No grand heroic achievements, but the creation of beauty, simply by performing each small action with exquisite attention, care, and appreciation.

Hexagram 22's paired hexagram is 21, SHI HE (Biting Through), which is about biting the bullet, cutting the Gordian knot. It's not concerned with the fine print; it's motto is “Just do it”. In music, SHI HE is the bare bones of a simple melody. BI, in contrast, is a fugue, or a jazz improvisation, embroidering and elaborating and fleshing out those bones. In architecture, SHI HE is the boxlike monstrosities that are many British council estates; BI is Hundertwasser's fantastical (and highly functional) built communities. BI is a hand-made and burnished terra sigilata cup. It's scarlet ribbons for her hair.

While SHI HE focusses hard on a single goal, BI requires both a shorter and a longer view: both the fine focus on detail, and a sensitivity to how what you are making, or your conduct, fits in a wider context, so that it's not a carbuncle on the landscape.

There's also something in it about recognising and accepting the transience of things. Think Japan again, where it's customary to take time off work to admire the cherry blossoms, because they are beautiful, and short-lived. Like us.

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
   and softly,
     and exclaiming of their dearness,
       fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
   their eagerness
     to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
       nothing, forever?

                                 ~ from Peonies, by Mary Oliver

No ivory tower

2011-04-22T22:06:00.000+01:00

Ankhor, Apsara

Photo by Rosa Yoskovsky

In the East Grinstead study group last month we looked at Hexagram 20, GUAN. Guan means to see, to hear, to perceive and understand. The hexagram is formed of Xun (Wind) over Kun (Earth), and has the overall form of the trigram Gen (Mountain).

There are a lot of similarities between Guan and Hexagram 52, Gen, Stillness: they are the two hexagrams of meditation, reflection, contemplation.

But Guan is not exactly the same as Gen. Gen is all about Stillness; it is the essence of stability. Guan has the deep solidity of Earth, but it also has the gentle, penetrating quality of Wind, which can go everywhere; it moves, but nothing is moving it, and it adapts to fit every situation.

Guan means to observe. It can also mean an observatory – for the stars, i.e. the movements of the Dao, or for one's own Dao: a temple or meditation hall is sometimes called dao guan. The form describes a tower, like one of the guard towers along the Great Wall, a place where one can look down “from a height”.

But this hexagram is not about looking down from a height; it's not an ivory tower.

Guan is the same word as the name of the bodhisattva Guanyin, or Guanshiyin, corresponding to the Sanskrit Avalokitasvara, or the Tibetan Tara. Guan Yin, the bodhisattva of compassion, hears the cries of everyone. She is depicted as a thousand-eyed, thousand-armed goddess, the great master of love and sympathy. But Guan Yin not only hears the cries of the world,

“... she incorporates them. She quite literally feels them as her own and responds with the all-embracingness of a healing love, a love that mends what has been sundered...What Kuan Yin accomplishes with her wish-fulfilling gem is not necessarily the closing of some objective difference or distance, but the erasure of whatever has been imposed on our relations with others (our narration) to give us the illusion of discontinuity, of painful cleavage, of intractability.” (Peter Hershock, Liberating Intimacy, p104)

In other words, Guan Yin not only sees our suffering, she sees the truth behind our suffering. She dispels the illusion of our separateness, and so dispels our anguish.

When we engage in the kind of spiritual practice that turns, with open eyes, toward life as it is – when we sit down in the middle of our own lives and say “This is me. I am willing to look at what is true, what is real, and what is present”, we are Guan.

The Gua Ci tells us “Being true is as good as majestic” (Brad's translation), or “There is truth and confidence like a presence” (Hilary's translation). The word translated as “true/truth” is Fu, the same word as in the ming gua of Hexagram 61 Zhong Fu; it's a very important word in the Yijing, carrying meanings of not only veracity, but also sincerity and trustworthiness. It is a word that has very little to do with “objective” factuality, and a great deal to do with caring, watchful concern.

When we look with anything but compassionate eyes, we do a kind of violence, perpetuating "the illusion of painful cleavage". And that is just as much true of our self-regard as in our perception of others.

Taking Charge

2011-02-21T18:58:00.000Z

hKippers

Photograph by Rosa Yoskovsky

In the East Grinstead study group last week, we looked at Hexagram 19, Lin. The word Lin can mean to approach or come close to; it is sometimes translated as “becoming great”, or “rise in power”, and is the word used for a job promotion. Here, both meanings are evoked: it implies the responsibility to oversee and manage a group of people.

The hexagram is composed of Dui (the Marsh) below – carrying meanings of desire, pleasure, and satisfaction – and Kun (Earth) above, which refers both to the manifest world and to the capacity for acceptance and responsiveness. The question posed by this juxtaposition is: “How can you make your desires manifest?”

The answer, if it's a Lin moment, is “Step up to the plate, put your shoulder to the wheel, make hay while the sun shines”.

This is a moment of urgency, a window of opportunity. As Bradford says in the Rogue Commentary on the gua ci, or hexagram text:

Creative problem solving is not theoretical now, but intelligence on the run. Even to take a moment now means to look sideways for unseen solutions and trends, to find a way to put the world’s inertia to work and even make what is missing do tasks. Old successes only mean things learned and useful now: one is that you don’t know when the rains will come. Seed must be broadcast by then. The season’s promise taken for granted is empty. The success of the spring will be known in the fall, that of the leap in the landing.

The da xiang, or Great Image, tells us that the jun zi “instructs and plans without exhaustion, accepts and secures the people without drawing boundaries”. When there is something that needs doing, and needs doing now, it requires that planning be carried out, and that a team be enlisted and led from what is available now, even if that team is only the unanimous participation of all of yourself. Lin is only one line away from Hexagram 7, The Militia, which is precisely about how to mobilise an ad hoc group to accomplish a task.

The type of task this could refer to runs the gamut from planting a field in the spring, to getting the harvest in in the autumn, and from organising a music festival to running a national election campaign. What they all have in common is exigency: a time factor demanding that we rise to the occasion with prompt and concerted action.

www.yijingstudies.com

Poison

2011-01-30T19:18:00.007Z

"Alligators at Tonle Sap"
Photograph by Rosa Yoskovsky

In the East Grinstead study group last week, we looked at Hexagram 18, GU.

Gu refers to a kind of black magic; it literally means poisonous worms which have been long bred in an enclosed bowl, and refers to evil emanating from decay.

It's a dark word, about hatred and enmity. The original meaning always involved deceit and malice, something insidious. In the Shang Dynasty ideas about curses and poisoning were commonplace, and the preparation of such poisons was forbidden – so you know it was being done!

The hexagram itself is concerned with how to remove the evil and correct the situation, whether it involves family secrets, political corruption, bewitchment, or a longstanding feud. It’s a chance to face up to unpleasant secrets, lance the boil and purge the poison.

It's formed of Xun (Wind) below, constrained by Gen (Mountain) above. Mountain is the essence of Stillness – but here, it constrains and hinders the free movement of Wind, which is the essence of Adaptability. The core meaning here is that one's ability to respond appropriately to changing circumstances is hampered by something fixed in place.

On an individual level, these are behaviours we may not even be aware of; they rigidify until they simply feel like aspects of our character. LiSe specifically names it as “alien influences embedded in the soul”, i.e. those “parts” of ourselves that are habitual and unconscious. We all have these little ways of turning away from ourselves and others, from intimacy with life as it is.

On a group or company level, these are the rules and regulations, the group culture, “the way it's always been done”. Several of us in the study group have witnessed the renewal, over the past several years, of the college where I do most of my teaching. Despite a brilliant new manager, and a willing and gifted faculty, we are still pulling the splinters of “customary procedure” out of the system. These things don't magically change overnight.

At the level of government, Wikileaks is a terrific example of the sort of process needed to clear the air of fiercely guarded secrets – and governments' response is typical of the dirty fighting that defends those secrets.

The Rogue commentary on the Gua Ci reads, in part:

The sage … keeps his moments inside of their contexts and thus keeps his world on the run and alive. Breezes don’t come in a box. Things die and grow rotten when pulled out of context. Then how do we fix this? How might we arrest this decay? Fix and arrest are the wrong things to do here. We have too much of containment, enough of things safe from the changes. The liberal idea will become an institution and soon it no longer responds to the needs it was made to serve. Its big job now is defending itself against any change but its growth. The good idea becomes a belief, soon threatened by other perspectives. The decaying civilization cannot permit the experiments with styles of life which are poised to replace it. Habits and dogmas, pathologies and neuroses, circle back on themselves like incestuous clans. The rot spreads. But this has its good points as well: there is much which ought to decay.

The Tuan commentary doesn't indicate whether the reform will be successful; it merely says there is work to do, and that there will be a new beginning. This is the way Nature works: that which is no longer alive rots away and gives rise to new life.

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Following

2010-12-31T14:41:00.001Z

"Imposing Order"

Photograph by Rosa Yoskovsky

Hexagram 17, SUI, is about Following. “Follow” is one of those words that carries a load of diversely nuanced meanings.

For example, as a transitive verb, it can mean “go in the same direction as or parallel to (another)”, but also “go after (someone) in order to observe or monitor”.

As an intransitive verb, it can refer to “a logical consequence” of something, or to “act according to (an instruction or precept)”; “conform to” or “treat as a teacher or guide” – but also “trace the movement or direction of”, or “understand the meaning or tendency of”.

One set of meanings implies falling in behind someone else; the other suggests a conscious and sustained awareness of a process. In the first form of following one can hitch oneself to an external engine, and fall asleep at the wheel; the second form is the essence of attentiveness.

The lines expand on this theme. Line 1 tells us that “Standards will change”, and that even “timeless” dharma evolves. No fundamentalism here! Line 2: “Bound to the little child; giving up one of maturity” contrasts with Line 3: “Bound to one of maturity; giving up the little child” -- sometimes one approach is appropriate, sometimes the other. Line 4 tells us that persisting obstinately in a direction brings misfortune, but there is no error in following the clarity of the Dao. Line 5 simply says that trusting in excellence is promising. Line 6, at least in Hilary's interpretation, speaks of the sovereign identifying his will with the source of the energy that flows into life, implying that he flows with it.

This kind of following is less like blind obedience or imitation than it is like tracking, following a string of clues. It is not passive, but is rather an active participation in a living process. Living processes are, by their nature, somewhat messy and unpredictable; life is less an efficient linear process than a creative melee of disorderly movements toward whatever the next moment brings.

If we pay too much attention to a map (which is our own or someone else's prediction of what we will find), we risk falling into a pothole, or worse. (I am told that in parts of Iceland, the landscape changes so radically from year to year that maps have to be redrawn annually). If we follow a leader (or a system of rules, or a belief system – even our own) unquestioningly, we may not notice that it is taking us somewhere that is no longer fitting, perhaps somewhere we would not have agreed to go.

This hexagram is a relationship between opposites. Thunder is pushy. Lake is joyful and lighthearted; its whims may even appear frivolous, but the oldest yang defers and adapts to the youngest yin. It’s like following a road, or a river that follows the contours of the bank: responding to the changing terrain and following the Dao, rather than trying to plough a straight line. You might have to abandon your own plans, or even the idea of making plans; you cannot impose anything, but you can go a long way riding skillfully on the currents.

The text is simple, even minimalist. It consists only of the invocation yuan heng li zhen – in other words, all the world is here – and wu jiu: no bad. If we can approach life without preconceptions, hold our agenda lightly (if at all), and adapt to changing circumstances, then we will not make a mistake.

www.yijingstudies.com

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Movin' and groovin'

2010-11-22T23:00:00.001Z

Photograph by Pryderi Diebschlag

In Hexagram 16, Thunder is moving Earth, who responds by shaking her bootie. The Gua Ci tells us it's worthwhile to "move the multitude".

Yű means

cheerfulness, willingness, enthusiasm, to be ready or prepared; easy movement, responsive action (from Bradford's keywords; see www.hermetica.info)

The whole hexagram is about responsive movement -- those moments when we are carried along by something that moves us. The universal thing that moves us in this way, of course, is music, and the Da Xiang implies that it is the duty of a Sovereign to compose the music that will move his subjects.

Yű is the feeling we go to concerts or festivals to experience, when 10,000 people are weeping or waving their arms in unison. It's the feeling that made people start dancing in the parking lot to the blues band playing at Eddie McStiff's in Moab this summer; it's why we flock to the desert for Burning Man, or take to the streets for a demonstration against any number of social injustices. It's that choked up feeling you get when you hear your national anthem (even if nationalism features high on your personal list of Bad Ideas), or a favourite hymn or sacred song, and you're part of a multitude, transported on a wave of sentiment. It's the spirit that moves us so that we're swept along, even when it means risking our lives.

It's the motor behind the Nuremberg rallies, the Crusades, Manifest Destiny, and Jonestown. But without it, Chartres Cathedral would never have been built, nor the pyramids, nor Ankhor Wat, and we wouldn't have put a man on the moon.

On a more personal level, it captures something of the experience of falling in love, that imperative rush that's “bigger than both of us”. And if that's the only driver of a relationship, one or both of you are sure to wake up one morning with a painful dose of sobriety, wondering what possessed you.

And it's not only an interpersonal phenomenon. Most of us have been swept up in private enthusiasms from time to time: hobbies or projects that seemed to have a life of their own, channeled, more of less temporarily, through ours.

For as long as a passion lasts, it feels good to be in the grip of it, even if it's blood lust. By contrast, mindfulness (the quality of Hexagram 15, with which 16 is paired), doesn't necessarily feel good.

Yű is not a state of mind in which we consult our experience, or think of the broader picture. It's a state in which we lose ourselves. That's not necessarily a bad thing; it can be sublime. We just need to be selective about what we lose ourselves to, and keep a canny eye out for the consequences.

Authenticity

2010-10-22T17:18:00.002+01:00

"Another Big Sky" by Rosa Yoskovsky

Hexagram 15, QIAN, is about perceiving and relating to things as they are, rather than embellishing, exaggerating, or minimising them. Bradford's keywords include:

Ordinary reality; genuine, unpretentious, accurate; consistent, basis in fact; stability, sobriety; curtailing the superfluous, accurate assessment, groundedness; simplicity, nothing extra or extraneous.

It's about seeing what's there and telling it like it is, leaving behind the shuck 'n' jive, not needing to make things more interesting, or entertaining, or alter them to our own ends.

In the Dao De Jing, “uncut wood” is used as a metaphor for the “original nature” of things, before they are made over into something “useful” for our purposes. For me, this implies meeting the world with raw awareness, rather than through the filters of our models, which are basically stories we tell about the world, and the meanings we impose on it. There is nothing wrong with making meaning – it's part of what it is to be human – but the stories we tell are always partial, in both senses of the word: incomplete, and biased. And they obscure the intrinsic value of things as-they-are.

When we practise mindful awareness, immersing ourselves in direct first-person experience, we are simply trying to be as true to our own experience as we can. That experience will include both the 'external' world, experienced through our senses, and the internal world of our thoughts, feelings, and the quality of consciousness with which we meet them, as an ongoing process.

What is it to meet ourselves, each other, the world, with no preconceptions? With a sense of safety, so that we can touch and be touched without defences?

Many of us have only ever met our children in this way; some of us haven't met the world like this since we ourselves were children, with (to borrow Joni Mitchell's words) those “wide, wide open stares”.

But it's one thing to meet PRIOR to the formation of our defences and preconceptions; quite another to go BEYOND them, meeting the world directly, with maturity.

It may be simple, but it's not always easy. For in meeting the world directly, we must also meet all the reasons we do not. Peg Syverson says it so beautifully:

A bird song with the light rising behind it,

a slab of stone with a deep vein of color, a person

laying a whole life open right before you,

or the sharpened blade of pain in a shoulder

held for an eternity.

In “just sitting,” over and over again

we are stung by the complete failure

of every plan and strategy. And yet...

And yet, if you are like me you are both grateful

and terrified by the recognition

of this very life, bereft of all our fantasies and

illusions. No use crying out “I am just one person!

What can I do about it?” Just stay.

The squirrel runs so lightly on the fence rail while I

struggle with my doubt and long for

a magic transformation into

something I can admire or even tolerate. Just stay.

The evening bells, the flame of a candle,

a long still evening ahead. In accepting

the gift of a life, even my own life, just this particular one

I took a dare. What can I make of this,

a human life? Days of rapture, nights of dread,

the whole catastrophe, and yet, I wonder,

how simple can I let this be?

When you have nothing else to give,

offer the tenderness of your longing and the

awkwardness of your struggle. And on these

paltry crumbs you can feed multitudes.

~ from “How Simple”, by Peg Syverson

Yes, dear

2010-07-11T09:31:00.008+01:00

"Consideration"
Photo by Rosa Yoskovsky

Hexagram 14 is formed of Fire over Heaven. Its name is DA YOU. Da, of course, means big, expansive, full. There is nothing bigger than Heaven.

In modern Chinese, you means ‘have’. The character was originally formed of a hand: to have, to be, there is, to be rich, offer. In ancient times you also meant a good harvest, and da you referred to a 'best year' or 'best harvest'.

Da you is ‘Big Having’: the harvest, when you can reap what you’ve planted. It implies material possessions: abundance, prosperity, loadsa money. But a key question is whether you possess a lot, or possess what is great.

In the Rogue Commentary, Bradford points out that value, appreciation and interest, prize or endowment, although regarded as tangible ‘things’, were all once verbs:

"We forget that to be able to treasure is as good as treasure itself."

When my son was in his teens, he had several friends whose parents gave them every new mobile phone, computer and widescreen television going. My son, being the child of parents who struggled to simply keep a roof over their heads, got a modest allowance, which he carefully hoarded, along with birthday and Christmas money. After saving up for two years, and researching every sound system on the market, he bought himself a stereo system – which is still going strong, more than ten years later. He once said to me that although his friends had better ‘toys’ than he did, he got more pleasure out of his, because he appreciated them more.

That’s the real Midas touch: not the ability to acquire, but to value what you have. Our greatest wealth consists of things like knowing and living out your purpose; or just being in the same world, at the same time, as people you love; or having a sense of the unity and sacredness of life as it unfolds. It’s the capacity to see beauty, to be touched by the ongoing miracle of this world, to experience life as deeply satisfying.

This is embedded in our language:

dear, adj.

Loved and cherished: my dearest friend.
Greatly valued; precious: lost everything dear to them.
High-priced; expensive.
Charging high prices.

From O.E. deore "precious, valuable, costly, loved".

We place value on what we cherish; we cherish what we love. If this sounds like a tautology, consider the question:

“How can we learn to better appreciate the riches of the world in which we live?”

Fellowship

2010-06-20T23:05:00.005+01:00

"The Beekeepers"
Photograph by Rosa Yoskovsky

Hexagram 13 is TONG REN. Ren means human. Tong means the same, or similar, as in these compound terms:
Tong + to be = both
Tong + appear = coincidence
Tong + step = synchronous
Tong + nature = identity
Tong + emotion = to sympathise
Tong + heart = to be of one heart

How do we recognise the resonance that signals tong ren – fellowship?

The da xiang tells us:
The noble young one, according to kind and family,
Distinguishes the beings

Generally, the first thing we tend to distinguish is between “our kind” and “the others”. Every human society that has ever been have called themselves “human”. Some human cultures have not imagined themselves elevated above the rest of the natural world, but have sought to understand their place in it. Others ride roughshod over anything perceived as “other”.

LiSe points out that “among your own kind, you are what you are not”. Within those collectives of sameness, we have differences.

One way to consider similarity is in terms of holons. A holon is something that is simultaneously a whole and a part. The term was coined by Arthur Koestler, who observed that wholes and parts in an absolute sense do not exist; rather the terms rely upon the level at which we observe: every ‘thing’, from a sub-atomic particle to a human society, is simultaneously a self-contained whole in relation to its subordinate parts, and a part of a greater whole.

Holons exist in nested hierarchies: individual holons are autonomous, self-reliant units that possess a degree of independence; they are at the same time subject to control within the context of a larger whole. Those larger wholes have a degree of autonomy, but are subject to the organising influence of still larger wholes. And so on and so on.

Take bees as an example. If you look inside a beehive, there are workers, drones and queens, all doing a hundred complex tasks in exquisitely orchestrated coordination, like the systems of a living body, which is precisely what a beehive is. A beehive is a terrific example of a society in which everyone knows his place and function; individual needs are completely subsumed into the needs of the whole. The whole thing runs at maximum efficiency, even down to details like the most dangerous tasks being taken on by the oldest workers; if they perish in the line of duty, their loss will make the smallest impact on the hive as a whole. This makes sense, since individual bees depend utterly on the hive for their very existence.

Edward O. Wilson, referring to ants (another species that operates as a superorganism), once said that "Karl Marx was right, socialism works, it is just that he had the wrong species".

As we go up the holarchy, however, the holons become more complex, and hence less predictable. Down near the bottom of the scale, an atom of copper is a holon; it has certain properties that determine how it behaves in any set of circumstances, and it always behaves in that way. Bees have more choice about their actions, as long as those actions fall strictly within their job description, in service to the hive. Mammals stretch the envelope of conformity-to-the-needs-of-the-whole, with many more unpredictable behaviours. By the time we get to the human level, things start to get really interesting, which is to say, pretty damned random.

E. O. Wilson also said that humans enjoy their maximum level of Darwinian fitness only when they look after themselves and their families, while finding innovative ways to use the societies they live in for their own benefit.

But there’s a balance to be struck here. As human beings, we have the capacity to choose whether to behave in ways such that the viability of greater wholes – human society, for example, or the biosphere, on which we depend utterly for our very existence – is compromised rather than enhanced.

Like everything else in this universe, we do not have the power to be other than what we are. But this is what we are: we are holons with choice.

So, if we ask the question: “What is Tong Ren?”, i.e. “What is human similarity?”, we are asking a question about what it is to be human. And one of the many answers to that question is “We can choose”.

The choices that define us as individuals – from the sublime, through miles of the ridiculous, right down to the downright ugly – also define us as human.

And that begs and begets a further question: “How different can we be, and still recognise each other as tong ren, as “our own kind”?

Sometimes it's a stretch. Perhaps that’s why the gua ci reads:
Worthwhile to cross the great stream.
And worth the noble young one’s persistence.

Belonging

2010-01-26T14:11:00.005Z

Photograph by Rosa Yoskovsky

In the Study Group last week, we looked at Hexagram 8, Bi, Union or Belonging. It is composed of Water over Earth – five yin lines and just one yang line, but where it counts the most: in the position of the Emperor, or the Heart. The Heart, in the Chinese model of the human person, is the residence of the shen.

The shen are the “messengers of Heaven, the principle of life, that which transforms an assemblage of matter into a living being” (Larre and Rochat 1992). They are spirits, but not 'individual' spirits; they are indestructible and immutable; they transcend yin and yang. The shen are what make you a conscious being. They order and organize our lives and our destinies, but not through any mechanical or deliberate action. Rather, they 'radiate virtue', which 'diffuses of its own accord', exerting their influence like a magnetic field or a temple bell, through resonance.

Whereas Hexagram 7, The Militia, is about getting people together for a purpose, Hexagram 8 describes an association not based on a task, but on mutual affinity: a resonance, or least a common interest. When the militia is retired, and things get back to normal, there is still something that holds people together. What is that? Who and what do we resonate with? Who and what do we choose to resonate with?

Last night I watched one of my favourite films, Neve Campbell's “The Company”, directed by Robert Altman. The film is about the Joffrey Ballet Company; it bears witness to the sacrifices made by dancers: their talents, their creativity, literally their blood, sweat and tears are channeled into the company. And why? They do it so they can dance: so they can realize and manifest their own personal nature, their own extraordinary gifts. They sacrifice some degree of individuality in order to become part of something which allows them to be who they truly are.

This paradox, this seeming contradiction, is only possible when there is such resonance. At its root, the word sacrifice means 'to make sacred'. It is an extraordinary gift to find relationships, communities, places and circumstances, that are so aligned with our own character, that by sacrificing our smallness we find our greater, our deeper and truer, selves.

In the film, the director of the company speaks to the dancers in rehearsal: “Why do you do always do this, babies? You always get phony on me. I don't know why you do that.... It's not the steps, babies. It's what's inside that really counts. That's when you really begin to soar. You see, thinking the movement is not becoming the movement.”

Thinking like others is not becoming like them. Commonality of belief does not a community make – ask anyone who has ever tried to create an 'intentional community' based on a belief system or credo.

The Rogue River Commentary on the Text reads in part:

Belonging is drawn by attraction; it’s not a thing to be pushed. Holding the people together is not a thing that you think, plan, then jump up and do. It is something you make yourself ready for, or worthy of, or appropriate to. The spontaneous ones arrive first, feeling their way in, finding their place, the preliminaries done in accord with their natures, not in accordance with judgement and logic...

Sometimes we feel such a need to be part of something that we make compromises. If 'sacrifice' means 'to make sacred', 'compromise' means 'a settlement of differences in which each side makes concessions'; it also means 'to impair by disease or injury'.

This is word-play, but there is a real difference between sacrificing something relatively insignificant (like fame or fortune or a belief system), and compromising your life and destiny.

In my own life, the moves I had to negotiate with myself usually led to something small. The big moves toward fulfilment came as a spontaneous knowing. My decision to study Chinese medicine came out of the blue, or out of my Heart; the same was true of teaching, and emigrating to the UK, and getting married. Sometimes we outgrow a particular form of expression, but growth is always in the direction of a truer expression of an unchanging essence. Like a figure taking shape under the hands of a sculptor, or a photographic image appearing in a developing bath, we emerge, even to ourselves, coming to recognize our own character: in the words of James Hillman,

that specific composition of traits, foibles, delights, and commitments, that identifiable figure bearing our name, our history, and a face that mirrors a “me”.

It's a piece of wisdom to be able to distinguish between the influences that shape us in our own image, and those that compromise us.

Multitude

2009-12-03T22:33:00.004Z

Photo by Rosa Yoskovsky

In our Yi Jing study group last week, we looked at Hexagram 7, SHI, which Huang translates as 'Multitude', and Bradford as “The Militia”. The hexagram is composed of five yin lines, led by one yang, in the second place, the position of an Ambassador (in peacetime) or the General of the Army (in time of war).

It's about leadership, when and how to mobilize group energy, and the difficulties of leading it: will it be a mob or a movement? Not least, it describes the importance of a return to normalcy when the task has been accomplished.

The Rogue River Commentary on the Judgement reads:

“To the extent that life is good it may need to be defended, safe in its many scenarios, with resources, means and wherewithal arranged for multiple uses, ready to adapt, with both strength and wealth secured by a healthy diversity. But all of this attention paid to being secure is best if gone when not needed, leaving only a small contingent of vigilant ones to watch the gates and horizons, set to emerge in emergencies only, and not just standing by, rattling swords....Would that all states were ad hoc like this, and sunset all laws when done and go home. This can refer to one person as well, a mature one taken as model, a pool of resources, a population of selves, the readiness of one’s reserves to meet the time’s conditions....”

We are all, as Brad says, a population of selves, each of us a multitude. Most of the time, when people come to me for psychotherapy, they are grappling with parts of themselves that were mobilized at a particular time for a particular purpose, and have stayed with that agenda long after the moment has passed. Like the Japanese soldiers who hid out in the jungle for forty years, unaware the war had ended, or the old woman in the village who keeps her curtains drawn for fear of violating blackout laws, they are stuck in a time warp, responding to situations that no longer exist.

Parts of ourselves can become renegades, like the Ronin, the Samurai who were not in the service of a feudal lord. Samurai were professional warriors who were bound by strict codes of honour to a Daimyo (feudal lord). At various times in Japanese history, these codes were so rigid that if the Daimyo died, or was disenfranchised or dishonoured, his Samurai were expected to commit ritual suicide. Those who did not became social exiles, reduced to finding work as mercenaries, or becoming thieves or revolutionaries.

We all carry parts of ourselves that are holdovers from former, younger, lives: frightened children, indignant adolescents, disillusioned idealists, naïve lovers. They are often exiled to the periphery of our consciousness because the feelings they carry are painful, and sometimes dangerous to the lives we want to lead. Who wants the frightened child inside them coming forward at that board meeting, or a stroppy teenager taking centre stage when you first meet your future in-laws? So there is another army of policing parts that keep these exiles under control, trying, with varying degrees of success, to maintain our private public order, usually by threatening, cajoling, and shaming the exiles into a skittish silence. Other parts dictate behaviour intended to protect the most vulnerable parts from danger, but like the others, running a human life from an old script sometimes has tragi-comic consequences.

This well-intentioned ragtag crew rides along with us like a busload of Keystone Cops and squalling children, shaping our personalities and skewing our lives.

How do we disband these armies, rehabilitate our Ronin, and return them to useful service?

Ultimately, we need to listen, hear their stories, bring them up to speed on our lives, offer them leadership. And in order to do that we have to recognize that we are not just a collection of parts, a catalog of experiences.

Huang's etymology for SHI has the lefthand part of the character signifying a multitude, and the righthand part denoting a circle or the action of 'going around'. He takes its meaning as a mass of people circling a pivot; thus, by extension, a master or teacher who deserves respect from society.

We are the pivot our parts circle around: an organizing principle, an essence that is 'not this, not that', not separate, but a face of the Divine as it manifests in and through us.

The Beauty of Something Small and Real

2008-05-17T20:05:00.006+01:00

Lak Lake, central Viet Nam

A few years ago, I spent some months of rich learning with Malidoma Somé, a writer and educator from Burkina Faso. Malidoma’s ancestral people, the Dagara, believe that each individual comes to this world with a destiny; village elders meet before the child is born to divine his or her purpose in this life, and choose a name that reflects that destiny. Malidoma’s own name means “become friends with the stranger/enemy”, and he has done exactly that, sharing the wisdom of his ancestors with the people of America and Europe.

When I was a child, my parents, under the influence of the American dream of boundless possibilities, told me I could be and do anything. For much of my life I had no idea who I was, or rather, I had too many ideas of who and what I might be, and no clear notion of what I was cut out for.

Recently, my pal Pete gave me a book, “The Disobedience of the Daughter of the Sun”, by Martin Prechtel. It’s a Mayan teaching story, and after telling the story in his ornate and fragrant prose, Prechtel elucidates several layers of meaning. One of them struck me deeply. He relates that if our parents and our culture are proud of their own origins, and proud of us as extensions of their ancestral pride, they will consistently remind of us how immense we must become in order to live up to such grandness. Treated as something that big, we come to believe we are that big; seeing the world from those grandiose heights, our own subtle shape and unique abilities appear small and indistinguishable; any particular thing is too small to embrace. To become an individual, he says, means to fall in love with the beauty of something small and real, and we must find the courage and personal ingenuity to get back down to earth to be with what we love.

James Hillman says something similar in ‘The Soul’s Code’, where he speaks of ‘growing down’ rather than ‘growing up’.

This message came at me again last week when a sentence leapt off the page of Pema Chodron’s book “The Places That Scare You”, right into my face: “We stay with our own little plot of earth and trust that it can be cultivated, that cultivation will bring it to its full potential”. There it was again: “our own little plot of earth”. Something limited, something small, something real.

The hexagram that speaks of this limitation is Hexagram 60, which is formed of Water over Lake; the water is contained in the lake, which can hold only so much. The name of the hexagram is JIE, which means limitation, moderation. It’s the idea of boundaries, self-restraint, regulation: knowing when to say enough. Part of the character is the graph for bamboo: jie is the knot or node between sections of bamboo, and it denotes all sorts of key points of change. The ba jie, for example, are the solstices/equinoxes/cross-quarter days, the turning points of the year; jie can also refer to the beat in music.

So jie is the knot or node where something gathers and concentrates, before another surge of growth: the point where you come to a limit and something changes.

The text reads:

Boundaries
Fulfilment
Bitter limitations do not invite commitment

This is a warning against excessive restriction. We need to put limitations in place, but they shouldn’t be oppressive.

The Rogue River Commentary on the text says, in part:

The world is far too big for one life. The options open to us are too vast and breed far too fast to act them all out. One person cannot even walk all of the possible paths through one tiny field. We cannot catch all the water in our miniscule pools, but we can choose what to keep and what to let pass.

When we try to be and do everything, we often end up achieving very little. But if we can define ourselves, or our endeavors, in accordance with what they themselves are asking for, this can serve to gather and concentrate our power.

It is often easier to produce a poem within a traditional form, such as a sonnet, than to produce good free verse; it is easier to play a sonata than jazz. Those who do produce good free verse, or jazz worth listening to, have internalized the rules of metre, or harmony: those ‘natural laws’ of structure that arise from the medium itself, rather than being imposed arbitrarily.

Boundaries mean fulfilment. We recognize the limits of what we are so that we may flower and reach fruition within those limits, rather than dissipating our energies; we set limits on what we do so that we may achieve success in our endeavors, rather than scattering our efforts.

The danger, of course, is not only that restrictions might be too severe, but that the boundary might be the wrong shape, riding some hobby horse of an idea rather than following the contours of our nature. I’d venture to guess that those Dagara diviners sometimes get it wrong, and hand down a name that pinches like a badly fitting shoe. We all have to find our own shape, and draw our own boundaries in the end.

And William Blake certainly had very strong feelings on the matter when he wrote “He who would do good to another must do it in Minute Particulars: general Good is the plea of the scoundrel, hypocrite, and flatterer, for Art and Science cannot exist but in minutely organized Particulars.”

We, too, are minutely organized Particulars: unique, small, real, and beautiful.

www.ichingconsultation.com

Coming home

2008-05-09T15:23:00.005+01:00

The bluebell wood where I walked with friends last week

Yo, dear readers, I’ve been away for a long old time. Somehow the rhythm of my life got interrupted – a fortnight of Hakomi in Sheffield, a week-long visit from my old pal Pete from Italy, a fortnight in California helping my father settle into an assisted living facility, and most recently a visit from my beloved friend Courtney from the Pacific Northwest. Writing has taken a back seat.

But my reading this morning was Hexagram 24, Line 5 – which is a wonderful line, and it has returned me to this blog, amongst much else.

Hexagram 24 is formed of Earth over Thunder; its name is FU.

FU carries meanings of coming back, coming home, returning or resuming. The text speaks of returning to the Dao, that is, of finding your way again – maybe you got lost, or maybe there was just a digression.

If we look at the form of the hexagram, we can see that one yang line has entered a condition of total yin; it corresponds to the return of the yang just after the winter solstice, or just after midnight. At those times we do not see spring flowers or a glorious sunrise; the yang is protected deep in the earth, and on the surface it’s still cold and dark; but we know the light is on its way.

I’ve had this hexagram a lot in the last few months, but never this line before. (I have, several times, had Line 6, which is pretty hairy). But Line 5 is a sweet one:

Honest return. No regret.

Dun, translated as honest, means good, honest, sincere, loyal, generous, someone with integrity, on whom you can rely. This could be a person, or it could refer to a return to this state. Lynn translates it as “simple honesty”; Wang Bi’s commentary says it is magnanimous and free of resentment, and the Commentary on the Images refers to self-examination.

And the Rogue River Commentary on this line spoke so clearly to me today:

This time he went way too far out. The path went on forward, yet he came back, and will not do things that way again. To stay your own best friend after a misadventure like this needs more than forgiveness, but to whip yourself for acting the fool is to play the fool twice. So he had a rough time, made a mistake, believed wrong things, drank and turned into a jerk, got angry and lost a few friends. We need to turn our regrets into lessons. Honesty stings, but the toxins dishonesty swallows will kill us. A straightforward, critical inventory is the shortest way back home, less loops than shame or guilt or repentance. Good judgement might pronounce some atonements, but it takes the best lessons forward: ahead is work to be done, a smarter life to be lived and consequences to own. Why live out our years in memory of our regrets?

I became aware today of so many things I’m coming back to. On a mundane level, I’m coming back to regular exercise, which has been interrupted by travel and guests, and is something I need in order to feel at home in my body. Food, too: getting back to a diet that feels natural for me.

My worries about my father have settled, now that he is happily settled into a fabulous care facility. I stayed there for a fortnight myself while helping him move in, and am confidant that he is in good hands.

I’m ecstatically getting back to gardening: the clematis has burst into bloom, the wisteria is about to do the same, lots of buds on the new rose, lilies of the valley and jasmine opening white perfume, loganberries and the grapevine full of infant fruit, fig tree opening frilly fists with tiny green buttons behind. The first globe artichokes have appeared; runner beans are nosing up the poles, and the tromboncino’s have sprouted.

One of my best friends, who had disappeared into New Boyfriendland for six months, is back.

I’ve returned to teaching, more than the Yi workshops. After a break of nearly ten years, I’m running a series of workshops on the therapeutic relationship.

And I’ve returned to this blog.

The Rogue River Commentary on the text for Hexagram 24 says, in part:

Is this not a high, holy thing to spend some time where we belong?

And LiSe says:

Only by being oneself over and over again, one fills in one’s place.

I feel like I’ve been away, and have come home to my own life; I can let my hair down, kick off my shoes, and wiggle my toes in earth that I know, and that knows me. And yet I wonder: How is it that some parts of my life feel more like ‘my life’ than others? Isn’t it all my life?

That’s how I’m using the Yi these days myself: as a gentle reminder to ‘notice this’, a ‘thought for the day’, an invitation to observe my life that day from a particular angle. It’s a bit like looking through pinhole glasses – sometimes when you narrow your view, you can actually see more.

www.ichingconsultation.com

Stuff

2008-02-06T16:38:00.000Z

I know I’ve blogged Hexagram 41 before – last July, actually. But when I threw the I Ching on New Year’s Eve for a guiding theme for 2008, that’s what it handed me. And it’s going swimmingly thus far.

To briefly recap Hexagram 41, it’s Decrease, or Decreasing. It’s all about shedding what you no longer need, and making the space to move forward.

On my return to the UK, one of the emails waiting for me had a link to “The Story of Stuff”: (http://www.storyofstuff.com/), quite a worthwhile little 20-minute video, about the real cost to our world of the ‘stuff’ we manufacture, buy, and dispose of.

This added to my growing feeling of how uncomfortably cluttered my life is, and not only with 'stuff'; a mental ‘to do’ list follows me around like a dark cloud extending along an endlessly receding horizon of unfinished business.

Much of that clutter is self-created, consisting of creative projects that have stopped by for tea and camped out in my living room, sometimes for years: half-made objects, found objects which had inspired ideas for things to make, sketches of those ideas, additional materials for those ideas. A lot of it is paper: course outlines, workshop notes, half-written articles or poems. Trunks of wool for felting. This is all stuff that is waiting for the time and my inclination to get round to. This is all basically work in progress, still alive, gestating.

Then there are the things that are hanging around because I simply don’t know what to do with them. They are perfectly useful, but not to me. Things like the two pine doors that were part of a house improvement project abandoned when my ex-husband moved out; an old radiator I’d removed years ago from my clinic when the pipe that fed it started leaking; an exercise ball that is too small for me; clothes that seemed like a good idea at the time; clothes that were a good idea at the time; a pair of shoes I once fell deeply in love with, but which have never fit me properly.... Stuff, stuff.

It became clear to me, at a visceral level, that I needed to make some space. I became hungry for space, both physical and psychic. If I could clear out the things that are no longer useful to me, it would create some space to work on some of those incomplete projects that still wanted to get done.

So I started setting about it. The clothes were easy – they went to the Oxfam.

Normally, when I’m ready to get rid of something that still has some useful life in it, I offer it to my son, or to friends. If not, I think of selling it. I knew none of my friends wanted this stuff (because I’d asked them), and I really could not be bothered to ship an enormous radiator to Birmingham, or to advertise an exercise ball on eBay. I just wanted to be quit of them.

On the other hand, they were perfectly usable, and it seemed criminal to add them to landfill.

At which point, enter FREECYCLE. I’d heard of Freecycle for years: “I got this fab bike on Freecycle”… “We paved the path with bricks we got on Freecycle”...

So I had a look online.

The Freecycle network (www.freeecycle.com) consists of over 4000 local groups all over the world, people who offer items they no longer need or want, for free, to other people. Their purpose is to promote reuse and recycling, reducing waste and keeping stuff out of landfill. A bonus -- three, actually -- is that you meet some great people; you can get things you need, for free; and people come and take away the things you want to be rid of.

Thus far – and I only signed up 5 days ago – I’ve acquired something really useful to me (3 lever arch files), and found a good home for a lovely old autoharp that has been gathering dust, a wooden storage unit, a set of wood carving tools, the exercise ball, a brand new curtain I've had in a drawer for years, and a garden trellis. I’ve dug up several bags of self-sown seedlings from my garden for a young couple who are trying to start a garden that will survive the attentions of their 18-month-old son. And best of all, three boxes of cassettes of childrens’ songs by the brilliant American singer-songwriter Courtney Campbell are no longer mouldering in my shed, but are now on their way to schools in Ghana.

This is all very satisfying. It has something of the satisfaction of giving the perfect Christmas present (evidenced by the obvious joy on the face of the recipient) + it costs nothing + it buys me space!!

Tonight I had a look at the Rogue River Commentary for Hexagram 41. Really, you have to laugh. Brad’s translation of the Great Image could almost be an ad for Freecycle:
Outstanding opportunity
Nothing is wrong
But it calls for persistence
Worthwhile to have somewhere to go
How is this applied?
A pair of simple rice baskets may be used for the offering

And the first line of his commentary reads:
To give a thing up is not always a loss if it goes to where it is needed and it comes from where it is not.

Amen to that.

I’m still hopeful that someone will want those two pine doors and the radiator in my shed…it’s a fetching shade of hammerite blue…

http://www.ichingconsultation.com/

Returning

2008-01-29T14:50:00.000Z

Pfeiffer State Beach, California

Heartfelt thanks to all of you who sent good wishes, via the blog or directly to me via email, for my father’s recovery.

And the good news is….he’s come through the crisis, and is slowly, and very painfully, learning to walk again. His general health at the moment, though still delicate, is probably better than it’s been for a couple of years.

When I arrived in Los Angeles, things were not so good. I will spare you the details of the long list of his medical problems, but suffice to say the prognosis really was not positive. This was compounded by the fact that hospital policy dictated that the doctor on his ward changed at least once a week, and the nurse in charge of his care changed every day; during the weeks I was there he did not have the same nurse twice. Nevertheless, most of the doctors were wonderful (one held my father’s hand while he spoke to him), and managed to keep him alive -- no mean feat! -- despite barely having had a chance to get their heads round the complexity of his medical issues before they were rotated away to another ward. The nurses were consistently competent, patient, and caring: walking examples of what Hakomi calls ‘loving presence’. So were the physical therapists, respiratory therapists, and auxiliary staff. It was actually a healing environment; it was what a hospital is supposed to be.

And there came a point when we all tentatively dared to believe the crisis was over; he was reasonably stable, and both convalescence (for he was still very weak) and rehabilitation (learning to walk again) could begin. He was moved to a ‘sub-acute nursing facility’, where his numerous medical issues continue to be closely supervised, he receives high-level nursing care, and several hours of physical and occupational therapy each day.

That point – out of crisis, but still terribly vulnerable – is the next hexagram on from 23 ‘Stripping Away’; it is 24, FU, 'Returning’. The character FU shows a footstep, leaving a town, or going to market. It means to return to the way you used to go, to resume or carry on your own way, e.g. in the context of the planets, it means following their own orbit.

(Strictly speaking, 24 does not follow directly on from 23. Hexagram 23 is the stripping away of the last remaining bits of yang; 24 is the first re-entry of the yang. Between them is total yin, Hexagram 2, KUN, the Winter Solstice, the Womb/Tomb. 23 is like the day before the Solstice; 24 is like the day after.)

The text of 24 speaks of returning to your Dao, your way or path, i.e. finding your way again. You’re not yet really in the light, but you’ve put your foot back onto the path, and stepped out of the darkness.

The text reads:
Returning
Fulfilment
Exit and enter without anxiety
Companions arrive without fail
Turning around and returning is the way
The seventh day brings return
Worthwhile to have somewhere to go

Cheng Yi (an illustrious 11th Century scholar) explains why you need those companions who are going to arrive: “When one yang arises, it is extremely faint, and certainly cannot prevail over a group of yin to produce things; it must await the coming of more yangs…”

You can’t do much yet, because this really is not a yang hexagram; it’s only the very first hint of the return of the yang: one yang lines, and five yin.

And only in seven days! This is also not a fast hexagram. It is formed of Thunder under the Earth; Thunder is a mighty force, but here it is only the beginning of a sprout. Some day it will be a majestic oak, but at this point you can crush it under your foot with a careless step.

This is not a bawling baby, full of life. This is the moment of conception, and those first fragile weeks of pregnancy when anything could happen, or maybe nothing. Something momentous has begun, but only just, and it’s invisible to the naked eye. It still looks like Kun, the Womb/Tomb source of life, but you might have the feeling of something starting...

My father’s in the right place for his return. The tender seedling of his convalescence is being tended by an enthusiastic staff of nurses, auxiliaries, and physical and occupational therapists.

A few years ago, I had an astrological reading from a Vedic astrologer who pinpointed, from my chart, pretty much exactly when my mother had died, more than thirty years ago. I asked him if he could do the same with regard to my father. He pondered a moment, then laughed and said that if my father lived to the end of 2007, he’d live forever. There were many moments in December when I thought of that reading, and wondered if it was just a tactful way of saying he wouldn’t survive past the end of 2007. Now that he’s sailed into the new year, and with flying colours, I wonder if it was just a tactful way of saying he might outlive me. Now that would be a good laugh.

www.ichingconsultation.com

Mountain over Earth

2007-12-16T21:01:00.000Z

I wrote this on the 17th of December, and the next day changed my travel plans and flew to L.A. on the 19th. The blog got lost in the shuffle of a full work day, and canceling appointments for the next week, and never got posted. Read on, and perhaps you can understand why...

My father is gravely ill. He’ll be 87 on January 2nd, if he makes it. I’m speaking to him on the phone two or three times a day. My sister is spending most of her days with him, in hospital, and has asked me not to bring my planned visit – just after Christmas – forward.

I love my father. We’ve had our good times and our bad times, but all that has faded into irrelevance long ago. What’s happening right now puts everything we are, and have been, and done, to and for each other, into a different perspective. I feel his love strongly now, and I know he feels mine.

I want him to survive this crisis, and regain a life he can enjoy. I think there’s a good chance of that, though every time I speak to him, both of us know it may be for the last time.

I’m praying a lot, and meditating, practising holding the poignant tension of the moment in my awareness, not shying away from it, trying (and sometimes succeeding) in holding that fine line between numbness, and fear, and the pain of loss, and a sense of desperation because I don’t know what to do, and at the same time know there is nothing else helpful I can do.

A couple of days ago, after a night with the phone on my pillow, waiting for a call telling me the worst, my daily I Ching reading gave me Hexagram 23, Bo; it is formed of Mountain over Earth: one yang line on top, with five yin lines under it. The yin is pushing out the last bit of yang; it corresponds to the time of year just before the Winter solstice – which happens to be right now.

Bo means to carve, or to peel. You’re peeling off a bark or skin, stripping off the exterior, the last bit of Yang, which leaves you naked and vulnerable, exposed to a difficult naked truth. Bo also means to dismember, to slice up; to flay; to be stripped of rank or honour, to be deprived of your rights. Any way you look at it, it’s hard to take, even if it’s inevitable.

But there’s also a sense of carving away that which is superfluous; if you do this, what you don’t need falls away; that is the essence of carving. You can see this in embryonic development: the limbs begin as a generalized stump, which is then ‘carved’ back to form fingers and toes.

Wilhelm translates it as Splitting Apart, Huang as Falling Away, Lynn as Peeling, Brad as Decomposing.

The Decision is short and not at all sweet: Not worthwhile to have somewhere to go. In other words, stay at home, if you have one – and, may I suggest, under the table with a crash helmet on.

The Rogue River Commentary on the Decision says, in part:
To move in enduring ways, then, means allowing the heavy to fall, the old to die, the weak to be eaten and the low to fill up.

And the Great Image speaks of those above being benevolent and generous to subordinates, thus confirming their positions as if building houses on solid foundations.

The whole thing is about how to meet this time of the last dregs, the final ending, and clearing the past to make way for the future. There’s an implication of suffering, and the end of the world as you know it. The Mountain erodes, crumbles, and becomes the Earth – and that is the strength of this situation: Earth accepts everything, and (eventually) gives it back as life.

Anyway, Bo is for sure one of the Death Hexagrams, and I was sure my sister was just waiting until it was morning in California to call me.

That evening, I read a piece by Michael Ventura called ‘Temporary Goodbyes’, which begins with this paragraph:

"Goodbye" is such a temporary word. The soul doesn't adhere to it. Memory subverts the resolve of "goodbye," evoking images of the past beyond our power to deny them. When you're young you think you can leave places and people, but later, much later, you know you never can, you never did, you played with time and space but you never left. And as your friends and family die you discover that nobody ever really leaves. They reach for you and touch you with a kind of stillness, a strange stoppage of time; and from that stillness a gentleness spreads that you never thought was grief, the genuine grief, but it is: a hopeless and gentle and all-enveloping benediction. You feel the dead receive your blessing, and feel that their reception is a blessing upon you; logically you may think there's no afterlife, but something in you insists the dead can hear and even speak. (http://www.austinchronicle.com/gyrobase/Issue/column?oid=oid%3A75884)

The next morning, following my habit of reading a chapter of the Dao De Jing before my morning meditation, I opened to Chapter 38, which includes (in the Feng-English translation) the lines:

Knowledge of the future is only a flowery trapping of Tao.
It is the beginning of folly.
Therefore the truly great man dwells on what is real
And not what is on the surface,
On the fruit and not the flower.

That afternoon, full of dread, I dialled my Dad’s hospital room phone, expecting him not to answer. But he did. We talked. I told him that my son – his only grandson – was confident he would recover. He replied, his voice muffled by the oxygen mask, a series of staccato gasps:

“He’s
optimistic.
I
used to be
pessimistic.
Now
I’m not
optimistic,
and not
pessimistic.
I’m just
facing
reality.”

I am in awe of his strength, and wish he did not have to suffer so much.

I feel held in the web of life, which is turning its dark face toward my family now, as it is turned toward many families now, and know that all of us – all of life, human and non-human – all of us are held.

As of this writing, my father is still alive. And I’m still praying.

And as of THIS writing, on the 30th, my father is STILL alive, and I'm spending every day with him. Of which, more soon....

Meanwhile, I wish everyone an abundance of blessings in 2008.

www.ichingconsultation.com

Meeting the Mensch

2007-12-02T18:00:00.000Z

God bless the Bodhi Tree Bookstore (second-hand section), and God bless the person who handed in their old copy of “Shadow Dancing in the USA” to be sold on.

Because it was sold on to me. The first couple of chapters got me so excited that I bought several copies to give to friends; it’s out of print but you can find second-hand copies online.

“Shadow Dancing” is a collection of essays by Michael Ventura. Ventura has a particular talent for describing the many intertwining strands of meaning – historical, political, psychological, mythical, physical and spiritual – surrounding a cultural phenomenon, and weaving them into a whole that is rich with fascinating questions, and powerful in its call for a more conscious engagement with the human condition.

I just finished reading the centrepiece of the book, a scholarly and passionate 60-page essay entitled Hear That Long Snake Moan, on the cultural origins and impact of American music, and I wanted to stand up and shout. I had “encountered the Da Ren”.

The phrase li jian da ren occurs 5 times in the I Ching.

“Li” signifies auspiciousness.

Some of the various meaning of jian are: to observe, be exposed to, consult, encounter, consciously, advice respectfully sought.

Da ren literally means 'big' or 'great' 'person'. It signifies someone not occupied with petty concerns, who can see the bigger picture and understand the situation more profoundly. A wise man, in other words. A mensch.

Wilhelm translated li jian da ren as “It furthers one to see the great man”. Brad Hatcher renders it “Rewarding to encounter a mature human being”, which I prefer – because ‘greatness’ is such a sullied word, so often either inflated with connotations of celebrity or trivialized: ‘You look great'.

But a mature human being…that’s as rare and as much of a treasure now as it was at the time the I Ching was written.

And the implication of li jian da ren is that you not only see the Da Ren – you not only encounter him, but you seek his counsel. There is an interaction, and consciousness is involved.

When I do a reading, I’m in that role. When you consult the I Ching, it speaks to the Da Ren in you, asking you to stretch yourself a little or a lot, to look from a broader, or at least a different, perspective. It’s no good to just look out from the eyes that asked the question; you need to step back, or up to the plate, and take a look from there. It’s an invitation to dream into the question, and wake up into a more inclusive reality, one in which you are more of a participant.

Reading anything by Michael Ventura does that for me. He is not only a virtuoso writer; he is a deep thinker, and a mature human being.

‘Maturity’ is a word that also has problems nowadays; it often comes with a package of odd pop-psychology connotations. It actually means ‘ripe, fully developed’, i.e. an adult rather than a child. But that means different things to different people. To my parents, acting ‘maturely’ meant being rational rather than angry, even when anger was an appropriate emotional response. For a lot of people, it means not taking risks. Ventura's take on the subject is more what I'm after:

"I'm looking for a maturity more alive, a maturity that's not afraid to be desperate, a maturity that isn't terrified of looking ridiculous. A maturity that's still willing to get dangerous if that's what it takes."

I think it’s a lot harder these days – roughly 3000 years after the I Ching was written – to be a Da Ren. Our world is one hell of a lot more complex than it was in the Zhou Dynasty. Politics, commerce, and technology in the Global Village – an oxymoron if there ever was one – throw up new and more demanding questions about what it is to live a good life, balancing private concerns with human responsibilities. We have lost the templates for family and personal relationships, and we are all finding our way in new territory, while the ground beneath our feet continues to shift. Most alarmingly, the very earth beneath our feet is changing in ways that are genuinely threatening.

We live in a world in which it’s as tempting as it is easy to be distracted from the central essentials of life.

Like frogs in the cookpot, we need wise men to help us notice that the temperature is rising. For example, that our

“sense of being overpowered by media has become such a fundamental part of our experience that we take such impotence for granted…We know the screen is not real, yet we feel unreal beside it. Our moments of love, trembling between fear and grace, are not “true love” – we’ve seen what that looks like on the screen. Our hesitant speech, with its painful silences, isn’t good dialogue. Our desperately awkward acts of survival are not real physical bravery. We are like people who’ve combed their hair in a magic mirror. The mirror shows only a state of idealized perfection, while we grow older and our hair is thinner and longer. No wonder, after dressing before such a mirror for eighty years, we look a little strange.”

He says, too, that we’re living in an Age of Endarkenment, and that

“What each of us must do is cleave to what we find most beautiful in the human heritage - and pass it on.”

and

“The future of the world is the future of the heart. Our capacity for love will ultimately have more effect than our capacity to store information.”

Over and over, he points out that history is not a spectator sport.

“Stop looking for other people to supply the solution. You’re the solution. If you’re not, there is no solution.”

That’s a Da Ren speaking, and inviting us all to be mature human beings.

“Shadow Dancing” may be out of print, but Ventura is alive and (I sincerely hope) well, and you can access a collection of his articles on his website: http://www.michaelventura.org/, and his up-to-date “Letters at 3am” on the Austin Chronicle’s website: http://www.austinchronicle.com/gyrobase/Archive/column?oid=oid%3A73654

www.ichingconsultation.com

Nourishment

2007-11-16T00:37:00.001Z

Tree-ripened figs, Arta, Mallorca

Usually, when we think of nourishment, we think of food for the body. This is perfectly valid, but there are other kinds of nourishment that are just as important.

Friendship, kindness, love, acceptance; satisfying work; beauty and pleasure; a sense of purpose and belonging in the world – all these are nourishment for the soul. Without them, something in us starves and fails to thrive; we become less than fully human.

What does the I Ching tell us about nourishment?

Hexagram 27 is formed of Mountain over Thunder. Mountain is stillness, while Thunder is movement and activity: a blending of two opposite forces in a powerful way.

The name of the hexagram is YI, a term for the lower part of the face: the chin and mouth, the jaws. It is usually translated as Nourishment; LiSe calls it Jaws, and Brad calls it Hungry Mouth. The shape of the hexagram shows a solid line on the top, another solid line on the bottom, and an empty space in between: the image of a mouth, open to receive.

The text reads:
Nourishment
Persistence is promising
Study the hungry mouth
From the searching mouth to the feeding

Why should we study the hungry mouth?

People come to me for guidance and healing – that happens to be the kind of work I do. The first thing I do is to listen to them. Often, the second thing is to encourage them to slow down and make a space inside, so they can listen to themselves, and hear – from the inside – what they really need.

I haven’t yet met anyone who hungered, in his heart of hearts, for a Big Mac or the next episode of Big Brother.

We live in a world so crowded, so hectic, so full of sales pitches, that few of us give ourselves the chance to study what it is that we really need. For many people, personal time has been eroded and pinched, and much of what is left is poisoned. There are studies indicating that the average American family spends only 20 minutes a day hanging out together. Other studies show that the average American spends roughly 40 percent of his or her ‘leisure time’ in front of the television.

It doesn’t take a PhD in Nutritional Science – or Psychology – to recognize that this is not wholesome, that it will not build the flesh and bone of a human life.

“Meanwhile the world goes on”, as Mary Oliver wrote. It is all still here for each of us, “the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain”, and the possibility of real love and fellowship, and satisfying work, and beauty.

The banquet is laid out before us. Why are so many people starving?

This is a real question, something to think about.

The word ‘suffer’ has basically two meanings: to feel pain or distress, and to tolerate or allow.

When an individual comes to me for help, I can help that person discover his or her real needs, and some of the factors that have prevented those needs being met. Choices open up for the person.

But I am still curious about why so many people suffer – in both senses of the word – the theft of their time, which is essentially the theft of their lives.

While writing this, I looked up the word ‘suffer’ in an online dictionary, and the first thing that came up was:

Buy Suffer

Make the most of the January Sales

Let us help you find the best deals

uk.shopping.com

Why do we put up with this sort of insult – in both senses of the word: “an insolent or contemptuously rude remark”, and “an attack or assault”?

The answer – or at least a clue – might be right there in Hexagram 27: movement and stillness, stillness and movement, and empty space – and time – in which we can be open to receive.

Time was – and not so very long ago – when most people lived closer to the land, travelled less, and had more time. Much more time. Before the 1880’s, there were no standardized time zones – indeed, there was no standardized time; clocks were not synchronized; ‘morning’ and ‘evening’ were as precise a measurement of time as most people needed. People lived together and worked together: as families, as extended families, as villages. There was time to make music, to tell stories, to daydream.

In fact, the further back we go in human history, the more time there was. It is generally agreed that hunter-gatherers – those ‘primitive’ societies that occupied the overwhelming bulk of human history – needed to work only 15 to 20 hours a week to sustain themselves.

That left an awful lot of time for taking the world in: for telling stories, making beautiful things, singing, dancing, making love, dreaming, and just hanging out together – all those activities that nourish the human soul.

Modern life has plenty of Thunder and not enough Mountain. In China, Mountain implies a mindful, receptive, inner stability. The character for Mountain, gen, shows a high place, where you can get a detached perspective. The character is formed of two parts: on the top, an eye; at the bottom, someone turning and looking you straight in the face. The first meaning of the word is to resist, to turn and say NO, to refuse to be moved, or to be coerced into an action you don’t want. It’s about being centred in your true nature despite all influences that would deflect and distract you away from it.

The Rogue River Commentary on the Decision for Hexagram 52 (Mountain doubled) opens with the line “When the time has come to recapture the centre of being, the peripheral life must wait”.

Without those moments of stillness, of mindful inner receptivity, we can’t even know what we need, much less take it in and be nourished by it.

Study the hungry mouth.

And please, don’t buy Suffer – not even in the January sales.

www.ichingconsultation.com

Family

2007-11-02T23:38:00.000Z

My mother died, many years ago, after a long, long illness that had involved much suffering for the whole family. I was not quite 24.

Suffering can bring a family together, or it can tear it apart.

In our case, it tore it apart, or at least it tore me away. I moved halfway round the world, naively thinking I’d put all that suffering behind me, and started a new life in England.

Meanwhile, my father remarried; Barbara was a wonderful woman, with two daughters of her own, and my then-teenaged sister was absorbed into that new family.

I had little to do with this new family, never felt part of it, and it was never particularly important to me, until my son was born. Little by little, on our infrequent visits back to California, we were gathered in to the family. My son has an uncanny resonance with my father. Barbara became my dear friend, and her daughters became my sisters.

In the past ten years, I have re-established a warm relationship with my own sister, and eventually – only in the past few years – have come to understand and love my father for the brilliant, generous, curmudgeonly eccentric that he is.

For the first time in my adult life, I have felt held in a familial network of belonging.

Last week, Barbara died. I will miss her painfully, but what I am experiencing now is a sort of psychic vertigo, as if the furniture in my world is being moved. Subtly, but palpably, I am being pushed to the front of my ancestral line.

My son and I went to California in September to visit the family. I had seen them in March, shortly after Barbara was diagnosed with cancer. She was still robust then, and in high spirits. Six months later, it was a shock to see that she had grown old and frail, after a course of chemotherapy. The evening we arrived, my son whispered to me that he had grown up ten years in a few hours.

We spent two weeks with my family. I cut Barbara’s wispy, post-chemo hair; she looked very small, but radiantly beautiful: translucent, as if a light was shining through her.

What upset me just as much, if not more, than Barbie’s impending death, was that the family seemed to be fragmenting under the strain of her illness.

Suffering can bring a family together, or it can tear it apart.

We talked a lot on that visit, my son and I, about families – and specifically about how my Dad, who is in his late 80’s, and not in the best of health, would get on after Barbara’s death. I talked with my sister – who is also not in the best of health – about how we could support him emotionally and practically. We talked with my Dad about his financial resources, if he needs at some point to move into sheltered housing. We all talked and talked and talked, and that was a good thing in itself.

Now I am home again in the UK, Barbie has died, and I feel very far away from my father, who is essentially home alone.

I have friends, and many clients, who look after elderly parents. Some visit them daily, some a couple of times a week; some have them living with them. I would be more than happy for my father to come and live with me, but it makes no sense to anyone – least of all to him – for him to move halfway round the world to a house with a lot of stairs, in a strange country with a dodgy climate. I can’t move back to California – as if I would want to: my work is here, and my son, and my Sweetheart, and I love this green and pleasant land, even when it’s cold and damp.

I’ve been fretting about this. My Sweetheart pointed out that I made the decision, when I was 24, to move away from my family: that it was my choice.

But the context in which that decision was made has changed radically.

Hexagram 37 is all about Family. The name of the hexagram is JIA REN. REN means person or people. The character JIA is formed of a pig under a roof, which is an image of a home. JIA REN are the people at home: the family.

The Rogue River Commentary on the Decision says, in part:

Home is the place where we first expect fairness and where we will first learn to trust. This can be a poor preparation for life in the world outside, but at least we might have a few years to pre-cover, in advance of those beatings that life in this world has to offer.

When I was a young child, home was that for me; and I feel responsible for this man who was responsible for me, when I was too young to be responsible for myself. If and when he becomes too old to be responsible for himself, I want to return the favour.

Hexagram 37 also speaks about roles; about all the necessary roles being held within a family, and how these roles interact. That feeling of being pushed toward the front of the line: it’s as if I’m standing behind my Dad, and looking over his shoulder, estimating the heft of the role of Head of the Family; it’s weighing me up as well. I can’t help feeling that I am not only geographically unsuited for the position, but unqualified, unready.

At the moment, my father is home alone, by choice. He seems to be getting on just fine, so I’m fretting less.

But I still wish I lived nearer.

Because it’s not just that I feel responsible for him. I want to make the most of the time left to us, to hang out together, to gather in and harvest the ancestral wisdom that is concentrated in him.

My father used to say that the only thing worse than getting old was the alternative. Black humour -- but it’s no joke. All of us who don’t die young will get old, and most of us will become infirm, in one way or another – and probably in more ways than one. Some of us will lose our minds; most of us will lose mobility; all of us will lose friends to the reaper.

The compensation for all these losses may or may not be wisdom, but we gain character. Like an old tree becoming gnarled and twisted, we become more ourselves.

I want to spend time with my father. He is very much himself, and is precious to me.

And I’m way too far away from my JIA REN.

www.ichingconsultation.com

The Ritual Cauldron

2007-10-16T22:12:00.000+01:00

Buddhist temple, Saigon

Last weekend I participated, along with fourteen other women, in a ceremony to celebrate the passage of a dear friend into mid-life. In a four-hour ritual of our own design, we made a container in which our friend could undergo an initiation into the next phase of her life, leaving behind old wounds, and embracing a life more faithful to her true nature.

I had a similar ceremony on my 50th birthday; my closest friends gathered, invoked the spirits of fire, water, earth and air; they washed and anointed me, accompanied me through a life review, mirrored back what they saw in me. They witnessed the burning of fears that had far exceeded their ‘best before’ date, wrote wishes for my future, and wove them into a six-foot dreamcatcher.

Ceremonies like these tend and feed the fire of transformation in our lives.

Hexagram 50 describes something like this. It is formed of Li (Fire) over Sun (which in this case represents Wood). This is a fire under a ritual cauldron. Fire has two purposes: to burn and to cook; here it is clearly to cook, implying an alchemical transformation into a new state.

The name of the hexagram is Ding. A ding was a specific kind of bronze cauldron used in connection with the founding of a new dynasty. It was a ritual vessel for offerings to the spirits: a means of connection with the ancestors, and specifically the ancestral line of the Emperor. The emperor would have nine dings cast at the founding of a dynasty, to maintain a supportive and beneficial connection with the ancestors, and celebrate the initiation of the new dynasty with their blessing.

By extension, ding means to found a new dynasty, but with the implication that it is properly aligned with one's spiritual lineage. Huang calls this hexagram ‘Establishing the New’.

Ding is the only manmade artifact in the I Ching. It’s about personal, human power: your true path, and how you express it. On a personal level, it is a crucible in which

"the alchemy serves higher purpose and powers, the leadenness of our being turns into gold, into a life to which we give value…To sacrifice does not mean to lose things: it means to make them sacred. Thus the past is made sacred here, redeemed for a higher value”. (Brad Hatcher)

The Great Image says “The jun zi rectifies his position to manifest higher purpose”.

It's good to do that every once in a while: to reconsecrate your life. And it's a great privilege to participate in such a ritual for someone dear to you.

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Imagination

2007-10-09T16:33:00.001+01:00

Morro Bay, California

Following on from last week’s blog on Hexagram 15….

I had a conversation with my Sweetheart recently about different kinds of photography. There’s prosaic documentary photography, like holiday snapshots; and there’s ‘art photography’, such as the work of Andy Goldsworthy or Robert Mapplethorpe, in which the artist creates a tableau and photographs it, much as a painter composes and executes a painting.

And then there are the photographers who manage to do both in the same stroke, like Ansel Adams, or Dorothea Lange, or Long Thanh, or any of the fabulous photographers whose work is collected in Edward Steichen’s timeless and exquisite classic ‘The Family of Man’. They take the world as they find it, and deliver an image rich with meaning.

Several years ago, I spent four weeks in Viet Nam. I completely fell in love with the country – its lush jungle (humming like high power wires), its richly cultured cities, gorgeous food, and above all, its people, who are for the most part living examples of Buddhism in action.

I took hundreds of photographs, which I showed to my father on my next visit to him, the following year. “This is a hill tribe village…this is a water buffalo…this is a fruit seller…”

My father, who in a previous life was an accomplished photographer himself, launched into me. “A good photograph shouldn’t have to be explained.”

It was true. I had been trying to capture not only an image, but the beauty, or poignancy, or sheer strangeness that had touched me deeply and changed the way I saw the world. And in almost all of those photographs, I had fallen short.

And maybe that’s the clue to the difference between an ordinary ‘documentary’ photograph and the work of an Edward Steichen or Dorothea Lange. An image by a great photographer tells you more than the facts; it hints (or hollers) about what it might mean. It never tells you “in so many words”, but involves your soul in a conversation about the complex possibilities of what it could mean.

A merely documentary image tells us too little; an explicit explanation tells us too much. As James Hillman says, the image is always more inclusive, more complex than the concept.

The same is true of writing. There is writing that documents facts (even if those facts are fictional), and there is writing that evokes meaning. At the moment, I’m reading a sensational book by Michael Ventura called ‘Shadow Dancing in the USA’. It’s one of those books that ignites a bubbling cauldron of ideas: the kind of ideas that make me look at the world with new eyes and fresh vision.

Bradford Hatcher has produced a rendering of the I Ching that does both. His Yi Jing (http://www.hermetica.info/) is both rigorous in its translation – perhaps the most rigorous translation that exists in the English language – and includes his own commentary, which is original, but grounded in a deep and wide knowledge of not only the I Ching and Chinese history, but several other wisdom traditions.

Brad’s Rogue River Commentaries are true commentaries, not an interpretation of other commentaries or traditions. They are based on an intimate knowledge of the I Ching, but consist of his own personal elaboration on the images. In the Introduction, he makes it clear that is what he is doing:

“Before anything else I should be clear that this effort does not in any way attempt to explain the texts of the Book of Changes. It is not an attempt to do any of your thinking for you or to make your task of understanding any easier…I tried to put on the original text and walk around in it some more, stretching it further, exploring some of its tangents and implications and, in the process, try to drop as many clues and hints as possible to some of the layers of meaning in the original.”

And that’s what raises his work to the level of soul as well as scholarship: he serves up images, in poetic language that presents possibilities: a cauldron of ideas that makes you look with new eyes and fresh vision.

In his Yi Jing, he has managed to do what I couldn’t do in most of my photographs of Viet Nam: faithfully documented what he found, and conveyed how it touched him and informed the way he saw the world.

I’m in awe of his work. And grateful.

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http://www.daoistpsychotherapy.com/

Tell it like it is

2007-09-30T22:14:00.000+01:00

Hills near Pismo Beach, California

I’ve just come back from three weeks in California, during which time I saw a lot of people, in different contexts and circumstances, facing up to difficult realities.

The straightforward facing up to 'how things really are' is the subject of Hexagram 15. Here, Earth is raised up on top of the Mountain, to show its quality, which is to be open to everything. Earth is the Great Mother, appreciating the uniqueness of each of her myriad children; she accepts them all, without deluding herself that they are more or less or different than they are. And Mountain, below, corresponds to the season just before the Winter Solstice, when foliage (and verbiage) have fallen away to reveal the bare bones of the world.

The name of the hexagram is QIAN. The character is formed on the left, with the image of words coming out of a mouth: ‘speech, to say’. On the right, a hand, drawing together stalks of wheat, treating them all as equal.

Wilhelm and Blofeld call it Modesty; Huang calls it Humbleness. Bradford calls it Authenticity.

It’s a very favourable hexagram, perhaps the only one in which all the lines are auspicious – but its meaning is subtle, and tends to be oversimplified in many translations of the I Ching.

On the surface, it’s about modesty and humility: egolessness, following, and leading through service – and particularly service that is inherently productive and creative.

But ‘egolessness’ is often misunderstood. There are those who have an inflated view of themselves, taking themselves too seriously -- and there are also those who don’t take themselves seriously enough. There are those who declaim that the world is endlessly beautiful, and those who declare it nothing but a sewer; those who see good in everything, and others who can see no good anywhere. All these extremes are belief systems, and if we view the world through them, it results in a distortion of our perception.

Things are what they are, and when we really see them as they are, the ordinary becomes extraordinary. As Bradford Hatcher puts it,

“We hear how the world is perfect just as it is. Why must we be so extreme? Why do we even presume to speak of perfection? The world is what it is. Cash those dreams in for cash value and what you have left is much more stupendous than perfect. It moves along fine as it is with accidents, defects and all.”

The Great Image tells us:
Within the earth is a mountain.
Authenticity.
The noble one, accordingly,
Diminishes the excessive and adds to the deficient,
Appraising things with fair allocation.

That is, the jun zi doesn’t see the world through the lens of his own prejudices, desires and aversions, but as it is. It’s an impartial discrimination: seeing – and naming – exactly what is there, without exaggerating or embellishing (the ‘excessive’), or trivializing, demonizing or denying (the deficient).

This hexagram is not about making yourself small. If it means modesty, it is modesty in the tradition of the great Chinese artists who never signed their paintings – but not because they were pretending they were not great painters.

I recently saw a biographical film about Stephane Grappelli. Everyone who knew him remarked on how sweet he was, what a lovely human being. He was a great example of Qian: immersed in the music itself, and unconcerned about whether people thought he was the greatest jazz violinist in the world, he never hit an inauthentic note in his life. He lived and played for the love of the music, for the joy it brought to him and to his audiences.

And it seems to me that the world is so full of ordinary extraordinary things, and that the meaningful connection between these things is another aspect of them, and that our personal experience of them is yet another facet of the reality of them .... that only art can even begin to reveal what is there. Perhaps Jean Cocteau had something like the same idea when he said, “The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth” ... as in this sonnet by Ursula LeGuin:

Cold north blows through hot sun.
I seek to be by doing things.
The wind does the wind; the sun is one;
I am the center of many rings,

a sphere enclosed in other spheres,
an absence in a solitude.
The sun is round, as round as years.
Is my hunger all my food?

A blue moon will rise tonight
as the sun sets across the wind.
I have done. I have done right.
Now let my being begin and sing.

The sun turns south; the wind is cold.
North and silence eat the old.

Or this haiku by Issa:

A world of dew,

and within every dewdrop

a world of struggle

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http://www.daoistpsychotherapy.com/

Childhood

2007-09-04T20:16:00.001+01:00

A few months ago, I went to a party some friends organize every year, a mini-music festival over a weekend, attended by several hundred friends and neighbours. On the Saturday afternoon, it started to rain. As people took cover under a marquee, the children discovered with delight that the rain was pouring through the roof at one point. Sensible adults moved a wheelbarrow under the leak. To the children, this became a magical fountain of fun.

Hexagram 4, MENG, is one of the hexagrams that describes childhood. It is formed of Mountain over Water; at its most positive, this is an image of a spring at the foot of the mountain, and the clarity and purity of that spring: the innocence of childhood.

The character meng originally referred to dodder, a plant that is very prolific and fast-growing, and quickly covered the roofs of houses. The meaning then became extended to mean ‘covering’: veiling or hiding. A covering can provide protection; it can also conceal things, and even prevent them from manifesting. The nature of a child is not yet manifest; it is in potentio, an unknown. The process of life uncovers the brightness of the child.

The hexagram name is variously translated as Youthful Folly, Immaturity, Childhood, Covering/A Callow Youth, Not Knowing, and Inexperience.

The Chinese term qi meng refers to education; it literally means to lift the cover and reveal what was concealed. The word education itself has a similar meaning, derived from the Latin educare "bring up, rear, educate," which is related to educere "bring out," from ex- "out" + ducere "to lead". In both cases, there is an assumption that one is revealing something already inherent in a person.

Childhood is a necessary stage; not-knowing comes before knowing. It is only when you know that you don’t know, that you can be receptive to new knowledge. This stage is sometimes compared to the Fool in the Tarot; it’s inexperience rather than stupidity. The knowledge we receive depends upon the direction of our curiosity, which shapes the questions we ask and the experiences we seek.

It’s a basic principle of scientific research that we only get answers to the questions we ask, and that the way we formulate our questions is of primary importance in determining the kinds of answers we get. Learning to formulate a question that can yield a useful answer is one of the fundamental skills of the formalized learning we call research. As Francis Bacon said, “A prudent question is one half of wisdom”.

But while Meng is at least partially about education, it clearly isn’t talking about linear ‘fact-accumulation’. In fact, it may be pointing strongly toward NOT being linear, toward accessing a state of attentive receptivity that allows you to learn in a different way.

The human brain has two very different memory systems. ‘Explicit memory’ encodes event memories, including autobiographical recollections and discrete facts.

By contrast, ‘implicit memory’ records complex knowledge that we cannot describe or explain. Learning the motor coordination required for walking and performing manual operations is one example; language is another.

“Spoken language…is based on a labyrinthine array of phonological and grammatical rules that native speakers know but could not explicate; most could not even recognize the rules when spelled out in plain English…Implicit knowledge makes language structure available for automatic use but not reflection. Children learn to speak without instruction; they absorb linguistic rules as a sponge absorbs water.” (Lewis, Amini and Lannon, A General Theory of Love)

Very complex situations – like Real Life – do not yield to explicit questions. Say you are meeting someone for the first time, and you want to get to know them. You could ask them a thousand questions, and they could answer them honestly; you would know all about them, but you still wouldn’t know them. But in the asking and the answering, your implicit mind would be observing and getting to know them.

There’s more than one way to learn. In traditional societies, most skills were learned by apprenticeship. You can go to school to learn ABOUT things, but learning HOW TO do anything only comes with experience.

While it’s indisputably necessary to learn about things, maybe Hexagram4 is encouraging us to uncover our implicit memory, our intuition, our ‘knowing without knowing about’, or knowing why. The Decision says:

It is not I who seeks the young and inexperienced.
The young and inexperienced seek me
The first consultation informs
The second and third show disrespect
Disrespect deserves no information
It is worthwhile to be dedicated.

It’s the ‘explicit mind’ that asks a lot of questions. The Decision tells us not to do that. Perhaps it is saying we need to adopt an attitude of mindful receptivity that will allow our 'implicit memory' to work – that we should cultivate our ability to stay patiently with a question until it reveals its truth, and we absorb it as a sponge absorbs water. “A man has no ears for that to which experience has given him no access”, said Nietzsche.

Most of the really important things in life can’t be taught, but they can be learned.

Hexagram 4 is essentially about how to retain a healthy innocence into adulthood, but without immaturity. Not-knowing and naiveté are two very different states; an open curiosity about the natural world (including that part of it that lies ‘inside’ us) actively invites knowledge rather than denying uncomfortable realities. A great part of wisdom lies in knowing how to wonder, how to be receptive, how to notice things that don’t fit with what is already known, how to imagine new possibilities and test them against experience.

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Inner Truth

2007-08-24T23:22:00.001+01:00

It was an evolutionary leap when mammals first evolved, not least because one of the features that distinguishes mammals from reptiles is a capacity known as limbic resonance. Unlike reptiles, a mammal can detect the internal state of another mammal and adjust its own physiology to match it. It is our capacity for limbic resonance that makes us emotionally responsive, which is to say, capable of relationships, and capable of love.

The capacity for love is a marker of spiritual health – perhaps its most important marker. What the saints and realized beings of every spiritual tradition share in common is an extraordinary capacity for love.

It is love, reflected in the eyes of our parents, that tells us in infancy, who and what we are. In our earliest days, the physical presence of loving adults may mean the difference between life and death, quite independent of the provision of food and warmth: recent research suggests that Sudden Infant Death Syndrome may be the result of the physical separation of mother and child. The countries with the lowest rate of SIDS are those in which infants sleep in physical contact with their mothers.

As a baby’s growing awareness takes in more of the world, including himself, he continues to learn from his parents what it is to be loved, and to love. This is not an intellectual learning; it is not something that can be defined and taught with words. A child learns from the experience of love; his internal world, as it grows and takes form, is shaped by that experience. Relationship, for mammals – and we are mammals – is in large part a physical experience, and it changes how we experience the world.

For millennia, right back to the dawn of our species, human children – like all mammalian young – spent virtually all their time with their parents and extended family until they themselves were ready to venture out into the world, their independence emerging naturally and effortlessly from the satiation of their dependence. By observing everyday life within their families, they learned both values and survival skills, including crucially important social skills: how to live in relationship with others.

But human children learn something in addition to survival: in the loving gaze of parents who truly see them, they find a sense of themselves as unique individuals. Adults who were fortunate enough to have enjoyed the consistent presence of a supportive family tend to be confident, emotionally stable, and able to withstand the knocks that life deals out. They know who they are; they have a sense of their own value, perhaps even a sense of destiny. And they are able to form close relationships with others; they are able to love.

There are intimations of many of these themes in Hexagram 61, ZHONG FU. Zhong means centre. The character Fu is formed with the legs of a bird on top, and a child underneath: thus, it means to hatch. It implies the quality of a mother hen: steady, faithful, loyal, trustworthy. In the context of Hexagram 61, it is most often interpreted as truthfulness and sincerity, and particularly being faithful to yourself. Zhong Fu is the equivalent of the Daoist concept of ‘zhen’: authenticity: being faithful to what is at the centre of your life, to your own nature, your own Dao.

Huang sums up the essence of the lines, from 1 to 5, thus:

The Duke of Zhou says that, being sincere and trustworthy, one should be at ease and confident. It should be as natural as a mother crane calling affectionately to her young. One should persist in being sincere and trustworthy. First beating the drum and then stopping is not the proper attitude. Being sincere and trustworthy, one is able to link with others in union…

This might well be paraphrased as a description of good parenthood: being at ease and trusting our own instincts, we respond to our children as naturally as we breathe. We are there for them, not when we can fit it in to a busy life, but steadily, all the time; we don’t make a fuss over them and then ignore them. If we give them this foundation of relatedness, they will then be able to form loving relationships with others.

Modern Western society does not support us in spending the time our children need to establish their strong centre, their personhood, their inner truth. In Southeast Asia, I observed a different norm: families spend most of their time together. Extended families live together; small children are looked after by their grandparents, and wander in and out of their parents’ place of work; the whole family takes meals together, often in the workplace.

But even in Asia, this is changing, as ‘developing cultures’ begin to ape the patterns of social isolation that have poisoned the West. Most of us have lost the immediate proximity of extended families; most of us in nuclear families work outside our homes.

It is into the cracks opened up, as families fracture, that we slip deeper into Kali Yuga. I applaud those families who are raising their children to be strong enough in their personhood to eventually pull us out of it.

Huang says of Hexagram 61: “In hatching chicks, the hen must be faithful to her obligation.”

The Tuan commentary for the hexagram says that sincerity can transform a country.

In the 21st century, we need it to transform the world.

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Abiding Passion

2007-08-13T20:49:00.000+01:00

I’m having a love affair with my garden. Every day we bring each other gifts. I bring water, or new seedlings; or I prune or weed, or build supports for the beans and climbing tromboncino courgettes and wineberries and tomatoes. It produces something new and surprising, magical and beautiful every day.

I came to gardening in my 40’s, with a half acre allotment which I tended for ten years. It was way too big for me to keep up with, and parts of it always looked like it had reverted to jungle, but it churned out a vast array of fabulous fruit and veg.

I’m still passionate about gardening, though more relaxed about it. I know that not everything always works as I expected or hoped, and that’s OK. The garden goes on and on and will always continue to be magical and surprising and beautiful.

This constancy through change is Hexagram 32, HENG. Heng is variously translated as Duration, The Long Enduring, Long Lasting, Constancy. But it lasts precisely because it is always changing. The hexagram is formed of Thunder over Wind: two different types of movement, the Gentle and the Shocking. Both trigrams have the quality of movement, but the relationship endures. This is the hexagram of lasting marriage: stability in the midst of changing circumstances, a living marriage, a steady state of constant renewal.

The character heng has the ‘heart’ radical – representing feelings, the realm of the mental and emotional – plus an ideograph of a boat between the banks of a river. This is a ferry one relies on to cross the river, always making the same journey, continuous and dependable. It’s a cyclic journey, not a linear adventure. Thus the meaning is: to rely on, constancy; something that will go from here to there and back again, without ceasing: a steadfast heart.

This hexagram is exactly in the middle of the I Ching, and is the heart of the I Ching: in the middle of change, something is permanent. The theme is beautifully stated in the Confucian commentary on the Decision: ‘The four seasons change and transform; thus can their production of beings long endure.’

Reminding me of this truth is the very best gift my garden gives me, and it gives it every day.

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Limbic Resonance

2007-08-05T23:43:00.000+01:00

Standing in the mud at WOMAD with my Sweetheart last week, my heart was captured by a couple who started dancing at the side of the stage. While almost everyone was moving in time to the music in some way, these two were twirling and swaying as one. I don’t know if they had just met and fallen madly in love, or had been together for twenty years and were still madly in love.

That sweet madness is the subject of Hexagram 31. This hexagram opens the second half of the I Ching, the half dealing with humanity, and specifically with personal and social relationships.

It is formed of Mountain over Lake: a pairing of opposites in harmonious conjunction. Mountain is stable and rises upward; Lake is on top and sinks downward, so they are coming together. Mountain is the youngest son, Lake is the youngest daughter; it is a picture of courtship. It’s also a great Taoist image: Stillness (Mountain) inside, and Joy (Lake) outside – a perfect marriage of Yin and Yang.

Although the name of the hexagram is XIAN, Huang says that according to Confucius’ Commentary on the Decision, it should be GAN. Gan means influence; it has the connotation of moving the heart, being emotionally excited or stimulated. But there are also resonances with xian, which has two meanings: (a) to bite or be bitten – what we might call ‘smitten’, and (b) entirely or completely. All of these meanings are aspects of being in love.

It’s a hexagram of feeling, of being moved or touched by someone. Wilhelm translates it as Influence (Wooing); Blofeld as Attraction, Sensation. Huang calls it Mutual Influence. Wu calls it To Influence, To Move. LiSe calls it Affect and Affection.

Brad Hatcher calls it Reciprocity, and relates it to Eros. He says:

“Beyond simple union, beyond putting our fractured, fragmented selves back together as viable, functioning wholes, there might be no other purpose or plan. Every human being alive has myriad generations of human and near-human ancestors to thank for bringing them here, not to mention the primates and far longer lines of descent. Each of these beings in turn had something to give in exchange for something they wanted. Each self struck a bargain with other, to negotiate a new pairing while acting in what they hoped was their own best interest. Each had to take a lover. Life learned long ago that the self by itself is extinguished. It learned to want and desire, and that it would need to merit its rewards and fulfilments. This is what brings out our best.”

We can also consider this quality in terms of ‘limbic resonance’. In A General Theory of Love, authors Lewis, Amini, and Lannon explain the concept of "limbic resonance" as the special ability of mammals (including humans) to become attuned to the inner states of others, influencing them and in turn being influenced by them. Mammals, unlike reptiles, regulate each other's internal states – not only their emotional states, but physiological function. An example of this is the way a group of women who spend time together will often find their menstrual periods coming into spontaneous alignment; close friends will achieve synchrony more readily than women who merely share a living space, even though the latter may spend more time together.

When two people are in deep limbic resonance, they are in love. They are in touch, they are ‘touched by’ each other; and being the responsive, malleable beings that we are, they are influenced by each other.

The authors conclude that humans, like all mammals, have "open-loop" physiologies, and require the sympathetic presence of others to maintain systemic balance.

“That open-loop design means that in some important ways, people cannot be stable on their own – not should or shouldn’t be, but can’t be. This prospect is disconcerting to many, especially in a society that prizes individuality as ours does. Total self-sufficiency turns out to be a daydream whose bubble is burst by the sharp edge of the limbic brain. Stability means finding people who regulate you well and staying near them.”

Since the heart has its reasons (that the Reason knows not), this would imply getting our own Minds and Hearts (our cognitive and limbic selves) on the same team, or to reprise Brad Hatcher’s commentary, “putting our fractured, fragmented selves back together as viable, functioning wholes”. As Thich Nhat Hanh says, in his book True Love, in order to truly love, we must practice oneness of body and mind, to be 'entire', to be 'complete', to be xian.

I don’t know the real story behind that beautiful dancing couple, but they sure looked like – at least at that moment – they had it sussed.

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Crossing the great (muddy) waters

2007-08-01T16:32:00.000+01:00

Womad 2007, Charlton Park

I’ve just returned from four days at WOMAD, a festival of world music and dance. Thousands of people braved knee-deep mud to celebrate music and dance from countries and cultures all over the world.

Unpredicted torrential rain made the physical conditions of the festival extremely difficult. Nevertheless, it was a joyous gathering, and a beautiful example of Hexagram 13, TONG REN, which is formed of Heaven over Fire.

Tong means together: to come together, gather together, meet; agreement, harmony, concord; or comrade, colleague.

Ren is people, or person.

Tong Ren is people uniting to become a cohesive, coherent group. This is the hexagram of society and the community, in which people are equal. It’s about understanding the intrinsic qualities of things and organizing them for the benefit of all, rather than for personal gain.

It’s variously translated as Similar People, Fellowship with Men, Like-Minded Persons, Union of Men, Community, Seeking Harmony.

What was noteworthy about this gathering was that the similarities were not the superficial ones we normally notice. People came from across the spectrum of ages and classes. The performers came from all over the world, and from a wide range of musical genres.

What we all had in common was a love of music, an enthusiasm for experiencing a wider context of our humanity, and the intention to have a great time.

Music, and the arts in general, bring people together. So do the pure sciences, and cooking, and gardening, and the spiritual quest. I once spent an afternoon as the guest of a family of pineapple farmers in the hills of Viet Nam; they served me tea in the tiny one-room shack that was home to a couple and their three adult children, and although we had no common language, the mother of the family and I felt the bond of the shared experience of motherhood.

The Decision of Hexagram 13 refers to a union of men ‘beyond the suburbs’, i.e. the common people, as contrasted with the government. Huang observes that “Tong Ren reveals the truth that if people deal with each other in a spirit of equality, then peace and advancement are possible.”

The Decision also says we can “cross the great waters”, meaning that we can bridge a gap, accomplish something important, cross over into new territory.

It’s a hexagram of recognizing how we are similar, and how we are different, and celebrating both.

Bradford Hatcher – always an inspiring interpreter of the I Ching – hits the nail on the head:

The fire does not enlighten the night, but the flame will make a focus in common, a unifying vision, a bonding experience and quite a little spectacle. Gathered here we agree to disagree, exchange the best of our stories and songs, make our peace...

And so the search for the greater world means going across the great waters, across our cultural boundaries, across the ages of time, outside of our niches and sometimes out of our minds. After ages of trials and wars, the clans start to take steps towards consensus, overcoming our disparities by returning to our old common grounds...

Our hope is as much in seeing things not the same way. Our frontier isn't the known. Is that not the whole point of frontiers?

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Decrease

2007-07-17T21:00:00.000+01:00

Kenh Ga, Viet Nam

(Photograph by Rosa Yoskovsky)

A friend of mine recently had a dream about having to hurriedly get out of the house in which he and some friends were living, because there was going to be a missile strike on it. He was frantically looking around, trying to decide in two minutes what he should take with him as he rushed out. The punch line, though, is that they had organized the missile strike themselves.

Sometimes it takes a crisis to leave stuff behind; sometimes you just get bored with it and relax your grip. I’ve let go of some emotional patterns that way: it got so tedious, I couldn’t bear to go over the same territory one more time.

You can get to a point where not having stuff feels better than having it. On a material level, I downsized twice in the last three years and can recommend it.

Travelling helps you let go. First of all, you’re in a different environment, your habit patterns aren’t being reinforced by your surroundings, and you’re getting fresh input and having to be creative about how you meet new experiences. Secondly, you discover that travelling light is easier than hauling a lot of baggage around.

This is all described in Hexagram 41, which is, appropriately enough, called Decrease.

The character SUN shows a hand pouring something out of a ritual vessel; the meaning is to pour out, to decrease or diminish. It can refer to any lessening, subtraction, decline, loss, or ruin – but also suggests a libation to the earth: sacrifice in its original sense, as an offering to invoke the sacred.

The Decision is unequivocally positive. It reads:

Have confidence. Most auspicious. No inauspicious omens.
Do the divination. Favourable to have a place to go to.
How to proceed with an offering?
Two baskets of rice can be offered and presented for the sacrifice.

Two baskets of rice is not a big sacrifice, but it’s OK to give what you have; it’s not the quantity that counts, but the truthfulness and sincerity with which they are offered.

Loss generally carries a connotation of injury, but it’s not necessarily negative to decrease. The key is what you are losing. This hexagram can indicate catastrophe, but it’s potentially a new beginning. Even if something is damaged, you yourself can grow and develop, like a tree that has been pruned so it can bear more fruit. The implication here is that you are not losing what you need, but shedding what is superfluous, and creating a space to move forward. It may be a painful process, but it’s about reducing the load you are carrying, and travelling light.

Both Taoist and Confucian commentaries speak of diminishing anger and desire – what we refer to colloquially as ‘baggage’. (Which reminds me of a dear friend, who says she’s looking for a man with ‘carry-on baggage’.)

As Lao Tse says:

In the pursuit of learning, every day something is acquired.
In the pursuit of Tao, every day something is dropped.
(Tao Te Ching, transl. Feng and English)

Hexagram41 is actually very zen – not only in the sense of creating empty space – but more so because it is formed of Stillness (the attribute of Mountain) and Joy (the attribute of the Marsh).

I wonder what kind of missile my Higher Self might be organizing to motivate my next downsize?

http://www.ichingconsultation.com/

http://www.daoistpsychotherapy.com/

Boston is a random red herring

2007-07-12T23:39:00.001+01:00

Dreaming

Photo by Rosa Yoskovsky

I dreamed last night that I was moving out of a house; a family who had several dogs of various shapes and sizes, and seemed to be good friends of mine, were moving in. I was moving to Boston (a city I’ve never been to), and thought it would be great to live there because it was close to my friend Helen (who actually lives in Bristol).

I also dreamed that a real-life group of people I worked with thirty years ago were dismantling our old office because we were leaving – perhaps the business had folded, or maybe we had all quit. We had moved all the desks into the middle of the room, which was how it was when we’d started (not in real life, but in the dream).

Apart from some dodgy geography (Boston isn’t quite drop-in-for-a-cuppa distance from Bristol), there seems to be a theme of endings and beginnings, and friends.

Now then (as my father used to say, and probably still does), I believe that dreams, like the I Ching, can pick up on the subtle beginnings of things before they are solidly manifest. Both are a sort of early warning system, not necessarily of concrete events that will happen in the future, but of processes that are unfolding.

That’s why the I Ching often has a dreamlike quality, where things that make no sense at all in real life somehow seem perfectly natural. In other words, many of the images in the I Ching don’t stand up to the cold hard light of linear rational thought – but they are all the more powerful and information-laden for being surreal and ambiguous.

That’s also why scholars of the I Ching argue endlessly over what a particular line means. Not only does each individual word have many possible meanings, but having decided on a ‘translation’, there may still be a number of different interpretations of each line. And I believe it’s the diviner’s role to hold the full spectrum of potential meanings like an artist’s palette, and to craft an interpretation that is both accurate and useful for the inquirer at that juncture.

At any rate, having had not one but TWO vivid dreams on the same themes, I thought it would be good to get a second opinion, and threw the coins this morning. I got Hexagram 2, Line 1.

It’s always exciting to get one of the Primary Hexagrams, 1 or 2. Hexagram 2, KUN, signifies total yin, complete receptivity. It has resonances with the new moon and the Winter Solstice; it is the tomb and the womb, doorway to the other world. KUN is where the downswing of the pendulum turns to the upswing, the pause between outbreath and inbreath. It’s like that Mary Poppins story (for those who were fortunate enough to have actually read the original Mary Poppins stories) where the magic happens between the first stroke of midnight and the last.

The GREAT IMAGE says:
The basic disposition of earth is female

The noble man carries everything with great generosity

So here we find encouragement to welcome, with good grace, everything that is coming. That’s the essence of yin.

My changing line was Line 1, which reads: “Treading carefully on hoarfrost; solid ice will come soon.”

Frost is a good image of yin: something delicate, that melts into nothing when you step on it. But when there is frost, you know that Winter – and real ice – is on the way.

This line is about being aware of the beginnings of things, so you can feel how they will develop. Wilhelm interprets this to mean we are being guided to note the first signs of decay. He says to "check them", but how can you "check" the coming of Winter? Perhaps a better translation would say to "prepare" for them.

What does it all mean? I’m no wiser. Something new is beginning, but I haven’t got the shape of it yet.

A friend said to me today that if she’d known what she was getting into, she probably wouldn’t have done most of the things she’s done in her life. That’s true of me as well; I can’t count the number of times I’ve said that if I’d known how an undertaking was going to develop, I’d never have begun it – and how happy I was that I didn’t know!

But carrying everything with generosity…that’s something to aspire to.

Still, I reckon Boston is probably a random red herring.

www.ichingconsultation.com
www.daoistpsychotherapy.com

Call Me Unpredictable

2007-07-03T22:15:00.000+01:00

Path through wildflowers, Can Marroig

My Sweetheart and I saw Thea Gilmore performing in Crawley last weekend. I blush to say I had never heard of her before a week ago. She is a major talent, both as writer and performer.

Thea told a story: just after she had her baby, someone in the music industry asked her if she was now going to be ‘all luvved up’. She said that she sat her son on her lap, switched on the TV, and found Big Brother …and her response to that was to write her song “Teacher, Teacher”, in which she says:

Teacher, teacher, there is danger on the screen
Some little coven of the bigotry machine

Teacher, teacher, how’d they get to hold that sway?

Don’t want to see them come to represent this age
The dumb, the dumber and the princes of the page
They’ve got the money, now let’s give ‘em hell to pay

I’m gonna be raising the roof
I’m gonna be painting the town
I’m gonna be tearing those white flags down

I’m gonna be crossin’ that line
I’m gonna be biding my time
I’m gonna be kissing those walls goodbye

Thea Gilmore’s a gal with vision and attitude, and her songs express who she is. That’s a good example of Hexagram 25, WU WANG, which is formed of Heaven over Thunder: Action following the way of Heaven.

The character wang indicates falseness, untruth, deceit, vanity – but also reckless, foolhardy, rash, disordered, out of place. Wu means ‘no’ or ‘not’. Thus, the meaning of wu wang is ‘no error, not reckless’. It describes an authenticity without falsehood, a natural spontaneous process, like the weather, or plants growing – except that it’s conscious, in the sense of human consciousness.

Wilhelm translates wu wang as Innocence, which doesn’t really capture the meaning. Wu wang is complete truth, without any distortion of the will of Heaven, or of your own personal dao. This takes strength and skill; there is nothing childish or naïve about it.

The Mawangdui I Ching has this as wu meng: “without strain', 'without effort', i.e. acting spontaneously, in tune with the dao. If you are following your nature, you may be exerting yourself, but it won’t have the quality of effort -- of struggle -- that we experience when we are going against the grain.

Another meaning of wu wang is ‘not anticipated', or 'unexpected'. I had a conversation recently with someone who was caught in a dichotomy; he thought he had to make a choice between being ‘middle class’ or ‘bohemian’. Both of those ideas are scripts handed down by history; your own dao is entirely original and unpredictable. It’s not mainstream, and it’s not opposed to the mainstream either – it isn’t determined by any external source. When we are spontaneous, in the flow of who we really are, we surprise even ourselves!

Following your dao has great power. This is one of the few hexagrams that contains the entire invocation yuan heng li zhen, invoking all the directions, all the seasons, and all the virtues of Heaven.

It’s interesting that the ideograph for wang shows us the image of a woman walking away. In ancient China, a woman walking away was a symbol of falseness. But it’s just as important to ask what we should walk away from, in order to be true to what we are and what we value.

Wu wang – being without error – is essentially about following your dao, and creating your life.

If we don’t, we leave a hole in the world where our own authentic and original lives ought to be – and there are forces ready to slosh in and fill that hole.

If we don’t, the ‘bigotry machine’ and a stupified mediocrity may come to represent not only our age, but ourselves.

http://www.ichingconsultation.com/

http://www.daoistpsychotherapy.com/

Travelling

2007-06-21T21:41:00.000+01:00

My Sweetheart and I recently spent a fortnight on an idyllic Mediterranean island. I did some work while there, but mostly it was a nourishing break.

I don’t really do holidays. I’ve travelled quite a bit, but that’s different. Now I know that many ‘holidays’ (or ‘vacations’ to those who speak American English) also involve travelling. All of mine certainly do. But there’s something about travelling -- in the sense of visiting places you've never been before, broadening your horizons, that sort of thing -- that doesn’t let you completely relax. It's like that song 'Hit the Ground Running' by Bill Callahan:

I had to leave the country

Though there was some nice folks there

Now I don't know where I'm going

All I know to do is hit the ground running

I love to travel. One of the things I love best about it is described in another Bill Callahan song, 'I Could Drive Forever':

With every mile

A piece of me peels off

and whips down the road

All down the road
I should have left a long time ago

The best idea I've ever had
I feel light and strong

I could drive forever

Two years ago I backpacked through Viet Nam, on my own, for four weeks. It was one of the most wonderful experiences of my life, thanks in no small part to the kindness and generosity of spirit of the Vietnamese people. But anyone travelling in a foreign country – especially alone – must always, to some extent, remain vigilant. Pickpockets and hustlers aside, everything is strange and unfamiliar. We don’t know how things work, we don’t understand the language, sometimes we don’t even understand the body language.

The I Ching tells us something about travelling, in Hexagram 56, which is formed of Fire over Mountain. Mountain, on the inside, is stable, strong, and steady; Fire, on the outside, moves. It’s about how to negotiate the role of a traveller; how to keep safe, and maintain your own integrity and roots, while moving through different cultures and situations.

When one is travelling, life is not stable, and everyone is a stranger. Moving from place to place is tiring, both physically and emotionally, and there are dangers. You are a wanderer, searching for something new: crossing borders, just passing through and not staying. You are on the move; the journey is in process, and you haven’t yet reached a destination.

This hexagram is about the need, when in new territory, to be clear and perceptive (Fire), and self-contained and cautious (Mountain).

The Decision is positive, promising good fortune, but most of the lines are negative. Many of them are about the dependence of the traveller on others: because he is at the mercy of others, he must be cautious and careful in his actions. Only two of the lines are really positive, and those are the ones with inherent inner stability and self-containment – and the best one speaks of finding a safe haven and trusted companions.

So travelling is not really about letting your hair down – despite the justified popularity of Full Moon parties (which are, I suppose, a safe haven with trusted companions).

But my holiday wasn’t Travelling. It had some of the advantages of travelling: I was nourished physically by exotic and exquisite food, and spiritually by the breathtaking beauty of the place…clear azure sea, fields of grain, goats grazing under ancient fig trees…

And although in an unfamiliar country, I was in a safe and comfortable place, with trusted friends, and my Sweetheart.

It was bliss.
I could quite easily get used to it.

http://www.ichingconsultation.com/

Watch it!

2007-06-18T23:55:00.000+01:00

Lighthouse on Espalmador, Formentera

I recently read Lighthousekeeping by Jeanette Winterson. It’s a brilliant book – and it has made me look at lighthouses with new eyes, and hear stories with new ears.

There’s a sort of lighthouse in the I Ching: Hexagram 20, GUAN. The form of the hexagram as a whole has the form of the trigram Mountain, and there are a lot of similarities between Guan and Mountain: they are the two hexagrams of meditation, reflection, and contemplation. Guan is composed of Wind over Earth; it has the deep stability of Earth, and the lightness of Wind, which can go everywhere.

The character is composed of two parts.

On the left, a heron or owl with wide open eyes. A heron can stay still for hours – then suddenly they’ve got the fish! An owl can see in the dark, through confusion and chaos.
On the right, an eye with a person below it; thus 'to see'.

Guan means to observe or examine; pronounced with a different tonal quality, it can be an observatory (where you watch the stars to see the movements of the Dao), or a temple, where you can observe the Dao through meditation (a temple is sometimes called dao guan). In meditation, we observe: perhaps the breath, perhaps a sound, perhaps our physical sensations…what is important is that our attention penetrates but does not get caught in these things, like the wind moving over the earth.

Guan is a place from which you can see into the subtleties of things, as well as getting a bird's eye view: the big picture, a global perspective without your own small stuff clouding it.

And while you are watching others, others are inevitably watching you: that’s part of the package of being in a position of altitude.

Wilhelm calls it Contemplation; Blofeld calls it Looking Down; Huang calls it Watching; Wu calls it To Observe; LiSe calls it The Heron.

One aspect of this hexagram that I find particularly interesting is the Decision:

Huang’s translation: Hands are washed, offerings are not yet presented. Being sincere and truthful, reverence appears.
LiSe’s translation: Hand washing and not yet sacrificing. Possessing true devotion.

What are they on about? Why do you need to cleanse yourself? Why do you need reverence, sincerity, truth and devotion in order to observe?

We are all of us full of inner voices chattering away: beliefs, desires and aversions – all more or less unconscious and unexamined habits that organize us into who we are. In order to listen – even to ourselves (and three of the lines tell us to observe our own lives) – we must first make a quiet space inside. Daoism speaks of the ‘Void of the Heart’ – a quiet inner sanctum from which we can listen and look, see and hear without being clouded by preoccupation. If you are going to get a call from your higher Self, you have to keep the line clear – otherwise, You’ll just get a busy signal!

So how do we get the beans out of our ears? How do we hang up the phone so the still small voice can get through?

The Decision here describes a ritual. The first part of any ritual has to do with focus and preparation, of simply being present and making a space in which the unknown can become known. It can be as simple as sitting down on your meditation mat, or as complex as you like. It can be the Grace before dinner; the writing of Morning Pages; opening the curtains; clearing your desk before you begin working -- somehow we climb the lighthouse stairs. The magic lies in the reverence, sincerity, truth and devotion we bring to the moment: our open curiosity and willingness to welcome whatever is there to be seen and heard and experienced….what will you see today?

Beautifying

2007-05-27T00:20:00.001+01:00

Next week I’m going to a Mediterrean island. It will (I hope) be warmer than England, and I am anticipating the possibility of exposing bits of my body that don’t normally see the sun.

So I went to see Kaye, who does for me when I feel the need for some beautifying. I had in mind a bikini wax. But Kaye is an artist, and her art form is the human body. I not only got my bikini wax, but an eyebrow tidy and tint, and a pedicure.

Kaye doesn’t just attend to external beauty. She is a sort of therapist in her own right, like I imagine an old-fashioned barber was for men – the kind of barber that appeared in an episode of Northern Exposure, and got Chris to pull up his socks in the etiquette department. A conversation with Kaye always leaves me feeling more beautiful, more feminine, more happy that I’m a woman – that is, shinier on the inside as well as the outside.

That’s what Hexagram 22 is all about. It’s called BI, which is variously translated as Decoration, Adornment, Elegance. The character is made up of two parts: At the top is a flowering plant. Flowers are beautiful, but they don’t last long. Below that is a cowry shell; a shell is the exterior of something. Cowries have been almost universally used both as currency and for adornment.

Bi means brilliant, ornate, intricate, refined, elegant: something beautifully decorated. But a simple translation does not do justice to an implied meaning: in the China of the I Ching, adorning meant refining one’s social behaviour.

The key to this hexagram is whether the beautifying -- whether of one's appearance or one's behaviour -- is merely a superficial show or represents an expression of inner quality.

The hexagram is formed of Mountain over Fire. At its most positive, this is the clarity and consciousness of Fire on the inside, and the stillness and stability of Mountain on the outside. But a weakness of Fire is that it seeks ephemeral beauty, which is gaudy but insubstantial:

Welcome to the land of flame and fizz
Where you will learn that packaging is all that heaven is…
We got the little black car, the little black dress

Got the guru, the trainer, the full court press

We got the software, hard drive, CD-ROM

We got the exploitation.com

We got the pager, cell phone, bootleg methaqualone

The media, the message: you are what you own
(from “Working It”, Henley/Simes/Lynch)

Hexagram 22 asks whether the adornment -- the packaging -- is merely an external ornamentation, or an expression of inner beauty.

During my early years as a therapist, I practised a form of facilitated meditation in which I often sat with someone for an hour or more in silence, day after day. I learned that if you just look at anyone for long enough, they become heart-wrenchingly beautiful. It’s a person’s uniqueness, their naked authenticity, that is the greatest beauty of all, and if you look long enough, you see through all the layers of packaging, right down to their gorgeous core.

If people were more aware of how beautiful they really are, this might be a different world.

Trouble in River City

2007-05-22T22:31:00.000+01:00

Last weekend my Sweetheart and I went for a walk along one of the high tributaries of the Dart, at Shipley Bridge on the edge of Dartmoor. The river rushed past foxgloves and buttercups, banks of magenta rhododendrons and clouds of hawthorn blossom. It was breathtakingly beautiful. We clambered over the slippery stones along the river, and at one point I nearly had a nasty fall.

A rushing river and a nasty fall. Two of the images associated with Hexagram 29, KAN.

The trigram KAN is formed of one yang line enclosed in two yin lines. KAN is water, but not still water, like a lake. It is moving water, rushing like a river. In ancient times, crossing a river was a dangerous prospect, and not undertaken lightly.

Doubled, it gives us the hexagram XI KAN – danger upon danger.

XI is the image of the rapid, repetitive movements of the wings of a bird in flight. It means repeating; or skill; or learning something by repetition.

KAN can mean exhausted; to have run out of breath (or money). More commonly, it means a pit, or to fall. The ideograph is formed of TU, Earth, on the left. On the right is a very old ideograph depicting a person standing on one foot; directly underneath him is a vertical line symbolizing a falling movement, and a pit.

Thus the meaning of KAN is either a pit or falling. And it’s doubled! You get out of the pit and fall back into it, or into another one.

Huang translates KAN as ‘Darkness’; LiSe as ‘The Teaching of Darkness’. Blofeld calls it ‘Abyss’, and Wilhelm, ‘Abysmal’ – both terms which carry the sense of a bottomless pit. Kan is a pit; you may be exhausted and out of breath (or money), but it is not a bottomless pit. You are, as Huang puts it, “falling, but not drowned, in danger but not lost”.

KAN signifies Danger and Darkness, and how to deal with them. It’s about how to get out of the pit.

The inverse trigram/hexagram is LI – Fire – the radiance of solar light. KAN is lunar power, the reflected light that shines in the darkness – and that is the key: to keep your light in the darkness.

Trouble upon trouble can make you crazy. Time and again, in working with clients who have survived – but been traumatized by – some overwhelmingly harsh or terrifying experience, I have heard the story of how troubles can make you crazy, and that craziness leads you into more trouble. Or maybe you’ve just survived some horrendous violation or injury, and the people you turn to for help tell you to pull up your socks, or that it was your own fault. When you are in the middle of such a vortex, it can seem that one disaster leads to another, and everything you do, everything that happens, just makes matters worse.

So what can we learn from Water, about how to get out of the pit? What would Water do? Water goes with the flow; it has no form, no plan, and it reflects whatever light there is. The nature of water is to surrender and flow. It fills up the pit, entirely conforming to the limitations dictated by the circumstances of the moment, and then moves on. The Commentary on the Decision tells us: “Water flows and fills, not accumulating but running. Pass through dangerous places; never lose self-confidence”.

It is sometimes difficult to be right where you are, to stay present with profoundly distressing experiences. But there is a part of us that is not shaped or altered by even the gravest misfortune; it is never injured, never compromised. If you can be present in the moment of distress, and still stay with that eternal part of you – your own Essence, the yang line, shining pure and bright at the centre of the Darkness – then it can move you through even the most distressing situations.

Kan is a teacher, and double trouble gives you a second chance: if you don’t get it the first time, you might get it the second time. The Commentary on the Symbol tells us that “The Superior Person cultivates and practices virtue constantly, and responds through teaching”. If you can master this situation, you will also have the potential to help others through it, like former addicts who can help others through, or indeed any of us who can offer to others the hard-won fruits of our lessons learned.

Waiting for Rain

2007-05-12T23:08:00.000+01:00

I spent the middle two weeks of March in Los Angeles, visiting my parents. It hadn’t rained for a week when I left, and didn’t rain here the whole time I was away. It then continued to not rain until last week. Every evening, I watered my garden, anxious and pessimistic, until the water butt was empty.

‘The drought has started early this year’, I said to my Sweetheart.

‘How long have you lived in this country?’, he replied. ‘It will rain. Don’t worry.’

‘It’s global warming’, I grumbled. ‘It will never rain again.’

But I was wrong, and as is so often the case, he was right. It’s been raining in the Southeast on and off for a week, the garden has exploded into growth, and the water butt is full again.

All the while, I kept thinking of Hexagram 5, XU, which is variously translated as Waiting, Needing, Attending, Calculated Inaction. Some interpret it as ‘Waiting for Rain’, others as ‘Waiting for the Rain to Stop’ – in either case, you are waiting for circumstances outside your control to change.

The overall message of the hexagram is that you need patience, confidence, steadfastness and faith to wait until the time is right for action. Just as you wouldn’t take a cake out of the oven when it’s half-baked, or pull up your radishes as soon as they produce leaves, you need to wait until the situation has matured and ripened, and the time is right to act.

It’s funny how the same message often comes through on different channels. Last week, while reorganizing my filing system, I came across some old journals, written during a time when my life felt cramped and blocked. No matter how I tried to get out of this situation, I couldn’t shift it. Meanwhile, I was doing all kinds of inner work: prayer, ritual, therapy, the lot – in an attempt to overcome my own desperate impatience and frustration, or my own inner blocks to change. The journals recorded one attempt after another to transform both my inner and outer situation, but nothing worked – until one day, it all changed overnight. The time was right, and suddenly everything worked – the garden of my life exploded into growth, and the water butt filled up again.

One of the stories behind this hexagram is that when King Wen was planning to overthrow the tyrannical king of the Shang, he looked for a suitable place to establish his capital. He considered many possible places, but all of them had some fatal drawback. Eventually he chose Feng, a name meaning ‘safe place’, where his army were able to wait calmly, enjoying good food and wine, strengthening themselves while waiting until the time was right to overthrow the Shang. (The story of King Wen’s victory over the Shang is an epic tale, a ripping yarn with many twists and turns – but suffice it to say he was successful in the end.)

This hexagram shows the capacity of humans to follow the Dao. Waiting does not mean idleness. In the time of XU, waiting is a positive act. It’s a moment of creative tension, of gathering force and energy before acting. Its shadow is timidity, fear or needless striving – and my journals were certainly full of all three, though all that inner work was a way of strengthening myself. But the agonized fretting was such a waste of energy, when I could have been “eating and drinking, feasting with joy”, which is Confucius’ advice in this situation.

Next time I’m in a time of XU, maybe I’ll be able to wait calmly and patiently, with confidence and faith…

Meanwhile, I’ve installed a second water butt. Best to be prepared.

Dancing like Elephants

2007-05-08T00:12:00.000+01:00

This weekend my Sweetheart and I went for a walk along the River Wandle, to Merton Abbey Mills. It was a beautiful day, and a beautiful walk.

When we got to the Mills, there was a hot five-piece band playing on the bandstand. They were good enough that people were dancing. Toddlers were bopping around. A woman shimmied across the square to the café. A father jiggled a pushchair in time to the rhythm. A young man – a terrific dancer – boogied with uninhibited enthusiasm, cranking up the volume of the smiles on everyone’s faces.

This phenomenon, of something moving people in an easy and pleasurable way, is described in Hexagram 16, YŰ. The character YU is formed with the image of an elephant, standing on its rear legs, on the right. On the left is an ideograph showing two hands, with something between them; it is an image of giving and receiving, of passing back and forth. Taken together, it’s a dancing elephant! It’s heavy and solid, but at the same time light and active.

This is a happy hexagram. YU means happy, easy movement – joyful, lighthearted enthusiasm. It can also mean pleasure, to be at ease.

Wilhelm translates Yu as Enthusiasm, Huang as Delight; Wu as Easy Movement, Pleasure.

The hexagram is formed of Thunder over Earth. Earth is stable and strong, but it can get too stable – heavy and stagnant. It’s the archetypal feminine, fertile and receptive and responsive, but it can also manifest as weakness and servility. Thunder, on the other hand, is always about activity: something bursting out, opening, releasing.

Here, the active, stimulating power of Thunder is awakening the Earth. It’s like Spring, when life bursts out of hibernation and rediscovers the joy of movement. The hexagram contains references to music and sacred dance; there is surrender internally, and expansive power externally. It’s about enjoying your own Earth, which is your life.

In the context of business or government, this is a hexagram of motivation – someone who can lead through inspiration, sweeping people up into his or her enthusiasm. The lines warn against short-term joy, getting excited and flaring brightly, but not being able to sustain it…or of falling into smugness and self-satisfaction. There’s an implication that such pleasure is fleeting.

But this weekend at Merton Abbey Mills, no one seemed to be concerned. They were just frolicking like elephants to jazz on a Summer’s day…