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HEALING POWER OF MOVEMENT There are many ways to approach the healing process of grief and loss – rituals, writing, advocacy, social support, exercise, prayer, relaxation, music/art, education, support groups, therapy, compassion for others, etc. – and individuals/families often blend a number of these approaches as they develop their own unique path. Below is an article about the use of t’ai chi, an ancient form of movement meditation that was originally a martial art. This mindful practice of breathing and movement cultivates chi (life force) for internal balance, physical health, and peace of mind. I approached the practice of t’ai chi in my early 40s after a series of losses/deaths had dismantled my fairly resilient nature. For the first time in my adult life I felt naked, small, and fragile. There was little peace. Everything in my world was foreign and confusing. The depression I was experiencing was taking over my life and denial was offering little protection. In looking for ways to rebuild, someone encouraged me to trust my instincts. Initially my instincts told me to keep things very simple and uncomplicated. I did a lot of walking, submerged myself in warm baths, cried, and used music to keep the relentless negative self-thinking out of my head. Eventually I could talk about my pain. Sharing this in therapy and with a few trusted friends dispersed bits of the chaos. In addition, my partner’s physical contact removed some of the isolation. There were moments when I could feel protected in his arms. Although all of this was good, it was not enough. I needed to find a way to caress and hold myself. I needed to reestablish my strength and tenacity. A darkness had seized my soul and no antidepressant could fill the void. Nothing could ‘touch’ the places in my body that were desperately trying to heal. My first few months of practice were dedicated primarily to learning how to breathe, probably the most important element of t'ai chi. Abdominal breathing requires control of the mind. It is the mind that commands the breath to sink deep into the abdomen. And if the mind is scattered, confused, or lifeless (as mine was) the ability to govern or regulate the breath is greatly diminished. My mind was not in control. Rather my breath was regulated by the uncertainty and disorder that surrounded me. No matter what I did or how hard I tried, my breath would not descend below my chest. For each breath my teacher took, I took at least three, if not four. When I think back on this difficulty, I find it interesting that my air exchange stopped at the very place I stored much of my pain. The grief/depression had settled into my chest and no amount of force could move the blockage from this area. In these early days, when I wasn’t struggling with my breath, I was battling with my body. I frequently felt at war with myself. Watching my teacher or the more experienced students I was struck with their smoothness and coordination. Their movements were fluid, soft, and strong. There was a linkage between each exchange with a sense of purpose for the upcoming posture. The rising and sinking of their bodies created an atmosphere of peace and harmony. I felt so out of place. It was not until I started to practice ‘t’ai chi walking’ (a meditative form of walking) that I began to have the slightest sense of balance or wholeness. As I walked slowly across the floor I realized I could not sink into the movement unless my breath expelled all of its air, nor could I rise until I filled my body with the energy (breath) it needed. In order to do this I had to let go of the chaos in my mind. With much practice I was able to collapse into that breathing space and synchronize my breath with a motion. For the first time, on a very small scale, there was harmony between my mind, breath, and an action. Much later in my practice, I realized this simple form of walking had released some of the chi (qi), or life energy, that I could not access before. Although it took me a very long time to experience this energy on a regular basis, and I often lost it when I was stuck in the chaos of my mind, I was beginning to feel a difference. I could tolerate the world a little better. Over time I learned that, although I struggled immensely with some of the movements, I struggled far more with the roadblocks I had constructed for myself and that most of these roadblocks were barriers to feeling my vulnerability/loss. However, the continuous movement of t’ai chi began to cycle through my body and massage my brain. Little by little I could let go of some of my protection and take the risks that are inherent in this disciplined, yet gentle art. The real challenge was not to push through or brush aside these roadblocks, but rather to allow myself to stay with the struggle. When I merged with my loss/grief and moved with it, even for a little while, I was able to lessen the fear. Perhaps that’s the healing power of t’ai chi. Taking risks and feeling one’s vulnerability are often essential elements of change, growth, and healing. Before we can let go of pain, we frequently need to explore (or merge with) our conflicts. It was helpful to take the confusion I was experiencing into therapy, a place where I could process some of the emerging feelings and emotions. At other times I reversed this approach and brought my struggles into my movement. What I couldn’t reach through dialogue, I could sometimes explore with t’ai chi. Bridging these two forms of healing allowed me to capture an awareness that I had been unable to reach in the past. In my grief, it was difficult to tap into the nurturing aspects of recovery. However, when I executed a movement of t’ai chi, my hand would occasionally brush against a body part and it was not unusual for this soft massage to simultaneously elicit both a deep feeling of sadness and a sense of cleansing. I also began to notice that if I paid close attention to my practice I could usually feel a continuous massage. A piece of clothing might be rubbing against my skin as I would rise and sink with motion, or blades of grass may be stroking the bottom of my foot as I stepped between postures. Over time I learned that the art of t’ai chi not only blends the elements of softness with the strength of rootedness, but that each of these elements is interdependent with the other. It’s been nine years since I started this practice, and I’ve learned to use this meditative form of movement to manage recurring symptoms of depression. T’ai chi has become my antidepressant. If I’m not consistent in my practice, the chaos slips back into my thoughts and the void returns to my soul. However, if I am consistent, my thoughts are quiet and I can move through my day with confidence and ease. When I come to the close of a session and stand in Wu chi, I often feel a sense of completion, perhaps wholeness. The best way I can describe this feeling is to say, “I've come home.” And for that moment, I know my place in this world. It is important to me that I preserve the early memories of my t’ai chi practice, along with the reasons I brought this art into my life. I’m reminded of my own beginnings each time I witness the struggles of a new student. As I watch in silence and respect, I realize we all bring barriers into our practice. Although some of the obstacles are with our body, the more challenging ones are with our mind, and perhaps even our soul. Given enough opportunity to practice, we can slowly learn to face and confront these fears. In doing so, we begin to experience peace of mind. – Article adapted. Original article appeared in – “T’AI CHI, The International Magazine of T’ai Chi Ch’uan” – by Wayfarer Publications, 1999. SOS Newsletter Article, Mental Health Center of Dane County, Inc.
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