T’ai Chi – Treading Softly on Dreams

The Cloths of Heaven

Had I the heaven’s embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light;
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
W. B. Yeats

Finding my feet again

I have always loved my feet – and have depended on them profoundly, for the movement work that I do, as a T’ai Chi and Chi Kung practitioner. So it was quite a shock for me this summer, when I was suddenly stricken with tendonitis of the Achilles, in both legs, and was hobbling around in all manner of soreness, burning pain, and deep unease.

Who knows why these things happen when they do? Except, it feels a strange coincidence that I went down with this ailment – or at least, it flared into full intensity – on the very day that I heard of the death of a dear, far-off friend, from cancer.

She was a dancer, a beautiful dancer. I had trained with her at the Laban Centre, and for me, her movement – powerful, beautiful and clear – embodied the essence of dance itself. Now she was no more. And it was as if my very feet had been cut from under me, along with her.

Still – life exhorts us to move onwards. Amidst the underlying sorrow, there has been much dancing since this moment – and much T’ai Chi and Chi Kung. It is an integral part of my life, after all. And my feet still hurt, but far less so. And the combined wisdoms of acupuncture, osteopathy – and the T’ai Chi itself – are helping to re-connect me to the earth. To hope, resilience and a new future.

Respecting the wisdom of the elders

It is not just my friend who shines the way forward, even after her death, but the wonderful wisdom of my T’ai Chi teachers. One, Andreas Demetriou, whom I trained with over ten years, whilst I lived in London, still lives and practises in South London. He is in his early seventies, and as elegant as ever.

The other one has been dead for some time, but her words and her philosophies, remain as potent as when she still lived and taught. This is Gerda Geddes – the first western woman to learn T’ai Chi in China, and to bring the technique back to the UK, where she pioneered its teaching, at The Place in the 1970s, home of London Contemporary Dance. This is where my own teacher trained with her. It is all about the lineage!

Dancer in the light

A lovely book about Gerda Geddes’ life was written by Frank Woods, called ‘Dancer in the Light’. And one direct quote from Mrs Geddes strikes me as particularly powerful. I refer to it alot in my own teaching, and it remains a lodestar to me, both of present and future endeavour.

Moving gracefully through life

She describes a first meeting with two Chinese T’ai Chi teachers, one 74 years old, and the other 82.

“The two old gentlemen stood up in their long, grey silken gowns, with black skullcaps on their heads, and performed the long Yang form. When I looked at the eighty-two year old man, whom I never met again, I had a sensation that he was transparent, like air, as if there was no barrier for him between this life and another life.

“His balance was perfect, and although he was old and thin, the flow of his movements and the harmony of his body seemed timeless. I have often held him up as an example for myself, of how to live, and of how to grow old.”

Autumn classes coming up

T’ai Chi has seen me through the last thirty years of my life – through loss and sorrow, as well as joy and new beginnings. It is a constant teacher and a comfort. There is nothing quite as eloquent for me, as this quiet meditative movement practise – despite all the other forms of dance and of movement that I have learned along the way.

And if you would like to join me, to tread softly through  your autumn days, I will be running new classes this November and December – and a longer workshop in December too.

You can take a look here for details: CLASSES WITH BARNEY

‘Dancer in the Light: the life of Gerda ‘Pytt’ Geddes/Frank Woods (Psi Books)

In loving memory of Laurie McLeod

Winter Blue

A February freeze

It is the beginning of February. The ancient festival of St Brigid, of Imbolc – marking the mid point between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Solstice. Something to do with ewes in lamb. Fecundity. And the returning light. On the lawn outside my writing – and reiki – room, two blackbirds are fighting over an apple core. And in my country, here in the UK, people are fighting too, endlessly, over Brexit. But I refuse. What we need, more than ever, in these difficult times, is a connection: to the continent of Europe, to the world, and to each other. Taking care, not tearing lumps. But the blackbirds I forgive – for theirs, at least, is a necessary struggle.

Healing power of nature

Nature, always, remains a powerful solace. Even though it is bitter cold outside, the sky up above the house is a heavenly blue. There is clear sunshine – with its penetrating gaze, seeking out the dark corners, and softening them into the beginnings of a thaw. There are the sharp, feisty points of snowdrops, pushing through the crusted soil – and the yellow witch hazel is in full and spidery bloom.

January endings

It is a relief to be out of January – always a long and dreary month, full of bills and post-xmas hangovers. A time of illness and the blues. Of dying and of death. Just this year, for me alone, one funeral at the end of the first week, and one death at the beginning of the second. Neither person young – but still too young to die. Both of them integral to my life, in very different ways – leaving, as every death does, a sense of bewilderment and sadness in their wake.

There have been many, many losses in my life – and the longer one lives, of course, the more, and more grievous, they become. You think you will get used to it, but no, you never do. But perhaps the one thing you can learn along the way, is the art of self care, amidst all those heart-felt, body blows of life.

Strategies of self-healing

One of the first people I saw dying was when I was 30. It was the 1980s, the era of AIDS: of stigma, of no-cure, of Project Fear. Of course, I was frightened too. Felt sick and alarmed – had no clue how to protect myself, psychologically, nor how to help my friend have a more peaceful death. I did my best, though others did it better. And when my own husband fell ill with cancer, not many years after that, the same sick bewilderment came upon me. It took its toll, no question, body and mind.

But what I learned, from painful – and repeated – necessity, was how, when the darkness falls, to find your own source of strength and of light. The garden became a rough paradise to me, of regeneration and growth. (See A Handful of Earth).  My own beloved dog – and the joy of all animals – gave great solace. (See  Old Dog). Working with the body – through dance, dance movement therapy, T’ai Chi and the Alexander Technique (See Classes with Barney), has been  a constant support: a way to find solid ground under my feet, when the tectonic plates of grief are shifting.

The warmth of Reiki

Recently, it is Reiki that I turn to more and more, both in my professional practise, and for self healing. It is a gentle way to find a sense of calm – and lightness – when the season of the year, or of the mind, seems heavy and dark. Placing quiet hands on the heart, or on creaky knees, a sore back, or an aching head, seems so simple, it’s hard to belief its efficacy. But the stream of warmth that comes through these carefully attuned hands is real enough. Tranquillising and energising, both. A tangible support.

I wish Reiki had been there beside me, when I sat, helpless, at my dying friend’s bedside, 30 years ago. I wish I could have used it to ease my old dog’s arthritic hips; my husband’s sleepless, over-medicated, painful nights. But this has come as a late gift to me. And I endeavour to use it well – for others, and also for myself. Boundaries and balance and poise:  all there for the asking.

The melting snow

The blackbirds have disappeared from the grass now. The sparrows have filched all the birdseed and the marauding pigeons have been seen off a few times, with a sharp rap on the window from me. The thin covering of snow is slowly melting under the heat from the house and the winter sun. I find myself thinking again of veteran poet Mary Oliver – another January loss (See The Art of Stillness). How deeply she understood the relationship between all things. Her words remain both a comfort and a reminder. Only Connect. In her poem ‘Some Questions You Might Ask’ she wonders about the soul, about who has it, and who hasn’t…

“What about the blue iris?

What about all the little stones, sitting alone in the moonlight?

What about roses, and lemons, and their shining leaves?

What about the grass?”

To read more about my Reiki practise, or to book an appointment with me, see Reiki in Leeds.