meditation

Tao Te Ching

/ PJ Caldas / Leave a comment
Claudia’s story is an adventure inspired by my two decades learning martial arts in two different countries (plus visits to a few others). For the character, it’s a painful journey towards her unwanted balance. Her avoidance of her true place in the world.
 
For myself, the research revealed a lot of the philosophical knowledge and wisdom I’ve been exposed while I believed to be learning to fight. Interesting, yet not surprising. I knew there was more behind each lesson, just didn’t expect to unpack so much!
 
One of these sources had to be the Tao Te Ching, the famous Daoist book of virtue. I looked at a lot of different translations, some pure, some with commentary. For obvious reasons, it was a version by a martial artist, revised by a Chinese poet, the one I immediately loved, although I didn’t know that until after I already had picked it as my favorite. So if you are interested, the aikidoka Stefan Stenudd does a great job of keeping some of the hermetic meaning of the other translations (which is probably right for a text intended to make you reflect), but does that with a much more natural flair, which keeps you focused on the meaning and the ideas, rather than the wording.
 
Then came the surprise that made me leap from my writing chair. His version of the Old Master’s tenth chapter felt like my entire story had been lifted from it:

Can you make yourself embrace The One and not lose it?
Can you gather your vital breath and yet be tender like a newborn?
Can you clean your inner reflection and keep it spotless?
Can you care for the people and rule the country, and not be cunning?
Can you open and close the gate of heaven and act like a woman?
Can you comprehend everything in the four directions and still do nothing?
To give birth to them and nourish them, carry them without taking possession of them, care for them without subduing them, raise them without steering them.
That is the greatest virtue.

Tao Te Ching, Chapter 10.
Translation by Stefan Stenudd

For now, that’s it. A different kind of peek behind the curtain of Claudia Yang’s story. Stay tuned for more. And for those interested, here’s a link to Stenudd’s book:

The Monkey, the elder and the shadow

/ PJ Caldas / Leave a comment

wow monkey

For generations, my clan has been related to an obscure creature I’ve never heard outside our own stories. Shadow Monkey, according to Sifu, used to be an ordinary Monkey that was always hungry. One day, from the top of a tree where he looked for food to grab or steal, he saw in the distance a bright red dancing glow. Curious, he followed the light and found an old man sitting next to the cracking radiance, watching it dance. But it wasn’t the light that the enchanted the simian, it was the other body the light gave the man. It was dark and flat, started on the floor, right from where the elder sat, and stretched for miles, crossing trees, rocks and all things and beings on its way.

Mesmerized, the Monkey asked: “What is that dark body you grew on your tail, Master?”

The master grinned. “It’s a shadow, little friend. It comes from the fire that feeds me.”

Monkey sat next to him, for the ancient man was talking about everything that mattered to the Monkey. But the man said nothing else. No instructions or teachings. So he reached his furry arm to grab a piece of the fire to see how it tasted.

“Ouch!”, shouted the ape. “This fire just bit my hand!”

The ancient smiled, said nothing. So the Monkey sat and observed. He thought and thought about how that stingy hot thing could feed the man, but couldn’t understand. Then he thought more until there were no more thoughts to be had. And since he had not understood, there he stayed, watching the fire dance for his empty thoughts, waiting for an idea to happen. He remained there for days before he realized his wrinkled bald friend was no longer there. He checked his sides, up and down. And there wasn’t. Till he looked back, and there it was: his own second body, stretching for miles. The form the master called shadow.

So glad he got, the ape wished all creatures in the world had their shadows too, and so the fire listened.

That’s when Monkey heard his stomach rumble. It’d been days he was nourishing only on light. Maybe it was time he had real food again. But the flame kept dancing, so beautiful in front of him, he chose to stay a little more. He emptied his head of questions and thoughts and stayed there, feeding from the brightness the fire offered.

So pleased was the fire with the dedication of the Monkey, it decided to transform him into the diaphane and flat shape of himself he loved so much. That’s how he became the Shadow Monkey, the only creature who could move through things without touching them. A mystery my family holds for generations.

That story Sifu used to tell me every morning after a fight. “Loose or win, the next day you will meet yourself to eat the same hot congee and meditate on the meaning of your latest fight and the tale of the Shadow Monkey.”

So I did, so I do. Last night’s loss made me appreciate the ritual even more. With the ache in my jaw, eating anything else would have hurt too much. Quite a practical piece of wisdom hiding in plain sight!

I take a few spoons, let the fire warm me inside and attempt to clear my mind. Flashes from previous battles invade my vision. I let them play and dissolve into nothing. Those fights are all me. What I was, what I am becoming. Sifu told me I should have an abundance of fights until I turned thirty and my body could heal fast. A little less leading to forty, then focus on the spiritual side and prepare to pass my skills and allow the immortals to confide to me the secrets of the Shadow Monkey. The Enlightenment.

I travel back to China, years before. It’s night and I am seating around the bonfire with my Kung Fu brothers. Young and arrogant, we talk about the fable of Shadow Monkey. Some say that’s an allegory for a very simple technique he hadn’t taught us yet. Others believe the real magic of chi was hiding under our noses, we were just too obtuse to see it. One way or another, the same way Sifu was right on the congee we take after every bout, he aches to be right on this fighting regime and the meditation, etc. too.

New recollection: me and him, sparring. I am furious. No matter how fast I am, I can never touch him. He waves his blue clothes in front of my eyes and all of a sudden he hits me on the back. I fall flat, scratching the side of my face on the dirt. The blood burns its way through my skin. He giggles. Next to my head, his hands in front of the candles mock me with a shadow in the shape of a little monkey.

Back to my congee, I wonder: If he can turn his body into shadow and move right across me, why shouldn’t the world be able to witness such feat of skill? Isn’t it time fighters from all paths are allowed to learn and build from that point forward? Just like the Shadow Monkey gave everyone their own shadow, it may be my duty to share our method with the world. But I have to understand it first.

That’s why the rush. Can’t wait one full life to unravel the secret. If once I crack it, I’m no longer abe to use it in a fight because I’m in the spiritual phase of my training, there is no progress beyond my body. “That, ancestors, you got wrong.”

I apologize to the Dao.

I moved to America, and I tried a University because of that quest. But through science, the Dao gave me riddles instead of answers. I had no sense of how close I was. Until those two scientists presented themselves after a loss. Was it the path answering my call? The money was welcome too, although for that, Master would say I was cheating, fixing reality to feed my curiosity as opposed to the noble way of letting the Dao play.

But he is also the one who told me if I thought playing ping pong would make my Kung Fu better, ping pong I should learn well.

The choice was mine. So I answered the path.

The Wooden Man

/ PJ Caldas / 3 Comments

wooden dummy

In my mind, it’s always present. One flash inside the other, never past, never future, forever happening. Right “now,” I am twelve. A sound: water nearby. The scent of leaves, bamboo, China. Among the woods, a broad, clear circle on the floor invites me in. The sacred ground where we train. Although this time, there’s more.

He watches us. Two arms point out; a third, a foot lower, aims at me; a single leg bends forward, like a cat stance. I return the look, in respect. The wooden man, icon of all Kung Fu, from the North of Shaolin to the South of Wudang, is ready for battle. Mine, at last.

Sifu’s robes make him seem made of wind. He floats towards my new training partner and stands before it. Clat! He tests the stems with an upward slap and we exchange looks of excitement. Sight back to the enemy, he drops on his knees down and inwards, bring his wrists against the ribs, and begins. Double tan sau between the sturdy fists. Clat clat! A head-grab and a wing hand rolling underneath the arm. Clat! Master’s legs move swiftly around the opponent; their hands never disconnect. Sifu recoils around his back leg. On one side, elbows heavy and wrists soft; the other, a waiting hand near his chest. Then explodes. Bang! His whole body hits the dummy, through the small area of his palm.

It was splendid! The attack pierces through the dummy’s centerline and the trunk shakes in delight. The wood cackles. With the noise, birds fly in fear. Critters peek. Even the  bamboo seems to bow. And right there, I learn to love those sounds more than anything. More than George, I think. Clat clat clat! Baaaang!

I check the data. In my trips to present and past, no other memory has been visited more times. I guess that makes it an all-time favorite. In my case, a title so full of irony.

It was also among the trees I met George. In a park, ten years later. Berkeley.

Butt on the grass, I recover from a fall. My students run around like squirrels. “Water! Give her some water!”, one says. “I have green tea, she must like it?” says another one. I am fine. Got distracted with the flashes, lost balance, just that.

Can’t reveal the flashes, though. They must believe I can stay focused myself.

Across from us, a little gathering. There always are. People eyeing the exotic young ladies performing geriatric slow moves. Nothing too bothersome. Sometimes they laugh and point and a single stare sends them away. Americans can’t handle a good, cold look back. There are four of them today. All men, nerds. They laugh and elbow each other and I am about to stand up to send them off, when they spit one of them in our direction.

The dude stumbles and looks back in protest, but the friends point at us. Too late, I have noticed. George, I would learn his name later, wears a scarf but his face still sports teenage acne. He carries a big thick book he uses to distract his eyes from me. A few steps, a reassurance look back and forward again, the chopped stride followed pathetic for a miserable eternity. After a long wait, he’s in front of me. Mrs. Lee drops a “hoooo” and pushes the girls to the side. Is all that a setup?

“Is… is it possible to… can I… are you still taking students?”, he stutters.

I say, “I don’t teach men.”

Why I am always so angry?

My words strike him so hard, he falters. Almost falls on the green. Such a snowflake. It wasn’t my intention, but they were out, the words. Couldn’t take back. His eyebrows get closer together and he shakes his shoulders. I’ve seen that before. Same thing fighters do when get hit on the face, and have to decide if they will continue or tap out. A look of heart. It’s cute.

Grey’s Anatomy, the book he carries.

“She almost fainted. I think she needs a doctor”, says Miranda, the one who I should never trust with men. Her last boyfriend was a bully. He and I had to have “a talk.”

George doesn’t fall for Miranda’s cue. Too easy, I respect that. We have a stare down instead. A few seconds. Then he turns around and leaves. I win. Americans…

Mrs. Lee, my oldest and naughtiest student, pokes me with her bare toe and makes a “what the fuck?” face. She’s right.

Not so fast, sir. I run after him, now I am the pathetic one, rushing through the uneven lawn while watched by both my students and his friends. I grab him by the arm and he turns back with a victorious grin. Well played, nerd.

“Hey, sorry. It’s not about you. I don’t teach guys. One of my rules.”

He stretches the neck and checks my students again, all ladies indeed. They wave. He asks why.

“Not sure. It just is.”

He squints, raises one cheek up to the left eye, then smiles. Suddenly, it’s like if the light has shifted around us. Despite the red face and the neck curtain, the stuttering, the pathetic initial stride, that little facial twist somehow got me melted. Who would have guessed?

George doesn’t look strong. More of a nerdy meets hipster dude. We go for coffee and I can hear the girls behind making sounds. We order some iced drinks, grab a seat and we talk. And talk. And talk. Then we get up. My hot twin students work at the shop, and they are already back, all bathed and everything. We must have been there forever. They giggle and wink. We leave, but first I make him ditch the muffler there.

Night falls, as we are entering my building. Three minutes and two floors later, we pass the door amidst a sloppy hard kiss, and I take his shirt off. Hang it over the hand of the old dummy on the wall. “My boyfriend,” I say, tapping the wood man’s third arm, which sticks out a few inches higher than my belly button, like a giant Kung Fu erection. It reacts with a whisper: “Clat!”

So wide are George’s eyes, they may drop. Should I say it’s a joke? Up to the end, he was still unsure if that was serious. No, let him wonder.

We kiss again. I mean, I kiss him and push him through the open loft, where I sleep, study and train. On the other side, a thin mattress laid straight on the floor pretends to be a bed. Never learned to sleep in a real one, too far from the ground, messes up with my chi. We stumble towards it and as soon as we get there, I swipe his leg. He falls on his back, mute.

My turn to undress.

Then, I finish the job. Still not sure I know what I do in the bed department, and nerds don’t get too much action. But his mouth hanging to the side as he fell asleep is still quite flattering. 

I wake up later. It’s pass midnight, my birthday. Everything’s quiet, and the apartment smells like sex. Plus flowers and my fighting gloves. Couldn’t have had a better start for the new year. He’s asleep and the only light comes from the neon sign from the restaurant across the street, which is enough. I roll towards the edge of the bed and reach to the drawer of the side table. Grab the little book, and a square-holed coin I flip in the air.

In my recursive memories, the i-Ching is the only thing that changes.

I watch the golden disk spin up and down, then fall quiet on the white cotton of my bed. Five to go. Except at that point he had his fingers back on me. So soft it sent a cool wave down towards my ass and my entire skin bursts up in chills. He says, “What’s this mountain?”

“Wudang. Where I was born.”

He watched for a while, browsing the tip of his fingers through the blue lines of my tattoos. The mountain, the fog, the tigress standing fierce, ready to attack.

“Is it really this foggy?”

“Those are clouds. That’s where I picked my name from. Claudia.”

Anyone else would have asked about the Tigress, always the tigress. Not George. He has no hostility, no anger, no scars. He’s only curiosity are for his brain things, his medicine books and how to make people feel better. In our lives together, he never once tried to compete. To protect. To be the prince. Once a dude tried to fight us in traffic. George didn’t mind I stepped up to defend us. Not beyond his usual disdain for physicalities, at least.

A true man of yin, for a girl of yang. Interesting how the Dao is. You spend your entire life preparing, then out of nowhere, a messenger comes to remind you your training isn’t done yet.

He gives me a gentle, wet kiss. And we fuck again.

I don’t teach men

/ PJ Caldas / 3 Comments

pigs.png

The weight shifts to my back leg and I follow with the arm. Slow. And I say: “Now front leg to the left, opening space… so you can… stretch… forward and back… at the same… time.”

There is a moan somewhere behind me. The erotic type. I get it, the single whip is one of my favorite moves in Tai chi too. I wait for it every time,  even though I shouldn’t. The form is meditation in motion, Sifu says. Where thoughts and feelings have no place. Let go, I tell myself, which is breaking the rule already.

The air in the park is crisp, the sun hits hard. A spring blessing, when pollen count is low. Summers can be colder than the winter in the Bay Area.

The class goes on. There is Miranda, the sad pretty girl with bad taste for men. Jen, an MBA student that I am still trying to figure out. Nancy and Viv, two hot baristas from a Starbucks nearby. I go there sometimes and can hear the mental fantasies the hipsters concoct while the girls serve their Iced Vanilla Mocha With Soy Milk No Whipped Cream Please, Grande. And there is Mrs. Lee. Tanisha Lee. She must be sixty or something. She holds her position a bit longer and has another mini theatrical orgasm. The whip is that good.

So many thoughts. Resisting never worked. I’ll keep pretending.

Mrs. Lee, so she says, is the best black acupuncturist in the Bay Area. Must try, someday. Her real job is teaching cognitive sciences, that’s how we met. I was her student, now she is mine. I believed I could understand the brain to shortcut my research on the shadow leap, so I ended up in her class. She walks into the auditorium, dressed in a manicuredly sloppy way. A respectable afro-hippie. She plugs her computer and points at the slide she projected. An iceberg. She says “Thoughts are like this: most of what happens is under water, away from our conscience” Sifu would agree, but frown nonetheless. Meditation better, he would say. But I can’t. Not with the anger, not with the flashes.

Swoosh. Here it comes. An arm swings above my head, making my hair move. I can smell the sweat and the rage. I hit him hard, three times. His skin spatters at me. A drop of his perspiration hits my mouth. So fucking gross.

Since my “enlightenment” (a label my master would most definitely dispute) the flashes have been stronger. More vivid. I don’t just see them anymore. Reliving would be a more suitable word. Replaying would work too. The flashes, they come and go. Sometimes one inside of the other.

Swoosh. I am always angry.

Now the alley. I am sticking a knife into the thug’s thigh. The bitch behind me screams and slaps me as if I wasn’t protecting her. Threats to call the police. I twist the blade anyway and pour a mad yell right at his face, then run before the cops show up.

Swoosh. Too much yang. It’s a curse. Runs in the family.

Back to the park. Snakes creeps down, push, recoil. They haven’t noticed my absence.

Swoosh. A baby cries, a mother covered in blood lies still, eyes lost pointing nowhere. Smells like China and decay. I know the place. The scene. Have seen it way too many times now. Can’t tell if it’s a real recollection or something I implanted in my own mind after all the stories I heard. Mrs. Lee says it was possible, forging a memory. That police likes to do that to confuse black people and make them confess.

Sifu holds the little me like I am a rock.

Mrs. Lee moans once more. It brings me back. “This is so sexy”, she says. Always a naughty comment. Others laugh and I shoosh them silent. Had they known  my mind is always screaming…

Another flash. This is worse than usual. Maybe I had too much coffee? No, that would’ve made me poop. I am at a large prairie now. A sharp edged fence stretches to infinity and there is a gate. The shadow monkey gently holds my hand. Everything moves like a bad video-game. MineCrack or something. They say this game gets people to lose their mind. End up believing that squared place is the real world. There are some that even adjust the lights in their houses to match the sun in the game. Nerds.

We march to the gate, me and the ape. There are pigs. Pink and square. Millions of them. Up the hills, through the horizon. I try to hold my breath, but there is no air in MineCrack. I open the wooden door and let them escape. “Go, little fellas. Enjoy your fake life!”

Fake life. Look who’s talking… I feel my hand squeezed. “Now you are free, too” I tell the monkey. No more raising pigs.

There are more apes around us. They get close and sit, staring like if we were a totem. Gods, even. I am not angry anymore. Maybe enlightenment is a good expression after all. Then, from afar, I look into my own eyes. Dive inside of them. Through the darkness of the pupil and deep into the brain. From above, I see Berkeley, the Park. Tiny pathetic creatures are practicing Tai Chi. Myself, my students. Down on the floor, I remember, I am trying to hide the flashes. But I tumble, instead.

“Are you ok?”, Miranda asks.

I tell her I am. Just a little embarrassed. That hadn’t happened in a while. The twins help me stand up. Their hands are so soft…

I am ok, I promise.

“The sun is too hot, sifu.” “Have some water” offer the sisters.

I accept. That was enough for the day.

“Nice class”, says a skinny dude with a scarf and acne. “I mean, before you fell.”

I gaze and say nothing. I’m way more verbose inside of my mind. His eyes meet mine and suddenly he flinches.

“Is… is it possible to… can I… are you still taking students?”

“Don’t teach men”, I answer. And the conversation is over.

He leaves in such shock, he moves in a drunken, wiggly line. That’s how I met George.

The me that ain’t

/ PJ Caldas / 2 Comments

François-langur-with-baby

I know the speed (and angle) of every punch I threw in my entire life. Didn’t, back then. But now I do. I can tell the energy built through all chi-gong routines, and what you spend in each bagua palm change. With accuracy of seventeen decimals, because after that it’s mostly irrelevant. I have data indicating how loud was the first nose I broke in a cage fight. Even remember the feelings: the serotonin levels of love and scales of fear based on my breathing patterns. New ones are plastic, though. Emulations at best. But at least they are there.

Keeping my core personality after the “enlightenment” was a victory. I think. That was the deal, and they kept their promise. Other kinks happened too. Because of my fling with science, for example, I developed a mechanical compulsion for footnotes.(1) Wasn’t particularly anticipating that, but there are consequences for every act. Something I learned early, from the womb I killed.

You see, I cheated. And for a while that brought some pain. Not anymore. I don’t suffer anymore. I don’t suffer anymore. I don’t suffer anymore. I don’t suffer anymore. I don’t suffer anymore. I broke the laws of kung fu, paid for it but also reached a level of skill not even Sifu had. I am fifty-eight percent confident he would be proud.

I’ve sinned, nonetheless. Using quantum physics to break the secret of the shadow leap before the spiritual insights he professed isn’t the path our family protected for so many generations. Which is good and bad. Resembling the masters from the past, I employed robotics to create a new animal style (although, being from Wudang, I’m not sure he would appreciate my flirting with those flowery Shaolin traditions). Transcended my body, but not through meditation, as he taught me. Even managed to break the barrier of conscience between my dream and my dream of a dream. Like being the philosopher’s woman and butterfly at the same time. One that hear your thoughts and kill you with a single strike from both sides of life. Not bad. But not the traditional way either.

I am fine with that. From the top of my mountain, the shade of my pond, all is one. Time, us. I can see so clear. Yes, I cheated. Yes, I wish I hadn’t. But life happens around you, with all its exuberance, clashing uneven parts like a buffalo attacking a little girl. Sometimes all you can do is let go of all control, allow the events to take their course, flow with them. Ride the fucking bovine. Wu wei.

It’s interesting, though, to “think” of the contrast. From before the expansion of my brain, with all the disturbances, bottled tantrums and constricted bursts. There is a reminiscence of joy seeing blood rain from my opponents face. A legitimate pleasure from beating the crap out of the asshole who did that to my student.

And then, there is George.

George doesn’t matter anymore. I wish he did. What matters is now, and us, and you. The data. Is understanding that things are different in a world surrounded by machines that think and humans capable of so much darkness. That it’s time for you to realize the implications. And it all starts with that tale father used to play from his shadow theatre. A story about Tigress, a bee hive and the Shadow Monkey.

—

(1) I calculate there will be 243 notes until the end of this.