Qigong Story
When I signed up for my first ten-day meditation retreat, I was in my mid-20s and in the throes of “burnout,” the culmination of a lifetime habit of perfectionism and striving. One of the most upsetting aspects of this period was that even my yoga practice, which had reliably provided me refuge since my teens, was no longer possible. I was sustaining a hip injury, which made even basic seated postures painful. I was distraught. How could this practice, which I had believed promised eternal health and wellness, undeniably be hurting me? I had practiced faithfully; I had done all the “right” studies, and spent years studying “advanced” practices and “perfect” alignment. I felt disillusioned and even a little betrayed.
Ready to confront myself, I signed up for a silent Buddhist meditation retreat in the verdant hills of Northern California. On the first day, upon receiving the schedule, I saw that each morning and afternoon would feature a guided practice of Qigong.
I had few ideas about Qigong. My mother had long practiced T’ai Chi, and I assumed the disciplines were related. I also assumed the practice was boring, slow, easy…and primarily suited to the elderly!
On the first morning, our group of silent retreatants was greeted by a grey-haired, soft-spoken man, standing beautifully upright in his black martial arts uniform. He didn’t say much, proceeding instead to lead us in gentle, flowing, standing movements organized around the breath. He moved gracefully, fluidly, and the group mirrored his circular gestures.
During the practice, he spoke of smoothing and settling the Qi, the vital life energy animating the body. He also instructed us to “underdo” the movements. “Just go to 70% of your capacity and range of motion. Underdo.” I was taken aback. Countless yoga teachers had instructed me to “go to your edge and breathe,” underscored by manual adjustments in which they pushed me farther into forms. Underdo? Was this allowed? How could these flowing, simple movements accomplish anything, compared to Sun Salutations and Pigeon poses?
But by the end of the session, I was amazed to find my body in a state of quiet, soft, light expansion. My hip, instead of throbbing and aggravated as it typically was, felt more relaxed. My mind was alert, calm, and clear. I was intrigued by this practice, and soon after the retreat began attending Qigong workshops with the teacher.
I soon learned that Qigong is one of the oldest healing systems in the world, originating in ancient China. Qigong possesses a rich history and a wide variety of practices with an aim of "cultivating (gong) life energy (Qi)." It is one of the five branches of Traditional Chinese Medicine, and includes martial arts applications and spiritual influences from Taoism. Its practices — breathing, slow movements, self-massage, intention, and meditation — are underpinned by therapeutic principles, inspired by the natural world.
From my earliest experiences with Qigong, I found its principles infusing my yoga asana practice, and my injury gradually healed. My yoga practice became quieter, softer, subtler, and more attentive. Over time, Qigong became my chosen form of meditation-in-movement. Its emphases on being grounded and rooted, harmonizing with natural cycles, energetic awareness and balance, and effortless effort (“underdo!”), have transformed the way I move and live. Its beautiful forms, expressing movements of nature (“Playing with Clouds!” “Dancing with Rainbows!” “Flying like a Goose!”) have brought a playfulness and joy to my contemplative practices that were not there before.
As a teacher, I love sharing Qigong with yoga practitioners, because I’ve found that its philosophical orientation can offer balance to a modern culture that is so often stressful and pressurized (even our yoga/spiritual practices are not immune to ambition and struggle!). The Qigong practices, many of which have been incorporated into contemporary somatic disciplines and therapies, can be harmonizing and even healing on many levels. Perhaps most profoundly, they can offer us a direct, embodied sense of ourselves as expressions of nature, held within a larger natural world.