Root Growth

‘Tis a wonder to find the right metaphor--the one so fitting that it almost seems the thing itself.  Pondering this current, quiet phase of my life recently, I hit upon such an image: root growth.  That’s the phase of development I’m in.  Sending shoots down into the dark earth in search of nourishment; grasping the bedrock in a grounding embrace.  Above ground there’s not much happening--some buds visible, perhaps, to the discerning eye, promising flowers and eventual fruit in some season to come.  

It’s profoundly satisfying feeling my root tips drawing closer to the source of strength and stability: it’s no longer so difficult to have faith in a purpose and a path.  A path, a purpose: the book of changes, Yi Ching, suggested “subtle penetration,” an image appropriate to both.  The suppleness of water wears down rock; softness prevails over the hard, the brittle.  The hexagram shows a broken line, representing the soft force of yin, infiltrating a series of hard, yang lines.  So water trickles into rock, so roots penetrate into the earth through motion so slow and subtle as to be almost imperceptible.  

Our society worships all that is yang: hard muscles, outward displays of wealth or bravado.  Our heroes are athletes, one step removed from warriors.  In this context, it is easy to mistake subtle yin motion for idleness, torpor.  Don’t just sit there, do something!  (As the roots slide deeper, anchoring the tree against rough seasons to come.) 

Nor am I immune to the enticements of yang, as I watch friends spreading their names on stage, taking concerted action, forging ahead in their respective domains out in the world.  In comparison, I am hiding, digging my heels into the earth.  My most significant pursuits these days are internal.  On Thursdays I go to see one Mr. Lee in Chinatown, and he teaches me the ancient movements of Tai Chi Chuan.  The first lesson he simply showed me how to stand: knees bent, frame upright but relaxed, shoulders and tailbone always sinking towards the earth.  The second time we stood, then moved on to an exercise called ‘rubbing the ball.’  Loose arms gently trace the contours of a sphere whose diameter spans the distance from navel to shoulders.  The hands float up around the back to the top, then sink back down in front of the chest, curling around the underside before rising back up to the top.  Since then, 10 or 15 minutes of every day go toward rubbing this invisible ball, smoothing out my own flow of chi.  Letting my mind sink into my body, my body into the ground.  

On m=Monday evenings I go down into a basement room of Rockefeller chapel and listen to a droll Brit named Tom explicate a Theravada Buddhist meditation technique called Samatha Vipassana.  We sit for half an hour, and every evening I practice at home, following the prescribed steps.  First counting the breath, placing my concentration on the numbers as the breath comes and goes through a series of pre-determined lengths.  Then ‘following’ the breath in and out, concentrating on its movement and quality while maintaining awareness of the varying length.  Then ‘touching,’ concentrating on the point in the nostrils where the breath creates a sensation, still maintaing an awareness of the length and direction of the breath.  The idea is to train oneself to concentrate on progressively subtler objects, curbing the relentless tendency of the mind to wander free o’er farm and field.   

When people ask me what I’m doing here in Chicago, I rattle off the things I’m keeping busy with--tutoring ESL, studying herbs, teaching myself Hindi, not to mention strengthening the foundations of an important relationship--but my real work is the internal alchemy of meditative practice.  I am thankful to have the time and money to be able to delve down into myself, to grow my roots, in the knowledge that it is giving me the strength I need to spread my limbs, burst into blossom, and ultimately bear fruit.