I have been going to weekly Tai Chi classes for about two months now. A curious thing happens; I spend the next day crying. The other night at dinner I told my son, “I cried all morning after going to Tai Chi yesterday. Might as well call it ‘Cry Chi’.”
My favorite move is one where you bend your knees slightly and sway from side to side, waving hands like clouds. I like the rootedness of the legs in that pose. But apparently my tears bring my yin side into sharp focus, which is a good thing. For too many years I have felt the need to function effectively. Why? Because Bob Woodyard, once the root and ground of my being, is now on the other side. I have had to bring forth my inner masculine to get things done in the world. I am good at crossing every “i” and dotting every “t.” But that puts me into yang overload, as it were.
So I go to Tai Chi on Tuesdays and Cry Chi on Wednesdays. In other words, I let the waterworks happen. I cry until my whole face is wet. I cry until I can’t breathe through my nose. And I am none the worse for wear. Instead, once I am finished, I go about my business. But inevitably, another wave hits and I find myself in a state of saline saturation again.
No matter how bad it gets, I can write. I can slog through loss, illness, fear, worry, anxiety. I can capture the phases and put them into phrases. God says, “Write, Vicki, write. Someone out there will resonate with your honest confessions. Don’t worry who. Just keep pecking away.” And so I do.
Sometimes I go out on the deck and go through some movements. I can look up, up, up at the tall poplars and pines and into the great blue beyond. I feel so tall and natural, part of the vertical world as I stretch my arms to embrace the sky. I remember my friend Peter, who said this, “I am bigger than the sky.” Yes. And I start to cry again. Peter would be so proud of me.