one understands because no one can understand. There is something.
There is something about martial arts. Opening and closing. Like the
wind rising then dying down again. Like the mind with a thought blowing
past. Thoughts like the rustling of trees in the invisible wind. Mind
pours through the trees and they shake, they shimmer like green silk.
Then they still, returning to their quietly out - reaching lives.
martial boxing, the human hand unfurls. The petals of the fists opening
and closing. In a simple hand change night and day, blossoming and
furling. Sunlight and shade.
mind stirs the body and it moves, shaking and shimmering, invisibly
motivated from within. The leg reaches out like a vine searching for
nourishment. The mind reaches further, as high as heaven, down past
roots through the earth.
boxing the body changes, turning and twisting. Shaking off its own
limbs like deadwood from a sprouting tree, a rejuvenating trunk. Pushing
its energy through itself but seeking out for everything that is not
itself: space, sunlight, air and soil. As the mind changes the body
changes trying to catch up. Seasons turn and the single flower derives
its beauty from the knowledge that it will not always be in flower.
That blossom and sleep are woven together, that petals will fall,
that mind will return to the winter of its own quietude.
form lays before one like music carried from afar. Listen too closely
and the world vanishes. Listen with distraction and the music is swallowed
by the whispers of wind. The form tells a story that echoes the seasons.
Now active and budding, now quiet and consolidating. Seasons of change.
Seasons of harvest. Each form is as uniquely itself as differentiates
each species of flower. But each tells the story of the same seasons.
The same changes. Life has so long been the herald of the seasons
that without the seasonal changes it would not be life. The form rejoins
the body to life's influence. Storage and issuance coalesce in power
and speed. The arm whirls, the leg kicks, the hands flash. Mind supplies
the time like the motion of the starry sky. If martial arts lives
up to its name its artistry resides in human mutability, in adaptation
to the moment, the irreplaceable moment that on the battlefield and
in the monastery both exist only for the moment mind recognizes that
inch of time. Boxing is a pattern that appears spontaneous, an artifice
that seems artless. Organic human returning to the natural through
the hingeless door of mind. Using mind to move everything that is
not mind. To rediscover not the stolid in matter but the metamorphosis
Kung Fu the slightest shading, the hint of dusk touches the petals
and they fold themselves, suddenly passive. The brazen colors dim,
the blush retreats to restore itself. The great sun still hangs over
the distant mountains but night spreads through the blossoms like
the blood of fish dispersing in pond water.
mind slumbers the fist dies, the body hollows, the light that shines
turns to a quiet, returning shade.
are ghosts who walk at dusk. Ghosts who live only on the faintest
fragrances of bewildered flowers. No other sustenance can sustain
them. There is a time in boxing when the form is finished, the sword
sheathed, the staff laid down, and only the specter of the movement
remains; the mind sustained by the fragrance of a fragrance, the petals
folded into fists, the spirit just a spirit waiting for its own wind
to stir once more.