This is a story about the Taiji class. It is also a story about poor vision, perpetual headaches, and chilly hands.
The master did not make the blind see again, but he did something similar. Tom, a student with poor eyesight, sat on the ground while Li Shi Fu pressed two potent points at the back of his head. When he released the pressure, Tom sighed with relief and to his surprise was able to see even the minuscule signs on the optical chart in front of him. If the master were to repeat the treatment day after day for a couple of weeks, Tom would see normally again.
Maybe it was the clear air up here in the mountains, the deep breaths we drew during Taiji class, or the gentle blow the master dealt to Carls head in order to correct his stance. The headache, which had bothered Carl for years, vanished completely, like a ghost spooked by daylight. When Carl came to the temple, his head felt like it had for a while, giving Carl the impression of carrying a minor beehive on his shoulders. After a couple of days, this sensation simply disappeared, leaving Carl curious about the reason.
Like the others, I had come to the temple because the subtle beauty of Taiji attracted me. After a couple of days, it dawned on me that I was not merely Li Shi Fu’s student, but his patient as well. For a couple of months now, my hands have often been cold. Sometimes it felt as though I was slowly turning into a snowman, especially after getting up in the morning. When the master corrected my stance one afternoon, he touched my hand and called me into his shed after class. A couple of days later, some fellow cold handed students and I found ourselves sitting by the fire, boiling medicine in an old black pot. Drinking the sweet tasting brew, we were to focus our thoughts on our own healing. Thoughts, the master said casually, are the most powerful potion you could concoct. He also showed us three acupuncture points on the legs we had to hit for fifteen minutes each day, yet another way of getting our Yang energy flowing again.
I still get up with chilly hands sometimes. But often, they glow like coals, especially when we cultivate stillness together. Li Shi Fu’s concern for his students shows in unexpected ways. There is the patience with which he moves between us when we are holding postures, bending an arm here, twisting a leg there. But there is also his care for our wellbeing, when he calls us into his shed for a consultation. What I personally like best about Daoist medicine is its cooperative aspect. In the West, people who seek the help of a doctor often play a passive role. Generally, the jargon is often beyond their grasp and the doctors see them as symptoms on legs rather than actual people. In Daoist medicine, the boundary between doctor and patient blurs. They are partners trying to find out what caused an imbalance. Detectives piecing together the clues they have gathered.
