wakeboarding internship
Last Tuesday we went wakeboarding. They say the hardest part is getting up. It looked so easy when the others did it, so I figured it would take a little getting used to, but that I'd get it in no time. The sky was overcast and, once in a while, we'd get rain. Fuzzy rain, as they'd call it in China. Despite the overcast weather, the water was still. The only waves were the ones created by the boat. Every once in a while another boat would speed by; most of the time, it was just us out there. I didn't realize how hard this sport is until I got into the water and immediately fell into panic mode. It was cold, unpleasant and deep. I had an uneasy feeling that there was some creature lurking underneath and that any movement I made only make me look more enticing. Yet for some strange reason, I felt a sense of security as I strapped my feet into the wakeboard. The first time is the hardest. I lurch and immediately fall face first. The water is uninviting and a lot of it goes up my nose. The second time is not much better. I hear encouragement and advice to keep my knees bent. There's a point at which you no longer need to wade water and can stand up, but I am not there. I'm lying on my back with the board strapped to me, like a baby at her baptism. I give the signal and hold on tight, my elbows tucked close to me. The boat gains speed and once again I meet the splash of water. It takes a while before the driver rounds back and picks me up, and each time I mentally prepare myself for failure.
Let go. My hands are starting to burn and I wonder why. It's not until much later when I realize I've been holding so tight that I don't let go when I need to. Third and fourth and fifth and sixth. I lose count of how many times I've waded, with my knees bent and board almost flush against the water edge until I lose control, all the while still tethered to a speeding boat. The excitement is waning and my body is feeling the weight of so much water. I tell myself, one more, just one more.
Go. There's a technique in acupuncture where you imagine yourself as an open vessel. Often when we needle, it's not so much about pressing the needle in, as allowing the needle to penetrate and enter the body. When both the acupuncturist and patient are open and aware, the needling isn't painful or awkward. If the intention is to allow the needle to go to the level of qi, the movement is smoother, easier, gentler. It's so naive to get caught up in thinking about finding the right spot or making sure the needle achieves de qi, but the first moment of contact is so eye-opening, so pure, that it's no longer about the needle. That's the beauty of acupuncture. And that's the beauty of life. When you let go, and no longer worry about the logistics, the magic happens. It's a floaty feeling and the air is crisp and the world is new. That's how I felt when I finally got to wakeboard. After so many trials and errors, I was walking on water. No, I was flying on water. For those scant minutes, everything was as it should. And then I fell again, but that is to be expected.
For several days after, my hands felt raw and I couldn't grip or hold anything. The inflammation from my tendons being stretched hurt. I'm looking forward to the next time. May be I'll only fall once or twice.
Let go. My hands are starting to burn and I wonder why. It's not until much later when I realize I've been holding so tight that I don't let go when I need to. Third and fourth and fifth and sixth. I lose count of how many times I've waded, with my knees bent and board almost flush against the water edge until I lose control, all the while still tethered to a speeding boat. The excitement is waning and my body is feeling the weight of so much water. I tell myself, one more, just one more.
Go. There's a technique in acupuncture where you imagine yourself as an open vessel. Often when we needle, it's not so much about pressing the needle in, as allowing the needle to penetrate and enter the body. When both the acupuncturist and patient are open and aware, the needling isn't painful or awkward. If the intention is to allow the needle to go to the level of qi, the movement is smoother, easier, gentler. It's so naive to get caught up in thinking about finding the right spot or making sure the needle achieves de qi, but the first moment of contact is so eye-opening, so pure, that it's no longer about the needle. That's the beauty of acupuncture. And that's the beauty of life. When you let go, and no longer worry about the logistics, the magic happens. It's a floaty feeling and the air is crisp and the world is new. That's how I felt when I finally got to wakeboard. After so many trials and errors, I was walking on water. No, I was flying on water. For those scant minutes, everything was as it should. And then I fell again, but that is to be expected.
For several days after, my hands felt raw and I couldn't grip or hold anything. The inflammation from my tendons being stretched hurt. I'm looking forward to the next time. May be I'll only fall once or twice.