Beijing - A photo essay of sorts

Hello. Yes we've been very lazy the last few months, but there you go.

Three and a half weeks ago I was fortunate enough to go to Beijing, China to meet the master and lineage-holder of the martial arts style I practice. The trip was initiated by one of his senior students, my teacher, whom I first met in Cape Town two years ago. It was a a rare opportunity to go to the cultural source of this martial arts style, and one which I couldn't afford not to pursue, so I jumped on a plane and went off to the Central Kingdom.

There is much I want to say about my trip, about the culture of China, its somewhat controversial position in the world, both politically and economically. But I think I will leave these issues alone and let the few photos I have posted tell a story for me.

I will say though that there is a curious blend of old and new, east and west, traditional and modern in Beijing. It is incredibly westernised, especially culturally - something which really surprised me - and it seems that in many cases the old ways are being subsumed by western concepts and values, particularly with regard to the arts and sciences. As the master told us, 'Traditional Chinese culture is now in the hands of Westerners.' By this he was referring specifically to the spheres of Traditional Chinese Medicine and classical Chinese martial arts; and indeed there does seem to be a corresponding trend that in the east, as traditional ways fade in favour of more 'western' values, in the west TCM and martial arts (as well as their philosophical underpinnings) are gaining recognition and more widespread acceptance as valid forms of health management and maintenance.  

More than the above I'm not qualified to say. I was only in China for two weeks, during which I mostly only trained and did very little touristy business.

One final thing I want to say is that I was totally embraced by the master and the other students at the school. I was treated like family and their hospitality was beyond generous and truly humbling. As such I was gifted a truly unique experience of an amazingly busy, overcrowded and polluted city, hiding in the heart of which is something small, silent, unassuming, genuine, and utterly profound.

 I hope you enjoy the pictures, because there really is a story there...

Nuff said.

My first contact with a local: a somewhat irate rickshaw driver.

My first contact with the city's most prominent feature: smog.

My teacher (right) and the master.

The name of the school translates to something like 'Hall of the Illuminated Heart.'

I stayed in the relatively touristy old part of Beijing where the Bell and Drum towers are situated. This is the Bell tower.

Drum Tower

Beijing has some startlingly modern architecture in places, some of which I managed to capture.

A government building, right next to which was...

...an ode to the Communist utilitarian aesthetic. 

The Temple of Heaven. An awesome and huge temple complex situated in a massive park. It is one of a few 'green belt' type areas of the city and the change in air quality was dramatic and literally incredible. 

The inevitable Peking duck. It had to be done.

I stayed in the DongCheng district of the city, which is made up in large part by these 'hutongs' or alleyways.

Wangfujing street, looking at the entrance to the famous food market.

Mmm.

Ditto.

Just to give you an idea again of the degree of air pollution...

The famous 798 art district. Originally an industrial area where machines and possibly weapons were made for the military. 

Some of my fellow students.

For the Bagua...and the Redheads

An invisible art form,

unmade in my hands,
becomes visible with every syllabic
breath

as an intuition,

it grows and intercepts
strands of fibrous life,
like something gossamer -
a web! - and weaves itself together

nebulous, it spirals round

a seed of itself, like a star,
and exhales light,
and shadow to define it

and it moves; sometimes

with me, mostly without,
as a pulse, a throb, a flux:
           The Wave
of which I am but a humble acolyte

singing songs and dancing

forgotten tribal rhythms
with my footsteps, just trying to keep up,
following like the fool the blue tail
of a wisp into the mists of the
unknown

 Where only the knowers know,

and the believers know,
and say, truly,
that knowing has a season and
lo, it is upon us.

28 years ago today I was born in a hospital in Windhoek, Namibia. Seems like an awfully long time ago! 
I read somewhere that the first breath you take establishes your connection with the land you are born on. You take the essence of it into your body and it becomes part of your blood and life force, defining and grounding you. I feel privileged to have been born and growing up in one of the most beautiful and wild countries in the world.
Being on the complete opposite side of the world today made me think of these things.
For my birthday, I got a much needed warm winter jacket, complements of my wonderful parents-in-law, a shiatsu massage from Russell, a red rose from our garden and even a happy birthday sang to me by my beloved, with tea in bed!
I feel full and happy; I think this is what a birthday should feel like. Quiet, reflective, simple and full of love.

Russell caught me and the moon kitten catching a snooze this afternoon...how cute are those paws!! Looking at the pics he took I realised that I now have mum-hands.
Let me epxplain;
I used to stare at both my mother and grandmother's hands for hours during relentlessly boring church services that I did not hear a word of. Instead I was fascinated with the way my mother's hands moved and folded; the way her ring would show off against her skin, the way small veins would pop back up if I gently pushed them in and how my finger tips would feel caressing the silky skin between her finger joints.
My grandmother's hands were delicate and long and her skin powdery soft like crinkled paper. I would softly pinch the skin between my fingers and it would stay there for a few seconds before going back down. Her hands were an endless tapestry of lines and folds that would keep my attention enraptured for ages.
I would constantly compare my young small hands with my mother and my grandmother during these sermons, sometimes even feeling a bit jealous that mine didn't tell stories like theirs did. Looking at my hands now though I know that time has passed and that it is my turn to have my mother's hands. My hands look exactly like hers did in those days. It makes me smile.