“Fangsong, relax,” says the Master. “Make a connection with the Dantian.”

CHEERFUL LITTLE FISH

End of August 2002. I am standing in front of the red door of the yellow house. At exactly eleven o’clock, I press the bell – once, long. The Master trots down the stairs. The door opens.

“Qing jin. Come in,” he says.

I go to the dressing room at the back of the hallway, take my sports shoes out of my bag, get dressed. A little slower than during previous sessions, I step into the practice room. My gaze wanders through the window into the garden. Wind strokes the bamboo. Water splashes along the stones of the small pond. The koi are smaller than before, but have a little less life than before.

“The final lesson, Xiao Lai,” says the Master. “Let the animals loose. Start with a posture. The rooster.”

I place my left leg one step forward, bend my knees, bring my arms as half moons in line in front of and behind my torso. The little fingers of my hands point outward. My navel turned forty-five degrees. Nose forward. I imagine that I am hanging from a little string.

“Fangsong, relax,” says the Master. “Make a connection with the Dantian.”

My failed mission haunts my head. An hour ago, I stood in front of the closed door of the aquarium shop. I had gone there again to look for an alternative. Luckily, the Master did not expect a farewell gift.

“With your yi, focus!” says the Master.

I recover. The rooster appears: proud, strong legs, wings spread. Vibrations grow larger, my body shakes, my breathing too.

“The postures of the Ten Great Forms work best when in movement,” the Master laughs. “Today I will help you close the tap.”

After a few attempts, I manage to control the movement.

“Put this into your imaginary backpack, which you take everywhere with you like a little snail shell,” says the Master.
“You may expect wild situations in China. You must be able to bring everything to rest. Try the same with the eagle.”

I bring one arm high next to my head, the other low in support. But I still do not feel any eagle. An arrow shoots through my thoughts. It brushes past the small pond and pokes at one of the fish. The Master worries for a moment about his dwindling fish stock.

“Yong yi, the intention must be there,” I hear the Master say.

It takes a while before I can wave away the heron with the image of the eagle.

The farewell with the Master was not definitive. After my studies in China, and between my later wanderings, I was often still allowed to return to that familiar red door. Today was the last time. The house has been sold. Master and Master-Mother are moving south.

In my imaginary backpack I have kept, all these years, a small imaginary bag of goldfish – they are lively. In my mind I hand them to him and say: “For the waters ahead. Let them swim free.”