I was sitting by that same stream in Ashland, watching people and water flow by, and it occurred to me that groundedness, this elusive thing I am seeking, is not a position or a state. I can't simply tilt my pelvis this way, turn my knees that way and achieve it. Groundedness can only be described as a metaphysical phenomenon. This is because life is naturally in movement. There is never a perfect scenario, where I'm standing on perfect ground, my plantar fasciitis isn't acting up, there is no breeze, the heel of my shoe is perfectly worn. Groundedness must be achieved in the realm of the real world - that is a world with ever-changing circumstances. Thus to describe groundedness as a "state" or anything static is, I believe, the wrong way to think about it. Groundedness must be a reaction to the world around us.
This realization eased my mind a little, because although I am immersing myself in a complex study of my body, I no longer need to worry that the left half of my pelvis is crooked. Groundedness must be attained in the midst of this.
O-sensei: "Practice of the Art of Peace is an act of faith, a belief in the ultimate power of non-violence. It is faith in the power of purification and faith in the power of life itself. It is not a type of rigid discipline or empty asceticism. It is a path that follows natural principles, principles that must be applied to daily living. The Art of Peace should be practiced from the time you rise to greet the morning to the time you retire at night."
"It is not a rigid discipline or empty asceticism." What is this practice then?
I was watching a little wave forming in the river today. I think that I can safely say that this wave exists, but how does it exist? The water changes so rapidly that I can't even see it change. I catch little glimpses of moments - like frames of a movie - and I can almost understand how the wave is an actual thing, but then I lose it. Somehow it seems to me that our lives function like this: we are an ever-flowing stream of energy. When we try to define ourselves as a static thing, we are lost. Strange though, that we think in images, because an image is a static thing. Whenever I create an image in my mind (something I want to create in the world), it is static. I may change the image, but this doesn't change the fact that the image itself is a singularity - not like the wave. What does this mean?
I know from looking at lots of good art last summer that the best paintings seem to be alive. A painting is an image in the strictest sense, but somehow the good ones always seem like they are just about to reach off the page. I was sucked into Caillebotte's Les Raboteurs de Parquet for this reason (where the workers almost look like secular Zen monks), but the master of this aesthetic seems to be Van Gogh. In his paintings, especially the ones from the last year of his life, even the solid things pulsate. I've never had a stronger reaction to a painting than I did in front of L'eglise d'Auvers at the Musee d'Orsay. The painting took my breath away. It literally looked alive, as though Van Gogh were standing there still painting it. How?
