I don’t know what to say about today’s practice. Saturday is one of the few days I get to sleep in. So I managed to “sleep in” until about 6:30, and then I got up and did tai chi and druidry. And it was all pretty normal. Normal is sort of what this stuff is, these days. I get up, I use the bathroom, and I do tai chi. And that’s sort of the end of the story. Sometimes something happens that’s worthy of note: today I put my fingers up too far, and got my hand banged around by the overhead ceiling fan.
When I was a kid, I heard them called blades, because they whirled around really fast. I thought sticking my hands into one was certain doom — I’d lose a finger or possibly a whole hand, or a chunk of my arm. Turns out that’s not the case. The first ‘blade’ bounces against your finger and it hurts. But you don’t lose the hand to a whirling ring of imitation wood death-blades. And you’re more surprised than anything else. Then the second blade hits, and the n the third, and you draw back your hand from the whirling fan blades, and…
And it’s over. Your hands aren’t covered with cuts. You aren’t losing blood. There isn’t a bloody stump where your index finger used to be. You’re not mangled for life. And you think, “Whups. Never do that again.” And you go about your day and you think nothing of it.
Until the next time you put your hand into the fan blades. And the next.
I don’t do it very often; maybe twice a year. But this is certainly not the first time I’ve done it. It likely won’t be the last, either. But I won’t stop doing tai chi just because every so often I make a fool of myself.