I bought a “lucky bamboo” today. I went to Target, since it was the closest place I knew that sold the plants. I lurked around the corners of the store, and finally found a small, fluorescent-lit aisle dedicated to all things horticultural. To my right were the dust-free, phony purple orchids, fabric ferns and a vast array of stylish vases and pots. On my left, was a small collection of forgotten and struggling bonsai trees that had lost nearly all of their miniature leaves, which now covered the metallic shelf in a desolate brown pattern. The bamboo was tucked away at the opposite end of the aisle, and there were only three left, all of which were a healthy slightly-muted-lime-green color. For $12.99, I was ready to share the journey of my growth with a “lucky bamboo.”


I had read online that the “lucky bamboo” on the market today is not really bamboo, but just a plant that looks and grows like bamboo. Either way, I needed a hearty little plant that could survive without much sunlight, as my apartment doesn't get “direct sunlight.” I was willing to compromise not having real bamboo, like the kind I had grown up with back home in California, for a “lucky bamboo” that would mark the beginning of a spiritual transformation that was sparked by my Tai Chi Chih class.


It used to be that I dreaded every time I left my apartment, because it always felt like I was fighting to survive. Whether it was on the Beltway—where I had never encountered such dangerous driving conditions in my life; or just walking to the 7-11 across from my apartment building—where stares from strangers always remind me of the way hungry coyotes circle their prey. I used to blame Maryland for the way I felt: drained and desolate—because in California I used to be happy and I used to care. But in Maryland, I was allowing the bitterness to seep into my personality when I’d take the Toyota Camrys of the world cutting me off personally. I allowed the apathy to grow in my soul as I saw the field next to my apartment complex fill up with anonymous garbage. Even statistics justified the building of my disgust: Washington, D.C. was the murder capital of the country—“This is where I live!” I’d say in exasperation. The Maryland/DC area is the second worst place to drive, but harbors the least considerate drivers in the country—“And I have to battle them for 60 miles every single day,” I’d say in utter surrender. When I’d walk up the steps to my apartment, I could feel my feet clomping away lifelessly. My heart was browning and withering, like the leaves on the forgotten bonsai trees on that Target shelf. I knew I had to somehow stop allowing my surroundings dictate the way I felt, but I also felt powerless to do so. I was stagnant in a state of self-paralysis, and I admit, I was quite content to let Maryland take the blame for how I felt. It’s usually easier to place the blame somewhere else, rather than owning my actions.


However, in the Tai Chi Chih class, I must own my actions. I have to be one with the movements of my body, and I decide how and where my body moves. TCC has forced me to take charge of myself, which is a seemingly obvious aspect of the exercise, but for me it was a revelation to a new way of thinking. Whenever I begin to feel as though I am losing control of my emotions and allowing the environment to dictate my actions, Around The Platter Variation always pops into my head. I just let that “ball” of paralyzing and stagnation drop from my hands, I don’t need or want it anymore. I just let that “ball” of paralyzing and stagnation drop from my hands, I don’t need or want it anymore. It’s no longer like pulling taffy to take responsibility for my emotions, for they are my own, and there is no reason to place blame anywhere. Instead, I can turn to the Tai Chi Chih movement Pulling Taffy to release the tension, instead of anchoring it within myself.


At the moment, yes, my “lucky bamboo” is a little on the stubby side. It's nothing like the tall and majestic bamboo that I remember from my backyard. Even though my little baby “lucky bamboo” isn't tall and isn't majestic, I believe that I have more in common with this plant than I do with the bamboo of my memory. It's not as graceful or as pliable as the twelve-foot shoots that to which I am accustomed. But it's just a sapling, and so it's okay if it's not as flexible right now. It must build itself a sturdy base before it learns how to bend; it needs to grow before it can stretch. In this way, I feel strangely akin to this little green plant. I, too, must learn to root myself in the ground before I can allow my body to move with fluidity. If I am to continue growing in the future, I must learn how to embrace my environment, without allowing it to affect my mood. I must be the one in control of my growth.


I plan to continue practicing the Tai Chi Chih movements on my own, and I’ll look to my “lucky bamboo” to serve as a reminder of the physical, emotional and spiritual growth that is possible.




The

bamboo

bends and gives

with the grey storm

and returns

again

still.





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