As I stay in one position with my arms r elaxed, my. knees slightly bent and my breathing regular and slow, I feel my body making involuntary movements and my hands warming up. Later, touching my 3 year old son's head while he eats his cereal, I absorb and give Qi. Looking into my wife's beautiful eyes, I connect with the Qi of her heart, and giving healthy food to my daughter, I care about the Qi of her stomach. On my way to work I marvel about the rising Qi of the day and then in my clinic I feel, transform, gather, balance, and correct the Qi of my patients. Qi condenses to become the myriad things.
Every birth is a condensation, every death a dispersal.
I do not know any larger and more universal concept than that of Qi. It has been an intrinsic part of Chinese philosophy, culture, and medicine since the beginning of its recorded history. Qi is a difficult word to translate. This indicates that Qi can be as immaterial as vapor and as dense and material as rice. During my studies with Zen Master Seung Sahn, I have often been reminded how unprecise and contextual words are in describing reality.