What is the Point? We are all going to die anyway.

Over the years, some of the wiser mentors I have known have shared a simple idea with me that has remained in the back of my mind: we should strive to earn the life we live.

I do not interpret this as meaning that we somehow have to earn the right to exist, nor do I believe our worth should be measured by how much money we make, how productive we are, or how many accomplishments we can accumulate. I understand it more as an invitation to participate fully in the life we have been given. If we are fortunate enough to wake up to another day, perhaps there is something to be said for trying to make reasonable use of it.

Hopefully, over the course of a lifetime, we can build a life containing some combination of love, meaning, purpose, contribution, friendship, family, learning, service, and perhaps even a little wisdom. We certainly will not succeed every day. There will be periods when simply getting through a difficult time is accomplishment enough. There will also be days when we need to rest, step away, or allow someone else to help us. But when viewed across the longer arc of a life, I think there is something worthwhile about trying to leave the world, or at least our small corner of it, a little better because we were here.

What Is the Point?

Every so often, I encounter someone who expresses a very different perspective. They may say something along the lines of, “What is the point? We are all going to die anyway.” Technically, they are correct.

Every person reading these words will eventually die. So will I. Every generation before us has faced the same reality, and every generation after us will face it as well. No amount of exercise, money, medicine, education, spiritual practice, healthy eating, positive thinking, or modern technology has changed that basic fact. But to me, that is exactly the point.

If our time were unlimited, there might be much less urgency to do anything meaningful with it. We could always begin tomorrow. The book could be written someday. The old friend could be called eventually. We could apologize later, tell someone we love them another time, take better care of ourselves next year, or finally begin sharing what we have learned when the timing seems more convenient.

The problem is that we do not actually know how many tomorrows we will have.

None of us knows when our last breath will occur. I do not see that realization as necessarily depressing or morbid. In fact, I think it can be quite motivating. The awareness that our time is limited can help us separate what is important from what merely consumes our attention. Research in psychology has long suggested that awareness of mortality can influence how people think about meaning, identity, relationships, and values (Greenberg et al., 1986). Other research has found that having a sense of purpose is associated with important aspects of psychological and physical well-being across adulthood (Hill & Turiano, 2014).

The objective, then, is not to become preoccupied with death. It is to become more engaged with life.

What If All of This Actually Matters?

None of us possesses absolute certainty about the ultimate meaning of existence. Philosophers, scientists, theologians, mystics, and ordinary people have debated these questions for thousands of years. We continue to wonder why we are here, whether life has some larger purpose, what happens when consciousness ends, and whether meaning is something we discover or something we create for ourselves. I certainly do not claim to know the answers to those questions.

Somewhere along the way, however, I arrived at a practical conclusion that works for me. Why not err on the positive side? What if all of “this” actually matters?

Perhaps the encouragement we give another person matters. Maybe teaching someone an exercise that improves their balance or mobility can have a positive effect. Showing someone how to slow their breathing when they are overwhelmed may help that person considerably. Sharing an experience that prevents someone else from repeating one of our mistakes may matter considerably more than we realize at the time.

A conversation might change someone’s perspective. An article might reach someone we will never meet. A book could sit on a shelf for years before eventually being opened by the person who needs what is written inside it. A video that receives relatively little attention today might someday help someone halfway around the world.

We may never know. That does not mean it did not matter.

Purpose Does Not Have to Be Grand

I think one mistake we sometimes make is assuming that purpose has to involve something enormous. The phrase “life purpose” can conjure images of changing the world, becoming famous, creating a movement, building an empire, or somehow being remembered generations after we die. Most meaningful lives probably do not look anything like that.

Purpose is often remarkably ordinary. It can be found in raising children, caring for an aging parent, teaching a class, helping a neighbor, creating something useful, sharing knowledge, volunteering in the community, mentoring someone younger, or simply being available when another human being needs someone to listen to.

Psychiatrist Viktor Frankl wrote extensively about the human search for meaning, particularly through his experiences of extraordinary suffering. His work emphasized that meaning can be found through what we create and contribute, through what we experience and whom we love, and through the attitudes we adopt toward circumstances that cannot be changed (Frankl, 2006).

I have always appreciated that perspective because it places meaning within reach of ordinary people living ordinary lives. We do not necessarily have to save humanity to live meaningfully. Sometimes we simply help the people who happen to be within our reach.

Expanding the Circle

As I have gotten older, this idea has increasingly influenced how I choose to spend my time. It manifests itself in my desire to reach more people, teach more classes, offer more perspectives, and share more of what I have learned and experienced. It is also one of the reasons I continue writing articles and books and creating videos for people whom I may never have an opportunity to meet personally.

This is not because I believe I possess all the answers. Quite the opposite. The longer I live and continue learning, the more aware I become of how much there still is to understand.

But I have accumulated experiences. I have made mistakes, changed my mind, been taught by many people, watched ideas come and go, and seen things that I once believed to be true turn out to be incomplete, exaggerated, misunderstood, or simply incorrect. At the same time, I have watched seemingly simple lessons become much more meaningful as I grew older and finally accumulated enough life experience to understand them differently. At some point I began asking myself, why keep all of that to myself?

Teaching in person has always been meaningful to me because there is an immediate human connection. You can see whether someone understands what you are explaining. You can modify what you are doing, answer questions, demonstrate an exercise differently, laugh together, and watch people gradually improve. But there are obvious limitations. Any one of us can only teach so many classes, be in one room at a time, and personally interact with a limited number of people during the course of a day. Writing and modern technology extend that circle considerably.

An article can travel somewhere I cannot. A book can continue communicating an idea when I am somewhere else doing something entirely different. A video can demonstrate an exercise to someone who may never attend one of my classes. Something created today might remain available years from now.

The internet certainly has its problems, particularly in today’s cultural climate. We are surrounded by enormous amounts of information, misinformation, advertising, anger, entertainment, distraction, and increasingly shorter attention spans. Yet the same technology that spreads nonsense can also spread education, encouragement, experience, and useful ideas. The tool itself is not necessarily the problem. Much depends upon what we choose to do with it.

The Ripple Effect We Rarely See

One of the interesting things about teaching, helping, mentoring, parenting, writing, or simply interacting with other people is that we rarely get to see the full effect of what we do.

A teacher may say something that a student remembers twenty years later. A parent may offer advice that a child dismisses at twenty but suddenly understands at forty-five. Someone might read an article, think about one paragraph for several days, and quietly make a change in their life. A person might learn an exercise in a class and later teach it to a spouse, friend, child, or grandchild. The original teacher may never know any of this occurred.

This is worth remembering because we increasingly live in a world where influence is measured through visible numbers. We count attendance, sales, views, likes, subscribers, comments, followers, income, and recognition. Those measurements have their place, but they cannot possibly measure every form of human influence.

Research on generativity, a concept strongly associated with Erik Erikson’s theory of adult development, describes the human desire to contribute to and guide future generations. Generativity can take many forms, including parenting, mentoring, teaching, leadership, creativity, and community involvement (McAdams & de St. Aubin, 1992).

I find that concept increasingly meaningful as the years pass. At some point, the question can gradually shift from “What can I accumulate?” toward “What can I contribute?” That is a very different way of looking at one’s remaining time.

Earning the Day

Perhaps the idea of “earning the life we live” sounds too ambitious when considered across an entire lifetime. I sometimes find it more useful to reduce the scale and simply think about earning the day.

That does not require accomplishing something extraordinary every twenty-four hours. It might simply mean learning something, helping someone, taking reasonable care of ourselves, appreciating the people around us, creating something rather than merely consuming, or contributing in some small way to the lives of the people we encounter.

Obviously, every day will not look like this. There are days for rest and recovery. There are days when our own problems require most of our attention. There are times when we need other people far more than they need us. This is part of being human. But there is an important difference between allowing ourselves to rest and deciding that nothing matters because everything eventually ends.

A beautiful meal, a great conversation, a vacation, a class, a sunset, childhood and careers end. Relationships eventually end, whether through circumstances, separation, or death. Human life itself eventually ends. Something does not become meaningless simply because it is temporary. In fact, I would argue that its temporary nature may be exactly what gives it value.

If we had an unlimited number of sunsets, years with the people we love, opportunities to repair relationships, time to learn, and unlimited opportunities to say what needs to be said, perhaps we would appreciate these things far less.

Scarcity creates value in many areas of life. Time may be the greatest example of all.

Until the Last Breath

None of us knows how much time remains. Hopefully, there are many years ahead, but there are no guarantees. That reality encourages me to continue doing what I can while I can.

There are still classes I would like to teach, ideas I want to explore, articles I want to write, books I hope to complete, videos I would like to create, people I have yet to meet, and perspectives that I will probably continue changing as I learn more. There are also lessons accumulated over a lifetime that might be useful to someone else, even if I never know who that person is.

Will all of it matter? I cannot prove that it will. But neither can anyone prove that it will not.

Given those two possibilities, I choose to err on the positive side. I would rather live as though kindness, teaching, learning, sharing experiences, taking care of ourselves, helping other people, and loving people matters.

I would rather believe that something we create today might continue helping someone after we are no longer here to explain why we created it. Someday, like everyone else who has walked this earth, I will take my last breath. Between this breath and that final one lies whatever amount of life remains. I would prefer to use as much of it as reasonably possible.

Perhaps I will never know how far the ripples will travel. Perhaps none of us does. But I think there is something worthwhile about continuing to throw a few stones into the water. And perhaps that is part of what it means to earn the life we live.

References

Frankl, V. E. (2006). Man’s search for meaning. Beacon Press. (Original work published 1946)

Greenberg, J., Pyszczynski, T., & Solomon, S. (1986). The causes and consequences of a need for self-esteem: A terror management theory. In R. F. Baumeister (Ed.), Public self and private self (pp. 189–212). Springer.

Hill, P. L., & Turiano, N. A. (2014). Purpose in life as a predictor of mortality across adulthood. Psychological Science, 25(7), 1482–1486.

McAdams, D. P., & de St. Aubin, E. (1992). A theory of generativity and its assessment through self-report, behavioral acts, and narrative themes in autobiography. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 62(6), 1003–1015.

How Much of Ourselves Do We Surrender to Belong?

One of the more profound realizations I have experienced since removing myself from a closed or insular social group is recognizing just how many ordinary decisions in life can gradually cease to feel like our own. It is something that I did not fully appreciate while I was immersed in that environment. In fact, it has taken years of distance, additional education, new relationships, different teachers, and simply living outside that structure for me to recognize how much personal sovereignty a person can willingly surrender.

When we think about losing freedom, we often imagine someone forcibly taking it away from us. Yet personal agency can also be surrendered voluntarily, incrementally, and sometimes with the very best of intentions. We may give another person, teacher, organization, philosophy, or community increasing authority over our decisions because we believe we are contributing to something worthwhile. We may believe we are pursuing knowledge, discipline, personal improvement, loyalty, tradition, or perhaps the greater good for everyone involved.

That distinction has become increasingly important to me.

I do not view my own experience simply through the lens of victimization. I made choices. I participated. I believed in much of what I was doing. At various points I accepted restrictions, expectations, and ways of thinking because, within the environment in which I was functioning, they seemed reasonable or necessary. Looking backward decades later is considerably different from looking outward while standing inside the system.

Psychologist and sociologist Janja Lalich (2004) used the term bounded choice to describe how people functioning within highly committed and closed environments may technically continue making choices while the psychological and social boundaries surrounding those choices become increasingly narrow. Decisions that appear unreasonable to outsiders may make considerable sense to the person operating within the group’s worldview. Agency does not necessarily disappear overnight. Sometimes the boundaries around agency simply become smaller.

Personal agency is essentially our ability to act intentionally and make meaningful choices concerning the direction of our lives. Closely related is autonomy, the experience of behaving in ways that are consistent with our own values and considered choices. Self-determination theory, developed extensively by psychologists Richard Ryan and Edward Deci, identifies autonomy, competence, and relatedness as fundamental psychological needs. Environments that support these needs tend to encourage motivation and well-being, while environments that frustrate them can have very different consequences (Ryan & Deci, 2000).

This creates an interesting paradox when considering closed groups. People often enter communities precisely because they provide competence and relatedness. We want to become better at something. We want instruction. We want belonging. We want to associate with other people pursuing similar goals. This is particularly understandable in martial arts, spiritual practices, wellness traditions, religious communities, military organizations, professional associations, and other groups organized around a shared purpose.

There is nothing inherently unhealthy about any of this. Human beings need teachers, mentors, communities, traditions, friendships, and relationships. We learn and depend upon one another. We accomplish things collectively that would be difficult or impossible to accomplish individually. The difficulty begins when belonging gradually becomes dependent upon compliance.

A student may initially recognize that a teacher has considerably more knowledge and experience and therefore reasonably decides to listen and follow instructions. Over time, however, respect for experience can evolve into something quite different. The student may begin assuming that the teacher understands things that the student cannot possibly understand. Eventually, disagreement itself may become evidence that the student simply has not developed enough insight to recognize why the teacher must be correct. These are very different propositions. The first can represent humility. The last can become surrender.

One of the most significant consequences of living within an insular system is that the organization can gradually become the filter through which outside information is evaluated. Who should I learn from? Which books should I read? Which teachers are legitimate? Which martial arts systems are worthwhile? Whose interpretation of history should I trust? Which health practices should I follow? Who should I associate with? What am I allowed to question? What information should remain within the organization? What am I permitted to teach? At some point, we may no longer recognize how many of these questions are being answered for us.

This does not require people within closed systems to be unintelligent, weak, gullible, or incapable of independent thought. Quite the contrary. They may be highly educated, disciplined, motivated, idealistic, hardworking, and sincerely committed to becoming better versions of themselves. Those qualities may actually deepen their involvement because they continually work harder to fulfill the expectations of the system.

This is one reason looking backward can be so illuminating. From outside the structure, we can finally begin to see the structure.

The Freedom to Learn Again

One of the greatest freedoms I have experienced since leaving an insular environment is remarkably simple. I can learn from whomever I choose. That statement might seem insignificant to someone who has always possessed that freedom. To someone who spent many years within a system where outside instruction could be discouraged, dismissed, or interpreted as disloyalty, it can be profound.

Today, if I encounter someone who knows something that I do not, I can listen. I do not first need to determine whether that person belongs to the correct organization, follows the approved lineage, or has somehow received the blessing of someone above me.

I can study tai chi with one teacher, qigong with another, martial applications with someone else, anatomy and physiology through contemporary science, meditation through psychology, and traditional Chinese medicine through experienced practitioners and historical sources. I can compare ideas. I can find similarities and contradictions. I can determine that something I was taught many years ago was useful, partially correct, misunderstood, or perhaps simply wrong.

None of these teachers need to possess the entire truth. Neither do I. That realization itself is liberating. Knowledge does not have to belong to a tribe.

The Freedom to Teach and Share

The same principle applies in the opposite direction. I can teach whomever I choose.

I do not need organizational permission to share something useful with another human being. I do not need to determine whether someone has achieved an appropriate status within a hierarchy before I can help them understand something that might improve their health, movement, breathing, balance, strength, or quality of life. This freedom does not eliminate responsibility. In many ways, it increases it.

Freedom does not mean that anything I say automatically becomes correct simply because it is now my opinion. If I teach something incorrectly, I should correct it. If better evidence becomes available, I should consider it. If something I believed decades ago no longer withstands examination, I should be willing to acknowledge that. I have certainly changed my perspective on teachings and practices that I once accepted with considerable confidence. To me, this is not weakness or disloyalty. It is intellectual maturity.

Healthy autonomy does not mean rejecting instruction, tradition, or expertise. It means integrating information into our developing understanding rather than merely accepting it because an authority has instructed us to do so (Ryan & Deci, 2000).

The same freedom extends to writing and documenting my experiences. I can write about what I have learned. I can examine what worked and what did not. I can revisit teachings that I once accepted and reconsider them through the knowledge and experience I have acquired since. I can document my experiences and distribute those observations as I believe appropriate.

For someone who has spent years within an environment where knowledge may be treated as proprietary, hierarchical, secret, restricted, or reserved for people considered worthy of receiving it, this represents a substantial change in perspective.

I no longer believe that my experiences belong to an organization simply because they occurred while I was part of that organization. They are also part of my life. I can write, analyze, and learn from them. And perhaps someone else can learn from them as well.

This does not mean exposing every private conversation, violating legitimate confidences, or attacking people simply because I now disagree with them. Personal sovereignty still requires ethics, discernment, responsibility, and restraint. Having the freedom to say something does not necessarily mean that saying it is useful or appropriate. But the decision is once again mine to make.

When the Greater Good Requires Too Much

Perhaps one of the more difficult lessons I have learned is recognizing how easily personal autonomy can be surrendered in pursuit of something perceived as greater than ourselves.

Sacrifice itself is not inherently negative. Parents sacrifice for children. Teachers sacrifice time for students. Members of communities help one another. Soldiers depend upon one another. Families and societies could hardly function if every individual placed personal desires above every collective responsibility.

There is considerable virtue in sometimes putting the needs of others ahead of ourselves. But the idea of doing something “for the greater good” can become problematic when it is repeatedly used to prevent individuals from evaluating what they are actually surrendering.

It seldom happens all at once. A little privacy may be surrendered here. A little independence there. Perhaps we give up some control over our time because everyone else is expected to do the same. We may gradually restrict outside associations because people outside the group supposedly do not understand us. We may stop questioning certain teachings because questioning them creates conflict. We may surrender some control over what we teach, what we study, whom we associate with, or how we spend our money because these sacrifices supposedly demonstrate loyalty and commitment.

Each concession may appear relatively insignificant when viewed independently. The accumulation of those concessions can eventually become substantial.

This is why the process can be difficult to recognize while it is happening. Rarely does someone consciously announce, “Today I am going to surrender my intellectual independence.” Instead, we make hundreds of smaller decisions. Each one has a justification. Each one may even appear reasonable at the time. Years later, we may finally recognize what those decisions collectively created.

Leaving Is Not Always the End of Leaving

Physical departure from an organization can occur relatively quickly. Psychological departure can take considerably longer.

A person may leave a group while continuing to carry portions of its structure internally. We may still wonder what former teachers would think. We may hesitate before studying with someone who was previously considered inappropriate. We may feel uncomfortable questioning ideas that once seemed unquestionable. We may censor ourselves even though nobody is censoring us anymore.

Perhaps most interestingly, we may continue asking permission from people who no longer possess authority over us. The gate may be open long before we realize that we are free to walk through it.

Reclaiming sovereignty therefore involves more than simply rejecting previous authority. It requires developing the ability to evaluate information independently while remaining humble enough to recognize that independence does not make us infallible.

This distinction is important because leaving one closed system only to immediately adopt another closed system is not necessarily liberation. Trading one unquestionable teacher for another does not restore sovereignty. Replacing one ideology with another ideology that cannot be questioned merely changes the scenery.

Critical thinking requires something more difficult. It requires becoming comfortable with uncertainty.

I can respect a teacher without believing everything that teacher says. I can appreciate a tradition without defending every aspect of that tradition. I can disagree with someone without making that person my enemy. I can discover that something I believed for twenty years was incorrect without concluding that those twenty years were completely wasted. Life is considerably more complicated than that.

Sovereignty Does Not Mean Isolation

Personal sovereignty also does not mean that I no longer need anyone. Quite the opposite. I continue to value teachers, colleagues, students, friends, researchers, historians, physicians, therapists, martial artists, traditional practitioners, scientists, philosophers, and ordinary people whose experiences may teach me something. What has changed is my relationship to authority.

I can listen without surrendering my judgment. Respect can be given without worshipping. I can disagree without becoming an enemy. Learning can be accomplished without joining. I can belong without becoming owned. I can teach without demanding unquestioning loyalty. And I can change my mind without interpreting that change as betrayal.

Self-determination theory recognizes both autonomy and relatedness as important psychological needs (Ryan & Deci, 2000). Perhaps the goal, therefore, should not be complete independence from other people. Humans are social creatures, and very few of us would thrive in complete isolation. A healthier goal may be interdependence without surrendering sovereignty.

We can remain connected while retaining our individuality. Participation in communities can be present without giving those communities ownership over our thinking. We can respect expertise while reserving the right to question it. Guidance can be accepted while recognizing that ultimately, we remain responsible for the direction of our own lives.

Looking Back Without Living Backward

It has taken me years to understand some of these distinctions, and I suspect my understanding will continue to evolve. That does not mean that every experience within a closed organization was negative. Nor does it require me to dismiss everything I learned there. Life is rarely that simple.

I learned valuable skills, developed discipline, formed relationships, made mistakes, and taught things that I later reconsidered. I accepted ideas that I now question. I participated willingly in structures that, from my current perspective, sometimes required far more personal sovereignty than I would surrender today. All of those things can be true simultaneously.

Maturity does not require rewriting the past so that everything was either wonderful or terrible. It requires seeing the past more completely.

There is a substantial difference between saying, “Everything was done to me,” and saying, “I now understand more clearly the environment in which I made those choices.” The second perspective allows me to preserve my agency while still examining the social pressures, expectations, relationships, and structures that influenced my decisions. That is an important distinction for me.

I cannot change the choices I made decades ago, nor would I necessarily want to erase the experiences that eventually contributed to who I am today. What I can do is examine them, learn from them, write about them, and perhaps provide another perspective for someone else who finds themselves asking similar questions.

Reclaiming the Steering Wheel

Today I have considerably more control over the direction of my intellectual, professional, and personal life.

Today there is considerably more freedom to determine the direction of my intellectual, professional, and personal life. That freedom extends to choosing what deserves further study, learning from people with different backgrounds and perspectives, and sharing what I have learned with those who may find it useful. Traditions and long-held beliefs can be explored without an obligation to defend them, just as questionable claims can be approached with appropriate skepticism. My experiences can also be documented and shared when I believe they may offer something of value to others. Perhaps most importantly, personal sovereignty includes the freedom to reconsider previous conclusions and change course when experience, reflection, or better information provides a reason to do so. Perhaps that is one of the clearest expressions of sovereignty.

It is not the belief that I finally possess all the answers. It is the freedom to continue asking questions.

After spending years inside an insular environment, personal agency can initially feel almost unfamiliar. Yet over time something remarkable happens. The boundaries begin to expand. Teachers become resources rather than unquestionable authorities. Traditions become subjects worthy of investigation rather than doctrines requiring defense. Experience becomes something we can examine rather than something we must interpret according to an approved narrative.

The world becomes larger again.

Perhaps this is one of the most valuable lessons I have taken from the entire experience. We should cooperate with others. We should sometimes sacrifice for others. We should belong to communities, learn from teachers, respect expertise, honor commitments, and contribute to purposes larger than ourselves. There can be tremendous value in all of these things.

But somewhere within that process, we should occasionally ask ourselves a simple question: How much of myself have I surrendered in order to belong?

The answer may not become apparent immediately. Greater clarity often comes with distance, exposure to different people and perspectives, additional education, and the accumulation of life experience. Only with time may we begin to recognize how much freedom we possessed all along, how gradually some of it was surrendered, and how willingly we may have placed portions of our own agency into someone else’s hands.

References

Lalich, J. (2004). Bounded choice: True believers and charismatic cults. University of California Press. https://doi.org/10.1525/california/9780520231948.001.0001

Ryan, R. M., & Deci, E. L. (2000). Self-determination theory and the facilitation of intrinsic motivation, social development, and well-being. American Psychologist, 55(1), 68–78. https://doi.org/10.1037/0003-066X.55.1.68

Teukgi – Finding Your Specialty in the Martial Arts

Over many years of martial arts training, we encounter words and concepts that sometimes remain with us long after we have forgotten exactly where we first heard them. Some are philosophical ideas, while others are practical terms used by instructors to describe what they were seeing in our training. One such term that I remember hearing sounded something like “tiki.” It was used to describe a practitioner’s specialty, forte, or the particular skill that person had become especially good at.

After looking more closely at the Korean language, I believe the term was most likely teukgi, written in Korean as 특기 and with the Chinese characters 特技. The Korean Basic Dictionary translates teukgi as “specialty” or “one’s skill,” referring to a special skill or talent that distinguishes someone from others (National Institute of Korean Language, n.d.). The word combines teuk (特), meaning special or distinctive, with gi (技), referring to skill, technique, or ability. Although teukgi is not exclusively a martial arts term, I find the concept particularly useful when considering how martial artists develop over many years of practice.

Most martial artists begin their training by accumulating information. We learn stances, punches, kicks, blocks, throws, joint locks, forms, breathing methods, conditioning exercises, and various methods of self-defense. Depending upon the system, we might also learn weapons, meditation, internal exercises, or other traditional practices. This accumulation is necessary because we first need exposure to different methods before discovering which ones suit us particularly well. The mistake is assuming that continued accumulation always represents continued advancement.

There can be a tendency in martial arts to measure progress by how many techniques, forms, weapons, or systems someone knows. Yet there is an important difference between being familiar with a technique and developing the ability to perform it effectively. I can show someone the mechanics of a particular kick in a relatively short period of time. They may understand where to place the supporting foot, how to rotate the hip, how to maintain balance, and where the intended target might be. They now understand the technique, but that does not necessarily mean they have developed the skill.

After hundreds or thousands of repetitions, something begins to change. The movement becomes smoother, unnecessary tension diminishes, balance improves, and timing becomes more natural. The practitioner no longer has to consciously think about every component of the movement. What began as something they were trying to remember gradually becomes something their body has learned through experience. This is where teukgi begins to make sense in a martial arts setting. A specialty is not necessarily the technique we know the most about or the one that looks the most impressive. It may simply be something we have practiced so consistently and understood so thoroughly that it has become particularly reliable.

We Are Not All Built the Same

One of the lessons that becomes increasingly apparent after decades of training is that people are different. We have different body structures, flexibility, strength, speed, personalities, injuries, experiences, and ways of processing information. It would therefore be unrealistic to expect every practitioner to develop exactly the same abilities to exactly the same degree.

A tall practitioner with long legs may naturally gravitate toward certain kicking techniques, while a shorter or heavier practitioner may become particularly effective at close-range techniques, throwing, or controlling another person’s center of gravity. Someone with exceptional coordination may become skilled with weapons, while another person may develop an unusual sensitivity for timing, distance, or redirecting force. Even students who begin in the same school, practice the same curriculum, and learn from the same instructor will eventually develop somewhat differently.

In the early stages of training, imitation is necessary. We watch the teacher’s posture, movement, timing, and technique and attempt to reproduce what we see. Those fundamentals provide a common foundation, but advanced practitioners should not necessarily become identical copies of their instructors. Eventually, martial arts becomes personal. A good instructor recognizes this and helps students develop their natural strengths while continuing to address their weaknesses. One student may demonstrate exceptional footwork, another may generate considerable power at close range, and someone else may have an intuitive understanding of throwing, locking, or controlling techniques.

This is also why I do not believe a teukgi should be chosen too quickly. A beginning student may say that kicking is their specialty simply because they enjoy kicking. Enjoyment certainly matters, but a genuine specialty usually reveals itself through experience. Sometimes our instructors may recognize it before we do. With enough time and repetition, certain methods simply begin to fit the practitioner better than others.

Breadth Versus Depth

There is nothing wrong with learning new material. Curiosity is one of the things that can keep martial arts interesting throughout a lifetime, and exposure to different instructors and systems can broaden our understanding. The problem arises when searching for something new begins replacing the deeper practice of what we already know.

Modern martial artists have access to an extraordinary amount of information. Seminars, instructional videos, online courses, books, social media, and teachers from around the world are available in ways that would have been unimaginable when many of us began training. This can be tremendously valuable, but it can also create the impression that the next piece of information is always the one we are missing. There is always another form to learn, another seminar to attend, another weapon to study, another instructor to follow, or another supposedly advanced technique waiting around the corner.

Some practitioners can spend years moving from one source of information to another without spending enough time with what they have already learned to become truly proficient. At some point, it becomes useful to ask whether we are simply learning more or actually becoming better. Perhaps instead of continually asking, “What else can I learn?” we occasionally need to ask, “What have I already learned that deserves another thousand repetitions?”

This does not mean closing ourselves off from new knowledge. Breadth and depth can coexist. The experienced practitioner can remain curious while recognizing that genuine skill usually requires staying with something long enough to move beyond the initial excitement of learning it. Repetition eventually begins revealing details that were invisible when the technique was new.

When a Specialty Becomes a Personal Method

As a practitioner becomes more experienced, teukgi may evolve beyond one particular technique. Someone may initially think of their specialty as a certain kick, throw, strike, or weapon. Over time, however, the deeper specialty may turn out to be something more fundamental. A practitioner who has developed exceptional footwork may begin using that ability throughout almost everything they do. Someone whose strength is sensitivity may become particularly skilled at feeling and redirecting force. Another practitioner may develop an unusual ability to control distance, while someone else becomes especially good at generating power through relatively small movements.

At that point, the specialty is no longer simply “my best kick” or “my favorite throw.” It begins influencing the person’s entire approach to martial arts. This may help explain why highly experienced martial artists often appear to do less rather than more. Their movements can become simpler because they have discovered what works particularly well for them. They no longer need to demonstrate everything they know or search through a mental catalog of techniques. A smaller number of principles and methods have been practiced deeply enough to become dependable.

There is a certain economy in that kind of skill. A less experienced practitioner may know numerous possible responses to a situation and hesitate while deciding which one to use. The experienced practitioner may rely upon only a few preferred responses, but those responses have been practiced so thoroughly that they emerge naturally. Rather than representing a limitation, this kind of simplicity can represent refinement.

Teukgi Over a Lifetime

Another aspect of teukgi that interests me is that our specialty does not necessarily remain the same throughout our lives. What works exceptionally well for us at twenty-five may not be what we rely upon at sixty-five. Age, injuries, experience, and changes in our priorities inevitably influence how we train. A younger practitioner may develop a reputation for explosive kicking or athletic movement, while years later that same individual may become particularly skilled at timing, positioning, or controlling distance. Someone who once relied heavily upon muscular strength may eventually discover that structure, relaxation, leverage, and sensitivity can accomplish many of the same tasks with considerably less effort.

This should not automatically be viewed as losing ability. In many cases, it represents a deeper understanding of what is actually necessary. Perhaps this is one of the advantages of viewing martial arts as a lifelong practice rather than something limited to our physical prime. Our bodies change, but our experience continues accumulating. We may lose some attributes while developing others. Speed may diminish somewhat while timing improves. Explosive strength may decrease while efficiency increases. Our teukgi can mature along with us.

The Korean word teukgi may simply mean a special skill, specialty, or particular talent in ordinary conversation, but within martial arts I believe it provides a useful way of thinking about long-term development. We begin by learning broadly because we need a foundation. Over time, experience begins showing us which methods fit our bodies, personalities, and circumstances particularly well. Through repetition, some of those methods become increasingly natural and reliable.

We should certainly continue learning. Curiosity keeps the mind open and prevents training from becoming stagnant. But there is also a time to stop collecting long enough to cultivate what we already possess. Martial arts development is not measured solely by the amount of information we accumulate. At some point, depth matters as much as breadth, and perhaps even more.

After many years of practice, the question may no longer be, “How many techniques do I know?” Instead, we might ask, “What can I actually do well, and what have I practiced deeply enough that it has truly become part of me?” Somewhere within the answer to those questions, we may discover our own teukgi.

References

National Institute of Korean Language. (n.d.). 특기 (特技). Korean Basic Dictionary. https://krdict.korean.go.kr/eng/dicSearch/SearchView?ParaWordNo=82981&nation=eng

The Healer as a Teacher: Helping Others Learn to Heal Themselves

Over the years, my understanding of what it means to be a healer has changed considerably. When many people hear the word healer, they may picture someone who possesses a special ability to cure another person, remove their pain, correct their illness, or somehow make them whole again. In this model, the healer does the healing while the person in need receives it. One person is active, while the other is largely passive. That has never completely fit with how I have come to understand healing.

My definition of a healer is not necessarily someone who cures or fixes another person. Rather, I see a healer as someone who shows, helps, guides, or teaches another person how to participate more fully in overcoming whatever may be troubling them. Sometimes that trouble is physical. Sometimes it is emotional or psychological. Sometimes it involves lifestyle, relationships, stress, purpose, or simply the realization that the way we have been living is no longer working very well. This distinction may seem subtle, but I believe it is important.

A healer can provide knowledge, encouragement, perspective, techniques, and perhaps even treatment. But ultimately, much of the work of healing still takes place within the individual.

I often think of something as simple as preparing a meal. I can teach someone how to make a healthy meal. I can explain the ingredients, demonstrate how to prepare them, discuss why certain foods may be beneficial, and perhaps even stand beside that person while they cook. But at some point, they have to make the meal themselves. More importantly, I cannot eat the meal for them and somehow transfer the nutritional benefits into their body. Their body has to chew it, digest it, absorb it, and make use of what has been provided. Healing often works in much the same way.

A physician can explain why someone needs to exercise, but the physician cannot perform the exercise for the patient. A physical therapist can teach movements that may restore strength and mobility, but the therapist cannot make the muscles stronger without the patient’s participation. A counselor can help someone recognize unhealthy patterns of thought or behavior, but eventually that person must practice responding differently when those patterns appear in everyday life.

The same is true within many of the practices I have studied and taught over the years. I can teach someone tai chi, qigong, breathing exercises, meditation, stretching, strengthening, posture, relaxation, or other methods of self-care. I can explain the principles behind them and help correct mistakes. I can encourage someone when progress seems slow. But I cannot practice for them.

That is where I believe an important part of healing is sometimes overlooked.

We have become accustomed to thinking of health care as something that is primarily done to us. We go somewhere, receive something, and hopefully leave feeling better. Certainly, there are situations where this is exactly what is needed. If I break a bone, suffer a serious infection, require surgery, or experience a medical emergency, I am very grateful that trained professionals can intervene. There are times when another person’s expertise and intervention may literally save our lives.

But that is only one part of the much larger picture of health and healing.

There is also the enormous territory between being perfectly healthy and experiencing a medical emergency. This is where we live most of our lives. It includes how we sleep, breathe, move, eat, manage stress, maintain relationships, respond to setbacks, use our bodies, and care for ourselves day after day. No practitioner can completely control those things for another person.

This is why I tend to think of the healer as being closer to a teacher, guide, or facilitator than a repair technician. A good teacher does not simply give students answers. A good teacher helps students develop the ability to find answers themselves. In the same way, a good healer should ideally help people develop greater awareness and greater participation in their own well-being.

This does not mean blaming people for becoming sick or suggesting that every illness can be overcome through positive thinking, exercise, diet, or self-discipline. Biology is far more complicated than that. Genetics, injury, aging, infection, environment, socioeconomic circumstances, and simple chance can all affect our health. There are conditions that cannot simply be exercised, meditated, or breathed away. But recognizing those realities does not mean that personal agency disappears.

There is usually a difference between asking, Who is going to fix me? and asking, What can I do to participate in getting better?

That second question can change the relationship between the practitioner and the person seeking help.

Instead of saying, “Heal me,” we begin asking, “Teach me.”

Teach me what I can do.

Teach me what I may be doing that is making the situation worse.

Teach me what signs I should pay attention to.

Teach me how to move differently.

Teach me how to breathe differently.

Teach me how to strengthen what has become weak.

Teach me how to recognize when I need professional help and when I can safely help myself.

This type of relationship does not diminish the importance of physicians, therapists, counselors, teachers, coaches, or other practitioners. I believe it actually makes their knowledge more valuable because their expertise becomes something that can continue working through the individual long after an appointment, treatment, or class has ended.

This has always been one of the things that appeals to me about teaching mind-body practices. If I teach someone a simple breathing exercise that helps them calm themselves during stressful situations, they now possess a tool that can potentially be used for the rest of their life. If I teach an older adult how to improve balance and leg strength, that knowledge does not belong to me anymore. It belongs to them. If someone learns how to recognize unnecessary tension in their shoulders, change their posture, move more efficiently, or calm their breathing, they have gained something far more valuable than simply receiving temporary relief.

They have gained another degree of independence.

Perhaps this is one of the differences between treatment and healing. Treatment may sometimes be something we receive. Healing, however, often requires participation.

Even the word practice tells us something important. We practice tai chi. We practice qigong. We practice meditation, better eating habits, communicating with others, managing stress and becoming more aware of what our bodies and minds are telling us.

There is rarely a point where someone announces, “That’s it. I have mastered my health and never have to think about it again.” Life keeps changing, and so do we.

What worked for us at twenty may not work the same way at forty. What worked at forty may require modification at sixty, seventy, or eighty. Injuries happen. Responsibilities change. Stress comes and goes. Our bodies age. Our priorities shift. The person who understands how to participate in their own well-being is better equipped to adapt to these changes than someone who has always expected another person to provide the solution.

This is also why I am cautious about placing healers on pedestals. The idea that another person possesses some special knowledge or power that we cannot possibly understand can easily create dependency. Certainly, expertise matters. Someone who has spent decades studying medicine, physical therapy, psychology, nutrition, martial arts, traditional practices, or any other discipline should know considerably more about that subject than the average person.

But expertise should ideally empower others rather than make them permanently dependent upon the expert.

The best teachers I have encountered throughout my life did not seem interested in keeping knowledge locked away. They wanted students to understand it, test it, practice it, question it, and eventually make it their own. Their success was not measured by how helpless their students remained without them. It was measured, at least in part, by how capable their students became. I believe healing can follow a similar philosophy.

Perhaps one of the greatest things a healer can eventually hear is, “I know what to do now.” That does not mean the person will never need help again. None of us becomes completely independent. We all need teachers, physicians, friends, family members, mentors, and communities at different times throughout our lives. Independence and interdependence can exist together.

But there is an enormous difference between receiving help and surrendering responsibility. I can point toward the path. I can walk beside someone for part of the journey. I can share what I have learned from my own experience and from the teachers who came before me. I can offer tools, encouragement, and perspective. But eventually, each person has to take their own steps.

Just as I cannot eat your meal and digest it for you, I cannot exercise your muscles for you, breathe your breaths for you, change your habits for you, or live your life for you.

Perhaps what a true healer does is not say, “I will heal you.”

But someone who says, “Let me show you what you may be able to do for yourself.”

To me, that is not a lesser form of healing. It may be one of its most meaningful forms, because instead of simply helping someone feel better today, we may be helping them become more capable of caring for themselves tomorrow.

Yin and Yang: Understanding the Degrees Between the Opposites

When people are first introduced to the concept of yin and yang, it is easy to see it simply as a philosophy of opposites. Yin is often represented as dark, while yang is light. Yin is stillness, while yang is movement. Yin is inward, while yang is outward. Yin is soft, while yang is hard. These comparisons are useful when we are first learning the concept, but yin and yang become much more interesting when we stop thinking about them as simply black and white. Between the two extremes are countless degrees of difference.

One of the easiest ways I have found to explain this is to think about a thermometer. We might say that 80 degrees is warm and 40 degrees is cold, but what about everything in between? There is no magical point where cold suddenly becomes hot. Temperature moves through degrees along a continuum. Even our perception of temperature depends upon what we are comparing it to. Sixty degrees may feel cold after several days of 90-degree weather, while the same 60 degrees may feel wonderfully warm after several weeks of freezing temperatures. Yin and yang can be understood in much the same way. They describe relative conditions rather than permanent labels.

This becomes clearer when we consider what I refer to in my teaching as the five manifestations or relationships of yin and yang: opposition, interdependence, mutual consuming and increasing, mutual transformation, and infinite divisibility. These concepts help move our understanding beyond the familiar black-and-white yin-yang symbol and into something we can actually observe throughout nature and our own lives.

Opposition is probably the easiest manifestation to recognize. Day and night, activity and rest, heat and cold, expansion and contraction all demonstrate contrasting qualities. Yet opposition does not necessarily mean conflict. The two sides actually help us recognize and define one another. We understand darkness partly because we have experienced light, and we recognize stillness because we understand movement.

This leads naturally into interdependence. Yin and yang do not exist independently of one another. We cannot meaningfully describe something as hot without having some concept of cold. Movement is understood in relation to stillness, just as day has meaning partly because there is night. Each side provides a reference point for the other. This is one reason yin and yang should not be viewed as competing forces where one side must eventually defeat the other. Their relationship is complementary.

The manifestation I find especially useful when discussing the stages of our lives is mutual consuming and increasing. This describes how, as one aspect increases, the other relatively decreases. We can observe this simply by watching a day unfold. As morning progresses toward midday, the yang qualities of light, warmth and activity generally increase. As afternoon moves toward evening, these qualities begin to decline while the yin qualities of darkness, coolness and rest gradually increase.

There is no precise moment when day suddenly becomes night. Sunrise itself is a transition. Darkness gradually gives way to light. The sun rises higher, the air warms and activity increases. Later, the process reverses. The sun descends, shadows become longer, temperatures begin dropping and eventually darkness returns. Yang has gradually decreased while yin has increased. Then, during the night, the process eventually begins moving in the opposite direction again.

This is very similar to the thermometer. The temperature does not have to drop from 80 degrees to 60 degrees. It passes through 79, 78, 77 and all of the smaller measurements in between. Nature tends to move through transitions rather than constantly jumping between absolutes. Yin and yang provide a philosophical way of describing these changing relationships.

This also helps us understand why balance does not necessarily mean maintaining a perfect 50/50 relationship between yin and yang. Nature rarely seems interested in remaining perfectly balanced in that sense. Summer does not contain exactly the same amount of warmth and daylight as winter. Noon does not contain the same amount of light as midnight. The relationship is constantly adjusting. Balance, therefore, can be dynamic rather than static.

We can see this same process across the course of a human lifetime. The earlier stages of life tend to contain many yang characteristics. Children run, climb, jump, explore and seemingly move simply for the sake of moving. Young adults often continue this outward expansion as we build careers, raise families, compete, travel, accumulate experiences and test ourselves against the world. There is often considerable emphasis upon doing, achieving and moving outward into life.

As we grow older, the proportions may gradually change. This does not happen on a particular birthday, nor do we suddenly become “yin” because we have reached a certain age. Instead, the degrees begin shifting. We may become more selective about where we spend our physical and emotional energy. Physical training may gradually shift from concerns about how much weight we can lift, how fast we can run or how hard we can strike toward maintaining mobility, balance, coordination, breathing, posture and overall health.

Our priorities may change as well. Experiences can become more important than possessions. Understanding may become more valuable than proving ourselves correct. Listening can become as important as speaking, and reflection may begin accompanying action. This can be viewed as another example of mutual consuming and increasing. Some of the yang characteristics that dominated earlier stages of life may gradually decrease while certain yin characteristics increase.

Of course, this does not mean that older people are yin and younger people are yang. That would simply return us to the black-and-white thinking we are trying to move beyond. A 70-year-old lifting weights or hiking a mountain is expressing relatively yang qualities. That same person sitting quietly afterward, practicing breathing exercises or reflecting upon the day’s experiences is expressing relatively more yin qualities. Likewise, a young martial artist practicing a slow tai chi form may be expressing more yin qualities than an older practitioner performing vigorous strength training. Yin and yang always depend upon what we are comparing.

This is also where infinite divisibility becomes important. Even something we categorize as yang contains different degrees of yin and yang within itself. Exercise may generally be considered yang compared with sitting quietly, but walking is relatively yin compared with sprinting. Jogging might be more yang than walking but more yin than running at full speed. We can continue making these distinctions almost indefinitely. The same principle applies to yin. Sitting quietly may be yin compared with walking, while deep sleep may be even more yin compared with sitting awake. Every time we divide something into yin and yang, those divisions can themselves be divided again.

The principle of mutual transformation takes this relationship another step further. Under the appropriate circumstances, yin can transform into yang and yang into yin. Night eventually becomes day, just as day eventually becomes night. Vigorous activity eventually creates the need for rest, while sufficient rest restores our capacity for activity. Winter eventually gives way to spring, and the quiet dormant period of nature becomes the foundation for renewed growth.

I have noticed a similar transformation within martial arts and mind-body practices. When we are younger, we may be fascinated primarily by speed, strength, flexibility, techniques, forms, fighting applications and physical accomplishments. We want to learn more and do more. Over time, however, some practitioners begin asking different questions. Instead of simply asking how to perform a movement, we begin asking why we are performing it. Instead of constantly collecting another form, another technique or another exercise, we may spend considerably more time examining the principles contained within movements we already know.

The external practice gradually creates an opportunity for internal observation. Tai chi, qigong, yoga, meditation and many traditional martial arts contain this possibility. At first we may be concerned primarily with what our body looks like from the outside. Where does the foot go? Where should the hand be? How low should the stance be? Eventually our attention may begin turning inward toward what the movement actually feels like, where we are holding unnecessary tension, how our breathing changes and whether we can sense our balance shifting before we lose it. The exercise may look almost identical from the outside, yet the experience occurring within the practitioner may be considerably different.

This brings us to an observation from the Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung. In a 1916 letter, Jung wrote, “Who looks outside dreams; who looks inside awakes.” The statement appeared within a longer discussion about the importance of turning attention inward and examining oneself (Jung, 1973). I think this provides an interesting bridge between Western psychology and some of the ideas we encounter within yin-yang philosophy.

Much of our younger life is understandably directed outward. We wonder what we can accomplish, what we can obtain, where we can go and what we can become. We are concerned with establishing ourselves within families, careers and communities. These are not foolish or superficial concerns. They are important parts of interacting with the world and developing ourselves within it.

Over time, however, another set of questions may become increasingly important. Why do I believe what I believe? Why do certain situations bother me? Why have I repeatedly made some of the same choices? What have my experiences actually taught me? What should I continue carrying with me, and what should I finally let go? These are quieter and more inward-looking questions. In that sense, looking outward might be considered relatively more yang, while looking inward and reflecting upon ourselves might be considered relatively more yin.

Neither direction is necessarily superior. Too much outward activity without reflection can leave us constantly busy without understanding why we are doing what we are doing. Too much inward reflection without action can leave us contemplating life without actually living it. There are times to act and times to wait, times to speak and times to listen, times to push ourselves and times to recover. There are times to experience the world around us and times to consider what those experiences have taught us.

Even within a single day, we continually move through these degrees. We awaken from the relatively yin state of sleep and become increasingly yang as we get out of bed and begin moving. We work, exercise, interact with people and engage the outside world. Eventually activity begins to decline. Evening arrives, the lights dim, conversations quiet down and the body prepares for sleep. Yang gradually decreases as yin increases. Then morning comes and the cycle begins again.

Perhaps this is one of the most practical lessons contained within yin-yang philosophy. Life is rarely absolute. We like categories because they make the world easier to understand: hot or cold, strong or weak, active or passive, young or old, healthy or unhealthy. But much of human experience exists somewhere between these extremes.

The five manifestations of yin and yang help us understand why. Opposites define one another. They depend upon one another. As one increases, the other relatively decreases. Under the appropriate circumstances, one can transform into the other. And within every distinction we make, further degrees of yin and yang can still be discovered.

As we move through life, our own relationship between these qualities changes as well. What served us at 25 may not serve us in exactly the same way at 65. That does not necessarily mean that something has been lost. It may simply mean that our position along the continuum has changed. The outward journey can gradually become accompanied by a deeper inward journey. Movement becomes increasingly balanced by stillness, speaking by listening, doing by reflecting and accumulating experiences by trying to understand what those experiences actually mean.

Perhaps wisdom itself involves becoming increasingly comfortable with these changing degrees. Yin and yang remind us that we do not always have to choose one side and reject the other. Instead, we can learn to recognize where we are at a particular moment, what the circumstances require and when the balance may naturally begin moving in another direction.

Just as daylight gradually becomes darkness, summer eventually gives way to winter, activity leads toward rest and rest eventually prepares us for activity again, our lives continue to move through different degrees of yin and yang.

The degrees are always changing, and so are we.

Reference

Jung, C. G. (1973). Letters of C. G. Jung: Volume 1, 1906–1950 (G. Adler & A. Jaffé, Eds.; R. F. C. Hull, Trans.). Princeton University Press. (Original letter written October 22, 1916)