Water may flow swiftly or it may flow slowly, but its purpose is inexorable, its destiny sure.
Martial arts was my father’s chosen love. From the age of thirteen, when he started practicing wing chun, until the end of his life at age thirty-two, he practiced every single day with little exception. He said of his passion for martial arts, “Everything I have learned, I have learned through the practice of martial arts.” He had an extraordinarily sharp and insightful mind, and I often think it was a brilliant piece of fate that a mind like his was attached to such a physical and combative practice.
As it turns out, martial arts is a perfect metaphor for life. There are few disciplines where the stakes are so personal and so high as in a fight. Proficiency in martial arts is the practice of keeping centered and skillfully responsive under the direst of circumstances: the threat of physical harm. When you have mastery in combat, you not only meet a fight with composure and skill, you become an artist of movement, expressing yourself powerfully in the immediate, unfolding present with absolute freedom and certainty. When your personal safety or very life is on the line, to remain alert, mobile, and skillful is an immense feat of self-mastery.
This philosophy of movement was how Bruce Lee lived every aspect of his life. He was always after what I like to call “the real.” Real fighting. Real living. Street-tested concepts. Everyday applications. He didn’t deal in points earned or light touches landed, as was the style of the day in high-level competitions. He called that kind of point-oriented, competitive fighting, with so many rules on how to score without causing injury, “dryland swimming.”
That’s not to say he was going around challenging everyone to a street fight, though he did fight a handful of real challenge matches in his lifetime. What he did do was train all out. While protective gear did exist in a variety of arts, he was among the first to repurpose many separate pieces to create true sparring equipment for whole-body, full-contact engagement. He made focus mitts out of baseball gloves by flattening them and filling them with padding. He repurposed baseball catcher chest plates and boxing gear as well as kendo knuckle-finger gloves. This kind of sparring equipment has evolved and is commonplace now, but back in the 1960s, its use was unheard of in Chinese kung fu (or, as my father pronounced it in his native Cantonese, “gung fu”).
Through heavy physical training and combat, my father had the opportunity to translate principles between mind and body—from idea to action—on a constant basis. Most (and possibly all) of what he espoused philosophically started first as an approach to being a successful martial artist. Then, as with all universal principles, he ultimately realized that these martial arts applications were broad and deep—and inimitably applicable to the art of being human.
But let’s begin at the beginning.
My father began studying wing chun gung fu in Hong Kong at the age of thirteen. His sifu (or teacher) was a man by the name of Yip Man (also Ip Man). Yip Man was a very skillful teacher who not only drilled physical techniques but also wove in Taoist philosophy and the principles of yin and yang into his lessons. He often illustrated his teachings through parables on nature, such as using the difference between an oak tree and bamboo to make a point (the oak tree will eventually snap under a strong wind while the bamboo survives because it can move with the wind).
My father was a dedicated student and a quick learner. He practiced outside of class whenever he could and became a star pupil. But he was also a teenager—a teenager whose childhood nickname had been Mou Si Ting, which translates to “Never Sits Still”—and whose later nickname and stage name was Siu Loong, or “Little Dragon.” Born in the hour of the dragon and the year of the dragon, young Bruce Lee was all fire, all “yang.” And Yip Man was forever trying to teach this fiery teen the importance of gentleness, fluidity, and pliability, not just strength and cunning.
To my father’s credit, he would listen and try, but his eagerness (and his temper) would get the better of him; and besides, he’d wonder, isn’t it better to win however you can? What does gentleness have to do with winning really?
One day, Yip Man was trying to teach young Bruce to relax and calm his mind, to forget about himself and follow his opponent’s movements instead. Essentially, he was trying to get him to practice the art of detachment—to respond intuitively to an opponent rather than get caught up in only his own strategy, obsessively calculating his own punches and moves. When my father would get in his own way, visibly trapped in his own cleverness and combativeness, sweat dripping off his furrowed brow, Yip Man would step in again and again and tell him to conserve his energy by going with the natural bend of things. “Never assert yourself against nature,” he told him. “Never be in frontal opposition to any problem, but control it by swinging with it.” Finally he stopped young Bruce and said, “Don’t practice this week. Go home and think about what I’ve said.”
Don’t practice this week?! That was like telling my father not to breathe for a week. Banished from class, Bruce did continue to practice on his own, and he meditated and struggled in solitary contemplation to understand what his teacher was trying to say. Frustrated, and with pent-up energy to spare, he decided one day to take a small boat out onto Hong Kong harbor with his newly found and highly resented free time.
He stopped rowing after a while and just lay in the boat, letting the waves take him. While he rocked along, he began to replay in his mind his teacher’s urgings and all the time he had spent on training. What was he doing wrong? Why couldn’t he understand what his teacher was saying? It didn’t make any sense! His frustration spiked. In his fury, he leaned over and punched the South China Sea several times with all his might.
Suddenly a thought struck him, and he stopped and looked down at his wet hand. My father later wrote about it in this essay:
Had not this water just now illustrated to me the principle of gung fu? I struck it but it did not suffer hurt. Again, I struck it with all my might—yet it was not wounded! I then tried to grasp a handful of it but this proved impossible. This water, the softest substance in the world, which could be contained in the smallest jar, only seemed weak. In reality, it could penetrate the hardest substances in the world. That was it! I wanted to be like the nature of water.
He had a second revelation as he watched a bird fly overhead and cast its reflection on the water in the very next moment:
Should not the thoughts and emotions I have when in front of an opponent pass like the reflection of the bird flying over the water? This is exactly what Professor Yip meant by being one in whom feeling was not sticky or blocked. Therefore in order to control myself, I must first accept myself by going with and not against my nature.
And thus began my father’s long and intimate relationship with water, an element that is soft yet strong, natural yet able to be directed, detached yet powerful, and, above all, essential to life.
At this point, you may be thinking, “I’m not a martial artist; how is this book going to apply to me and why do I care about the epiphany of a seventeen-year-old from more than sixty years ago?” Don’t worry. While we will be talking about martial arts from time to time, it will only be by way of metaphor and for the illustration of concepts that are applicable across general human experience. Sometimes I find it easier to digest abstract ideas through a more grounded physical example. As to why we may care about being like water, my father’s philosophical ideas, coupled with the way he lived his life, have inspired people the world over, including myself, to transform our lives for the better. And the way he lived his life was by way of water’s example.
At its essence, water flows. It finds its way around (or even through) obstacles. My father would call this having “no limitations.” Water is present to its circumstances and surroundings and therefore ready to move in any direction that allows it passage. That openness and pliability means it is in a constant state of readiness, but a natural readiness because it is simply being wholly itself. To be like water, then, is to realize your most whole, natural, and actualized self where you are living as much as possible in the slipstream of life as you forge your own path forward.
Trust me when I say there is something in these pages for you whether you are an athlete, a stay-at-home mom, a student, a musician, an accountant, an entrepreneur, a cop, or whatever shape of human you take. Remember, though, that, at the same time, not everything in this book may be for you. You should never just take something hook, line, and sinker because someone else told you it was true. What is true for one may not be true for another—or the path to a shared truth may look very different for you than for someone else. There’s no one piece of advice nor one set of tools that will fit everyone. I can’t tell you what will work for you—only you will know what that is as you try some of these things on. I’ll share my family’s stories and my thoughts, experiences, and ideas. The rest is up to you. And if you don’t find anything helpful here, don’t give up. There are many resources in this world. Keep seeking, and you will find what you’re looking for.
So let’s metaphorically bow in, shall we? Every martial arts lesson starts with a bow. It’s not a subservient thing. It’s an intention thing. I’m here. I’ve shown up. I’m paying attention and I’m ready to participate.
Thank you for being here. Now let’s start with some water basics.
Why is the idea of being like water such an important principle of my father’s? After all, my father’s core tenet that he coined to represent his art and his life was actually this:
Using no way as way, having no limitation as limitation.
But doesn’t that describe the nature of water perfectly? For anyone who has ever had to contend with a leak, it is sometimes baffling how the water got in and ended up where it did. Sometimes you have to rip the whole wall or ceiling apart to find out where it’s coming from and how it’s traveling to its destination.
Just recently I had such an experience, with a terrible leak in my office. We were pretty sure it was coming through from the roof, but it wasn’t just dripping down from a hole directly above. It was springing up in all kinds of places and seeping through the wall on the upper floor. The landlord sent someone to fix it three times, but without any obvious point of entry, the basic attempts the repairman made were not getting to the root of the problem. So we kept our tarps and buckets in place on the upper floor, thinking that everything on the floor below was relatively safe.
Then it rained again, and torrentially this time. And because the water had been getting into the wall on the upper floor, it just continued down its path through the wall, hit the ceiling beneath, and ran along the beams. When we returned the next day, water was dripping off the ceiling beams across the expanse of the first floor—it was literally raining indoors.
Distressing as it was for us, why is this admirable on the part of the water? Well, the water was not to be deterred. It was going to find a path, or even multiple paths. It would move along until it met with an obstacle, and then, if it needed to, it would change course and keep on flowing. It used “no way” as its way. In other words, it used every possible way. And it ran along without limitation. Even though we have since patched the roof, the rainwater is still undeterred in finding its way, though now it does so outside the building instead of inside. Thankfully.
This is the basic way of water. It is unstoppable. And though the word water is reflected nowhere in my father’s core tenet above, the phrase represents perfectly one of the preeminent water basics that I want us to begin to sit with—that water is undeterred. It will carve canyons into mountains over centuries. And when I say I want us to “sit with” this, I use this term because I don’t want us to only think about it. After all, life isn’t only a mental exercise. When I say “sit with,” I mean be with it—consider it, notice it, experience it, feel it, and allow it in.
Let’s think of water as unstoppable, similar to how many people think of Bruce Lee as unstoppable. Whether you know anything about him or not, you likely still have a picture of a heroic, skilled badass who plowed through his opponents—whether in real life or just in the movies.
So what does it take to be unstoppable like water?
For my father, being “in the flow” meant, in part, being present—choosing to live his life consciously, purposefully, intentionally. Being present means more than occupying physical space. It’s not just about whether you show up for class, but whether you are actively participating in class. Are you listening, asking questions, taking notes, engaging in the conversation? Or are you physically there but on your phone, half asleep, hoodie up, earbuds in? Being present is a key component of being like water. Why?
Well, if the rainwater from my example above were not in active participation with its environment at every moment, then it would not have found its way into my office. That is the nature of water. We, however, get to choose whether to stop at the first obstacle or keep going, unlike water, which always chooses to keep going if given the opportunity. And, remember, even seemingly still waters are fed by deep, rumbling springs or consistent rains and snowmelt, else they go fetid or ultimately evaporate. So if we want to fulfill our human potential, then we can’t let ourselves be complacent or stopped either—we have to find our way forward and keep being replenished again and again. And in order to find our way, we need to be paying attention. We need to be aware of what is happening all around us.
My father has a quote that I love, which reads, “To grow, to discover, we need involvement, which is something I experience every day, sometimes good, sometimes frustrating.” You might think, “Well, isn’t everyone involved in their own lives?” The truth of the matter is that while, yes, we are involved in the sense that we are alive, as in breathing and doing things, many of us are not fully tapping into our consciousness, our self-awareness, and, ultimately, our potential. We are not proactively directing the course of our lives and paying attention to and working with our energy and the environments and relationships we find ourselves in. For many of us, life happens to us. We get trapped in unconscious patterns of living and forget that there are, in fact, many choices and many ways to be fully involved in the creation of our lives. To say it another way, we want to be fully alive versus merely subsisting. And to do that, we have to be paying attention.
That’s not to say that we must always be “on,” always in control, always “in the zone.” That could be exhausting. And such a life may not be possible for most of us 24/7, because, as we know, life is not always within our control. Challenging things happen to us from out of the blue. We get fired. We get sick. We experience a sudden loss. Or we just get tired and tune out sometimes. But this notion of cultivating a Bruce Lee “water practice” is one of heightening our awareness and acquiring and sharpening our tools so that we have the capacity to encounter life, and whatever life throws at us, with as much skill, consciousness, and grace as possible—while finding our ultimate way.
And presence and awareness play a big part in that. If my mind is polluted with all manner of negativity or I’m snapping at people out of pure emotional reaction, then I am not responding—I am reacting. If I am not aware of how I am feeling or what thoughts are going through my head, then how do I change bad habits or find more happiness and personal satisfaction? I need to be able to observe myself in order to see what I need to amend. If I am paying attention, then I can see what’s happening all around and within me, and only then am I free to choose how I want to participate. You can’t choose a response if you can’t even see that there are choices to be made.
Imagine for a moment what it would be like if you had the capacity and the skill to choose your response to every situation in every moment rather than being overtaken by impulsive reaction. What if you didn’t get carried away by your emotions or shut down and become paralyzed in the face of some challenge? Imagine what it would feel like to be fully present to every experience without losing yourself in it. What it would feel like to have the perfect response that reflected exactly who you are in every situation without taking it on and being personally affronted by it. It would feel powerful, right? And I understand that as great as that imaginary, powerful life sounds, it may also feel unrealistic right now. That’s okay. We are going to talk about this realistically and humanely as we go because we are not meant to be perfect. That’s right: we are not meant to be perfect.
To be like water is not to be aspiring to perfection. Perfection is a difficult master. To be like water is not to be controlling of everything. Control is a tight yoke. For now, let’s consider perfection and control like this.
There is perfection in the constant and imperfect unfolding of life, for every imperfection creates the opportunity for me to learn something that I can then grow from and put into practice. By practicing that which challenges me—practicing acceptance, practicing patience, practicing loving, practicing improvement—I will gain confidence until the skill I am practicing becomes second nature. Perfection as we typically think about it should be treated more as a way to focus our attention rather than a final accomplishment that we attain. To come to terms with this notion is to be able to view the imperfections of life as the perfect teaching tools and opportunities for our own growth and betterment, rather than a measure of our success.
And then there’s control. In the astrology book The Secret Language of Birthdays by Gary Goldschneider and Joost Elffers, each day of the year has a name or title associated with it. I am born on “the Day of Solid Control.” Good grief. I don’t think most people I know would characterize me as the classic control freak (at least I hope not). I feel I’ve had enough things happen to me that were beyond my control that I am more apt to throw up my hands in surrender and make the most of a situation than to try to bend everything to my will. However, there’s a balance to be struck here. And maybe it’s in practicing how much control I can exercise through “not controlling.” Where can I see the path opening up in the wake of a challenge? How much can I enact my will toward whatever goals I have, while at the same time making space for what is actually happening, in the midst of life’s journey?
Recently I had a big project that I really believed in, and it did not go as planned. More than that, it seemed to be failing big-time. So I tried to control it by moving heaven and earth to get the right people in place and get the necessary changes to happen to keep things on track, all while we were running out of money and options fast. I loved the project. I wanted to keep it going, but the cards just weren’t turning up in my favor. So I decided in the eleventh hour to stop resisting what was clearly happening. It was messy. I had investors with expectations. I had to lay people off and shut things down. But I decided to be present with what was happening and stop resisting it. I gave the future of the project to the universe, and I said, “Show me the way.” And like water, I began to follow the course of this new unfolding rather than try to build a thousand dams to enforce the direction of the stream.
Yes, one phase of the project ended, but out of it came some new ideas (better ideas!) and new potential partners and possibilities. And the most important thing was that by letting go and following the natural way of things, I wasn’t giving up or failing. I was finding a new way, and I reduced my stress and my anxiety while gaining more energy as well. And even though I still don’t know if this project will be successful, I continue to be able to be present with it, to show up and give my energy where I need to give it and let the rest of it unfold naturally. The difference is that I’m no longer trying to control the destiny of this whole complicated venture, nor am I trying to perfect it. I’m participating and cocreating, but no longer forcing.
My father said, “Here is natural instinct, and here is control. You are to combine the two in harmony.” And so I constantly try to ask myself how much “control” I can exercise within my perfectly imperfect self to be fully present and accountable in the face of challenging scenarios and people—such that I get to realize some new way of being for myself and all I create. Sometimes I’m not very successful, and there is bountiful learning in the reflection of what could have been done differently. But all the growth and learning, whether in the moment or later, only gets to happen if I am fully present to and aware of my internal and external experiences.
When man is living, he is soft and pliable; when he is dead, he becomes rigid. Pliability is life; rigidity is death, whether we are speaking of the body, the mind, or the spirit. Be pliable.
One of the simplest and most easily grasped lessons of water is its pliability. Throw a rock in a stream, the stream adapts to make space for the rock. This is one of the lessons my father received as a teenager that day he realized that water was a metaphor for gung fu. When he tried to grasp the water, it ran through his fingers. When he tried to punch the water, it moved out of the way of his fist and did not suffer harm. My father went on to speak often about the importance of gentleness and pliability when it comes to life and martial arts.
He also frequently recounted the lesson of the bamboo and the mighty oak tree in the storm as relayed to him by his sifu. The rigidity of the oak tree ultimately leads to its demise, just as a rigid mind or attitude can keep you from learning and growing and thereby lead to stress and discontent over time. If you cannot be pliable in your thinking or your response to a situation, then you have limited your options for success, for growth, and for joy. So how can we remain pliable and responsive and centered? We already know that one main ingredient is being present and aware of what is happening so that you can respond flexibly. Let’s take a look at a martial analogy.
Most literally, the combative arts require one to be fully present and fluid in order to not get caught flat-footed and knocked off balance—or knocked out! You have to respond to the punch coming in order to avoid or block it. Yip Man encouraged young Bruce to train hard and then to forget about himself and instead follow his opponent’s movements. To be like water is to adapt in response to your environment and your opponent. In other words, it is to be pliable.
But how does this concept apply more broadly to living life? Being like water means to be “in flow”: first, be present and aware, then adaptable and mobile. In life, wouldn’t being able to maintain awareness in order to then flow around your problems be helpful when navigating what life throws at you? Though my father never explicitly used the more modern term “flow state,” he talked about “flowing” often. For him, being like water expanded far beyond a metaphor for gung fu to become a guiding philosophy for all of life—one that he applied to learning new things, overcoming obstacles, and, ultimately, finding his true path.
My father used the notion of living water as his approach. I say “living water” because we’re not talking about stagnant pools, just as we’re not talking about cultivating a stagnant life. My father used the concept of the flowing stream or the waves in the ocean often in his writings. As my father said, “Like flowing water, life is perpetual movement.”
Life is always in motion. It is never set. Even within our daily, concretized routines, there are subtle differences at play—our timing, our mood, our environment. Today you get out the door five minutes early; tomorrow you have a headache; you just had a fight with a friend; maybe it’s raining; or maybe you just fell in love. One day is never truly like the next, so to approach each day like it’s the same and not constantly changing and fluctuating (i.e., in motion) would mean not being present or conscious of our full experience, and thereby not being able to be fluid in response to our subtly shifting lives. Many factors affect us and alter our responses and reactions to even the most basic of our routines, so to create hard and fast rules or assumptions about how we live or about how life should be can get us into trouble fast, especially when life decides to throw us a curveball.
In the words of Greek philosopher Heraclitus, “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.” Each day, we are different, and circumstances are different. Even when a situation you have encountered before appears to be the same, it’s not. Nothing is constant. There are always subtleties at play. The complexity of life means that every single moment and situation and challenge is new, maybe only slightly so, but still worthy of your presence and pliability nonetheless.
When my father created his martial art of jeet kune do (JKD), he took great care to establish deep philosophical principles to accompany it. These philosophies were meant to engage the mind and the spirit as well as the body and were a key component to guarding against rote drilling and perfunctory training. JKD emphasizes formlessness and non-telegraphic movement—movement that happens so instantaneously and in perfect response to the actual situation that the opponent cannot see what’s coming. The philosophy attached to JKD is meant to root the practitioner in a fluid and present state to keep him or her flexible and capable of initiating and responding to change. And one can only respond to change if one has enough mobility in approach to do so.
Every action should have its why and wherefore. I wish to infuse the spirit of philosophy into martial arts; therefore I insist on studying philosophy. Philosophy brings my jeet kune do into a new realm in the sphere of martial arts!
Though he started ideating the art in 1965 (not formally naming it until 1967), he struggled throughout his life to leave behind his ideas in some lasting form, such as a book. He failed to publish his ideas precisely because he thought of his art as a living thing capable of change and evolution and did not want practitioners to believe that what was written down was the extent of it. (On this count, I definitely relate!) He worried they would not bring their unique experience to the process of learning. He struggled so much with it that though he took many technique photos and wrote pages upon pages of text about his thoughts on combat, he could never bring himself to publish them, wanting to avoid the problem of concretization and creating “devout” followers who would refuse to question their own experience.
That said, the book Tao of Jeet Kune Do was published posthumously in 1975 by my mother and Mito Uyehara of Black Belt magazine to attempt to preserve the teachings and thoughts of my father in the wake of his passing. Great care was taken to create a book that was not a mechanical how-to manual, but rather something that would make the reader think and explore for themselves, proving once again just how ingrained it was for Bruce Lee’s friends and family to remain true to his wish to remain open and flexible in all approaches. Other “how-to” books later followed, but the Tao of Jeet Kune Do remains the quintessential book on the subject, even if it is the most abstract. And it is exactly this level of abstraction in its presentation that makes it so beautifully reflect my father’s water principles: because in seeking to guide the reader, it doesn’t seek to bind the reader, but rather allow the reader to be an active and flexible participant in their own process of understanding.
One of the first teachings of jeet kune do is the on-guard position:
The on-guard position is that position most favorable to the mechanical execution of all the total techniques and skills. It allows complete relaxation, yet, at the same time, gives a muscle the tension most favorable to quick reaction time. The on-guard position must, above all, be a “proper spiritual attitude” stance.
—FROM THE TAO OF JEET KUNE DO BY BRUCE LEE
The “on-guard position” was what my father called the starting stance for his art—the position from which all movement should ignite whenever possible. His stance was very unique. It was based on his understanding of the laws of physics and biomechanics, as well as an assessment of many combative arts—wing chun, boxing, and fencing chief among them.
Bruce Lee’s on-guard position was both relaxed yet active. In this position, the rear heel is raised like a coiled serpent, ready to push off and strike at a moment’s notice. The limbs are loose but not floppy. The knees bent, the feet hip-width apart, about the distance of a natural step between them, the back toe pointed at the front foot’s instep, forming a triangle of stability, making it hard to knock you backward or side to side. In other words, active yet stable, relaxed but ready.
If you watch my dad in his films, he is often bouncing around loosely in front of his opponent in his signature way. He is light on his feet. Ready to spring forward, sidestep, fall back, or cut the angle at any moment. But he stays in an approximation of the above stance even in movement so that he can strike instantly.
He writes about his stance: “Fundamental positioning is the foundation.” And so, I proffer, it is with an approach to life. A good foundation means having a strong posture that is able to adapt and move in any direction. It means just the right balance of relaxation and tension such that responses can be immediate and efficient. And it means being able to move and reposition simply and with ease so that you’re never caught with your weight on your heels—“a simple and effective organization of oneself mentally and physically.” This is a posture for engaged living.
When you think about it, water is always relaxed but ready. Think about the phrase “opening the floodgates.” When the water is being held back by an obstruction of some kind, it is calmly waiting but ready to move. Remove the obstruction, and the water comes rushing through immediately without a moment’s hesitation. Even while moving, it is in complete and effortless response to its environment. Throw a log across a moving stream and the water adapts. It will spread and widen and deepen and work on any cracks or fissures it can until it finds a way through or creates an ecosystem all around and within. Water is responsive and alive.
In order for water to be so “on-guard,” it has to be holding a certain amount of tension. We tend to think of the word tension as a negative thing—tension in our neck and shoulders, tension in a relationship. But actually tension is a necessary component to aliveness. In order to metaphorically adapt an “on-guard” position in life, we need to strike a balance of aliveness. We don’t need to be overly tense so as to be straining, but we also can’t be so relaxed that we are checked out and incapable of responding. We need there to be a level of alertness that is grounded in a personal desire to be involved in our own lives. We need a modicum of appropriate tension—enough that we are present, pliable, and engaged, such that when the floodgates open, we can flow on through.
One of the burning questions we all have is: “What is my purpose?” What am I meant to be doing with this life? What mark am I meant to leave? What’s my most important work? What is this all for anyway? My father would say the most important work you have in life is to be yourself, or, as he called it: to self-actualize. What you do (teach, play sports, feed starving children, enforce the laws, write books) and who you are (a parent, a spouse, a partner, a mentor, an artist) is not as important as how you express your “what” and your “who” in everything you do. How are you being? This is what people mean when they use the word embodiment. To embody an idea, a practice, a value, or a concept is to integrate it into your being, which is expressed through your doing. To say that kindness is important to you, but then not to be kind means you have not fully embodied the value of kindness.
To self-actualize is to raise your human vibration, reach for your greatest potential, and express it outwardly as you move through life at the highest level possible, whatever that may be. Where you choose to express it—in your hobbies, in your work, in your relationships—is just the vehicle through which you shine your light. When your purpose is simply to be the most high-functioning and joyful version of you that you can be, then every moment can be an opportunity to fulfill your purpose, and the journey becomes so much more exciting. You now have your purpose no matter what. Even the difficulties become more manageable when we are committed to expressing the truth of who we are.
My father encouraged a lifelong process of self-actualization. To actualize means “to make a reality of,” and so then to self-actualize is to make a reality of oneself. It is to know oneself and express the uniqueness of oneself in the world with such skill and with such ease that, like water, it will flow naturally from you. Think about how water is water—it doesn’t try to be anything else. To be like water is to be engaged in a process of discovering and then embodying our most real and true selves.
Sounds easy, right? Yes, but as you start down the path to self-knowledge and discovery, you may come to realize how much you are not being true to yourself, and maybe not even to the people around you. And suddenly you may realize, “Uh-oh. This is hard! I don’t like this.” But, as with everything, you don’t get to be Bruce Lee by taking one kung fu class. You don’t get to be a concert pianist in one lesson. And you don’t get to express your best self out in the world without a healthy dose of personal inventory and integrity. It takes work to make your insides match your outsides.
When we’re born, we are naturally open, sensing, responsive, energetic little beings, but as we are taught to navigate the world, we start to try to be one way or another, and our essence can get bogged down by the influence of so many other people and what they believe is right for us. Part of this programming is the normal, natural process of growing up and learning about the world, seeing that there are rules for survival and learning how to navigate them. We need to know how to protect ourselves, how to get what we need, and how to get by. But in this process, we also become separated from our essential selves by outside influence. As we learn how to conform, we can forget how to advocate for our uniqueness. We can forget how to naturally be and how to give voice and expression to our soul. And so we have to become aware and vigilant as we develop, and we have to practice our return to self until we finally reclaim with consciousness what we had in our possession all along: our free, expressive, and essential nature.
Water doesn’t have this problem. A wave doesn’t have to remember how to land on the shore. A river doesn’t have to consider how to carve a canyon into a mountain. A lake doesn’t have to practice giving life to the fish and the plants. In its simple way of just being, water can be our guide along our path to our natural selves. And one day, if we self-actualize, we can attain (and reclaim) this simple and natural freedom.
Yin yang was very important to my father. He used yin yang in the symbol he created for his martial art. He was very well versed in the philosophy of yin yang. Whole books, movements, and schools have grown up around the understanding and embodying of yin yang, and we will talk more about it as we go, but for now, let’s start with a basic understanding of the symbol as a representation for wholeness.
In the Western world, we tend to consider yin and yang as opposites: hot and cold, young and old, tall and short. But in the Eastern world, yin yang (notice I removed the and separating the two) are considered complements of one another, not opposites. In fact, they work together to represent the whole of experience. If you think about it, hot and cold are merely the extreme ends of the whole experience of temperature. Without hot, there is not cold, and vice versa. And further, without both, there is not the moderate pleasantness of warmth or coolness.
And so it is with water. Water is gentle yet powerful. Soft, yet strong. Flowing, yet deep. And so it is with life. Life can be joyful and sad. Beautiful and ugly. Exciting and terrifying. And yet, these are the extremes of the whole experience. If we resist one half of the experience, we may never reach the heights of its rewards or the contentment of its balance. But when we strike a balance within the interplay of these extremes, we find peace and harmony. We find ease.
So let us seek the full experience of this thing we call our life. Let’s look at the entire ecosystem of our being and our humanity. And let’s remember that, like water, we can flow quickly or slowly. We can train hard while being gentle with ourselves in the process. The journey of flowing toward self-actualization and wholeness is not undertaken lightly. It will require your full attention. But as you grow, you will begin to see and, more important, to experience a fluid interplay between the elements that make you you. As my father wrote in a philosophical essay:
The Chinese conceived the entire universe as activated by two principles, the Yang and the Yin, the positive and the negative. And they considered that nothing that exists, either animate or so-called inanimate, does so except by the ceaseless interplay of these two forces. Yang and Yin, Matter and Energy, Heaven and Earth are conceived of as essentially One, or as two coexistent poles of one indivisible whole. It is a philosophy of the essential unity of the universe and eternal cycles, of the leveling of all differences, the relativity of standards, and the return of all to the divine intelligence, the source of all things.
So now that we have our toe in the vast pond of the universe, let’s go a little deeper. Come on in—the water is fine.…