The more troublesome the nation's economic woes become, the more each of us seems to complain about all the bad things "happening to me." The distinction between happening in the world and happening to me may seem specious or trivial or even irrelevant, but in fact it could not be more important. Interpreting external events through our own eyes is a necessary consequence of having eyes, and indeed of being human, but interpreting events as aimed at you by some vast unknown conspiracy or because the university doesn't like you or because God is punishing you is simply a road to misery. Pain, as the Buddhists say, is inevitable, but suffering is optional.
Some of us are inextricably married to the soul-rending idea that the world is cruel and unfair and choose to live in a judgmental, negative state that separates us from others. Others of us, by contrast, disconnect from the world because we find it too painful, building emotional or physical walls to prevent people, and pain, from entering. Both these tactics bring little joy and require lots of energy. The good news is there is a third option: to engage things more deeply, bringing our passion and energy and intelligence to bear on creating a whole that includes us, although it may not be controlled by us, a whole that evidences a harmonious interplay of opposing forces.
The sublime Chinese martial art of tai chi teaches the "mechanics" of this option in a lovely, lasting way, offering a laboratory for learning it so well you can easily apply the skill to real life. To do so, tai chi employs a game called Pushing Hands (some say sensing or sticking rather than pushing). There are various postures and patterns to the game -- meaning we make different patterns and engage different timing with our hands and feet -- but all involve the same principles.
The first stage of the game is to learn to keep our balance. To do this we try to relax, to offer no resistance, to feel light as a cloud in the torso and sunken, strong and rooted in the lower body. We also learn how to grip the ground with our feet and turn our waist to deflect a partner's incoming force (note that tai chi uses the term partner, not opponent in this context because in Pushing Hands we help each other) as well as to keep our spine straight and our eyes level and to breath smoothly and easily.
The notion that job one is to keep our own balance is a consummately useful one out there in the world, not merely in tai chi class; without our own emotional and physical equilibrium how can we respond to what life dishes out? Taking care of yourself first is the principle on which the airline safety dictum install your own oxygen mask before assisting others is based. If we cannot breathe, we cannot help. If we are angry, desperate, fearful, depressed or falling down, we can't see clearly or act appropriately.
In the next stage we concentrate on sensitivity. Our palms and fingers and forearms become hyper-aware. We turn them into organic devices -- think human stethoscopes or x-ray machines -- with which to see into our partner's body and ultimately sense his or her intention even before there is the tiniest physical movement. Cultivating sensitivity and applying it requires our complete attention. If the mind wanders for a moment we can lose track of what our partner is doing and he or she may then take us off balance. Concentrating on the other person in our two-person world -- trying to feel what they are doing with their body so as to predict when and where their force will come -- draws us out of our own dramas and pushes back our boundaries. Imagine how such skills could serve us not only as fighters but as lovers. Imagine how such a skill could enhance our ability to empathize, to sympathize, to understand another's plight or point of view. Imagine what negotiators and diplomats we would all be if we were so sensitive to others.
At the highest level of Pushing Hands we lose the distinction between our partner and ourselves. Gone is the notion of other, the sense of me and him or her. Gone are the senses of antagonism, preservation, agenda, reaction or even ego. When we have practiced to this level of achievement we have come to realize that there is no conflict if we choose to meld with it. The dual nature of mind, the notion of a world outside us that stands apart from us to either hinder or help us -- is a misconception of our own making.
Does this third option require us to be passive? Does it obviate the possibility of evil or injustice in the world? Does it preclude the imperative that we should stand up for our own interests? No and no and no. What it does do is give us a nuts-and-bolts way both to duck life's curve balls and when we can't, to recognize they are not aimed at us.
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I have always taken exception to the position that the nondual experience precludes right action or a sense of morality. It's a sticky wicket, this, because the moment you introduce morality you imply judgment and separation, as you say, and then we enter the endless debate about whose morality and judgment obtains. That whole path always feels awfully self-indulgent to me, and devoid of instinct. In addition to the intellect that plays with ideas, I have found that many people have a deeper sense of knowing what to do and not do. Suffice it to say that for me the nondual experience has been about clearly seeing my place in the whole and knowing my role. Jungian thinkers are big on this notion; Zen folks less so. Daoist tai chi practitioners probably fall somewhere in the middle. I'll expand on this question soon.
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Its true that when a person practices Tai Chi and pushing hands it will manifest in one's actions in the world. In fact, I've even done pushing hands in my dreams with people that were in conflict with me in real life. Amazing how much peace and calm it brought to the real life relationship without even trying!