Tai Chi and Widowhood
The year twenty twenty-five is the year of Tai Chi for me. On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 10am, my friend and I step into a room with about twenty other seniors and follow the instructors as they lead us through a half-hour practice of Tai Chi.
Classes are about 10 minutes from my home. There is no cost, no sign-ups, and no commitment.
Come as you are — join in as you are able.
I find the practice very relaxing. This week, while mimicking the movements of the two instructors at the front of the room, I noticed something.
We were all doing the same thing in varied ways.
The first variation is our appearance. Each week there is a guy who looks like a biker, with a red bandana and full beard; a pale, fragile-looking old man who practices while sitting on a chair; and a score of women wearing sweats or street clothes; flip flops, ballet slippers, or tennis shoes.
A few people arrive early to claim their spot. We’re in that group because if you’re closer it is easier to see the nuances of the hand and body movements. Many folk dribble in after class has started, catching up with whatever form the group is doing when they arrive.
It’s easy to notice that there are many variations to our hand movements, stances, and timing in the group. Even the two instructors have their own way of practicing the forms. For example the woman’s hands resemble piano-fingers playing silent trills while the man’s hands resemble making a gentle fist; open and relaxed.
One form mirrors holding a ball, gently throwing it forward, and then catching it and pulling it in. Some folks do this with wide, broad movements; others keep their moves small and close to their bodies.
The variations remind me of the widowhood journey.
In our widowed group, we are there because we lost the person we thought we would spend the rest of our lives with. We are all widows or widowers, but like the Tai Chi class, there are many unique differences between us.
In the four years I’ve been a part of Camp Widow, I’ve met many widowed people who lost their partner to illness and many others whose person died by suicide. Some were married, others not; some had children together; others did not. Many endured sudden deaths and others died after years of illness.
Those who attend the widowed gathering do so to gain support, yet we each make our way through our new life in a way unique to us. Some wish to be with other widows and speak of their person; to say their name. Others just want to eat a meal in community, rather than dine alone.
We each choose what is helpful to us.
When practicing Tai Chi, at times I get lost in my own inner world. The music and movement bring me into a space similar to slow dancing; gentle and meditative.
Revisiting this week’s observations on variations leaves me with a sense of gratitude for both spaces where . . .
- all are welcome
- you come as you are
- we are both alone and together
- there’s no pressure in either space
In each space, we show up in whatever way is “us” in that moment. The welcome is implicit as we step into a group of strangers, some who may become friends. Attending regularly offers a cumulative benefit. If you miss a session, the space is there to welcome you the next time you show up.
The one and the many.
Both are examples of self-care on the path of healing.
