by Shawn Kirby, L.Ac.

He had begun his practice long ago, in the early morning hours, sitting Zazen.  Seated on his cushion, his legs in half lotus and his hands in the mudra shown to him by his Roshi, he gazed at the floor in deep meditation.  The smell of koh filled the dawn hours in the small space he had set aside in his tiny apartment for his meditation practice.  Aloeswood – the smell of Zen.  To the outside observer this might look like a moment of quiet in an otherwise busy life.  To the acupuncturist, this pre-dawn session was the most important part of his day, and was the foundation of his work.  Zazen grounded him, made his mind clear.  Dogen Zenji described this clarity like a lake which perfectly reflected geese flying overhead, but did not retain their image.  Only when his mind was this clear could his hands could work with the confidence he needed.  Through many years of fatigue, illness, and quite a few hangovers, his practice had been a constant in his life.

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Arriving at his clinic he prepared his supplies with an attentiveness born of his morning practice.  Each thing was in its place, and there was a place for each thing he would need.  He knew he could work in this room blindfolded without the slightest anxiety.  This was vitally important – his workspace was a direct reflection of his mind, an extension of the work.  “If you take a short cut once, you will be taking them for the rest of your life,” his teacher had told him.  Cleanliness, asepsis, and an orderly technique – these were not open for compromise.

Stepping out onto the deck of his third story clinic room, he lit a cigarette and gazed down at the street below.  Foot traffic was beginning to pick up as people made their way to work.  Deliveries were made, hand carts pushed – the pace was brisk and purposeful.  Soon his first patients would be arriving.  The smoke gently rising in the still morning air before him reminded him that he would need to order moxa before too much longer.  He didn’t want to run out and find that his favorite supplier was sold out, particularly before winter hit.  His wife was always on about him quitting smoking.  He would have to think about it… it was just so hard when he went drinking with his old school friends not to smoke.  Maybe he would try to quit after the New Year.

As the first patients came in, each was received with the same gravity and the same attitude.  To vary his approach would be dishonest.  He took the pulse with the utmost care, listening to the patient’s story while remaining mindful of the dance of the body’s energy under his fingertips.  Pulse diagnosis, moxa technique, needle technique.  These were his Tao.  The pulse was the most challenging, the most difficult.  He was, as ever, awestruck by what he felt in these brief moments.  Taking each wrist in his hands, he felt as though he was standing at the edge of an ocean of time and experience come to fruition in this present moment.  Everything that had happened to this person, their hopes and fears, their loves and hates, and all the damage that life could dish out – it was all here.  We are the sum of our experiences, the sum total of the lives we have led.  To truly understand the pulse, he felt, was to stand in rapture at the anguished truth that you could never really know another.  Not really.  Each time he touched the heart beat of another, he was humbled beyond words.

Today he was scheduled to treat upwards of fifty people.  There were six treatment tables in his clinic room, and these days he saw that many each hour – sometimes more.  Many years ago when he had first started out, he saw less than half that many in a week.  He had worked as a delivery driver for a local fish monger for many years just to make ends meet.  Back then, that would have been him down there in the early morning hours, pushing the hand cart through the streets.  Now that his name was known he had as many patients as he wanted to see, but it had taken almost two decades of struggle to arrive here.  Looking back, he realized that providence had been most kind to him by giving him so few patients when he was first starting out.  He had the time then, time to focus on his technique.

Needle technique had been a singular focus for the bulk of his career.  Pulse diagnosis and his moxa technique were equally important, but the basic, simple act of needling held a special place in his mind.  That the simple act of inserting a thin shard of metal into a patient could be so open to continual refinement fascinated him.  Each day he could perform the same act, and each day he could learn something new.  Sometimes insight came from a sudden flash of inspiration, and just as often it could come from making a mistake.  The way the guide tube was held, or the part of his finger that he used to tap in the needle, could completely alter what happened.  More often than not the frame of mind that he was in that day would be the breath of wind that would either put him on track or completely blow him off course.  What could be more absorbing?  And, when it all came together, what could be more satisfying?

At each point to be needled he gently dragged his left index finger near where he new the traditional point location to be, trying to find the exact location.  When he discovered a gentle induration, or a difference of temperature or tactile sensation in the patient’s skin, perhaps dryness and coolness, he knew he has found what he was looking for.  Gently rolling his finger back and lowering the guide tube to the skin, grasping it between his left thumb and forefinger he formed a beautiful oshide.  There was a heft to his touch that came as much from his ki as from the weight of his hand or the guide tube - although he missed the heft of the old metal guide tubes.  The new disposable tubes were cleaner, but they just didn’t feel the same.  They were too light and flimsy feeling for his tastes.

His feet shoulder width apart, breathing into his hara, he addressed himself to the needle.  At the same time he used his inner eye to look within the patient, to see the insertion in three dimensions, aiming not just for a spot on the skin’s surface but at a point in space beneath his hands.  This meant the angle of insertion must also be perfect.  A few millimeters difference and he would miss his mark.  With a gentle tap he fired the needle into the skin, making sure not to carelessly smack the top of the guide tube.  Here again, a millimeter made all the difference between a painless insertion and a jolt to the system that could derail an entire treatment.  When he did it right, the patient would feel nothing more than the gentle weight of his warm hand followed by the arrival of ki.  The arrival of ki – when it happened then there was a moment of true peace.  A quiet that had nothing to do with the noise of the street below, but with the body acquiescing into that mysterious place that healing could come from.

After his fifth year he started to feel as though he would needle one point well every week or so.  After his tenth year, it came many times per day.  After his fifteenth year, he finally developed the speed he needed to see more people – what had taken minutes now took mere seconds.  After his twentieth year… he realized something else altogether.  That he was still chasing perfection as much he had been that first day he had opened his clinic.  This had nothing to do with his ability to help people, or whether or not he had done any good.  Of course he had.  Many of his patients reported wonderful results in his first year treating.  But this was due to the truth and power of the tradition, not to his finesse.  It was this chase, this constant pursuit that had kept him interested for all these years.  Could perfection ever be achieved?  He thought maybe he had come close once or twice.  And with each such achievement came the instantaneous realization, like a vision born of too much sake, that these moments instantly redefined perfection, opening up new vistas and heights that might be achieved.  A road that never ended, always the same, always different.  It was what he lived for.  It was what made him happy.

He ended each day as he always did – scrubbing out the clinic bathroom.  “If you take a short cut once, you will be taking them for the rest of your life,” his teacher had told him.  Remembering his teacher, a smile played across his lips.  He scrubbed harder.