RYAN STEED is a Hamilton Hill resident, former high school chalkie and the founder of the fantastic Freo Write Night, where he penned this great piece. The next Freo Write Nights will be held at Republic of Fremantle on Pakenham Street tomorrow (Sunday July 21), August 4 and August 18 from 5 – 6.30pm. It’s free.

I’M in in one of my uniforms. The comfy one. Grey pants, grey jumper, grey soul. 

That’s too drastic. 

My soul isn’t feeling grey, exactly. But vulnerable, for sure. Sensitised. Open. 

That day, I spoke with my brother about expectations. “I’ll go in there with an open mind. I doubt I’ll meet my new best friend, but hopefully it’s a fun night.”

At the entrance to North Freo Community Hall, under cover from the drizzling rain, a tall man stands in bouncer’s uniform. “Your name on the list?”

“It’s Ryan.”

“Mmmm, and what’s your surname?”

“Steed!”

“You guessed right! Come on in, my friend, and behold our Lovely Greeters!”

I walk in expecting to be enmeshed in a lingering and mindful hug. Alas, no Greeters! But I do see a huge dance floor, and two big speakers standing on poles, and a beautifully-lit up bar. And of course, fairy lights everywhere.  

I walk past the dancing masses gyrating on the interconnected gym mats, and head straight for the Breathwork Tent. A congregation huddles inside, straining for salvation. A clump of people sit by the entrance.  I sit on a nearby couch, in a view-obscured seat, and close my eyes. The sound is like the aliens’ drone in the movie ‘Arrival’, and it comes every thirty seconds, in wave after wave of healing energy. There’s a didge in there! People are probably experiencing powerful Theta vibrations, but I’m too far away to feel them. 

A man vacates a cushion, and I swoop in, a little closer to the action. I turn to my left and I’ve been FREEOD! It’s my Qigong teacher, legs crossed, face resting beatifically. 

The Breathwork ends, and people start to file out. But my teacher remains. Here it is, my chance for some wisdom extraction and a few Qigong demos. 

I’m not disappointed.

“Qigong – most people come to class once a week, but they never make it part of their lives.” He shakes his head sadly. “When I pull out a weed” – he brings his hand forwards, makes a little twisting gesture, and then releases a fabulous exhale as he yanks his arm backwards – “I am practicing Qigong.” 

He bounds up like a leopard. “And when I sweep the floor” – he lunges forward, thrusts his arms forth clearing an imaginary pile of dust – “I am practicing Qigong!”

I’m sure the list could go on and on. And I want to hear it. I like his energy, vibrant yet relaxed; it reminds me of being around my guitar teacher, and the man who made my leather jacket; the presence of a person who has devoted many years to a beloved discipline.

“When all your life is a Qigong practice” – his eyes are brimming – “You will know the true benefits!”

Pause

I let the pause build. “And what are those true benefits?”

He leaps up. Lands in a full-body splits. “I can do this without warming up!” Returns to his seat. “I’m in my 70s, and I don’t have aches and pains! And… there are the mental benefits.”

“Go on…” I allow myself to lean in, let the glint in my eye match his.

“Control of your thoughts and emotions.” In a previous class, he mentioned, off-hand, how Qigong got him through the darkest hours of his life. “And little things, the stresses of life, they don’t bother you anymore.”

Now I’m nodding too. 

What brought me to this sober-yet-wild Liberators event on a rainy Saturday night? Yes, the desire to connect and dance and flirt and drink mocktails and eat vegan curry and throw balloons around the dance floor. Yes, to meet new people and be vulnerable and push beyond comfort zones. But it’s also for nuggets of wisdom, rising seemingly unbidden from a supposedly uncaring universe.

The last few days have been challenging. Body dysmorphic preoccupations have returned, taking me surprise, months after I thought I’d put them to bed. In spare moments, my attention has wandered to my face, my mind dominated by concern about its lack of strength and balance, a tide of sadness sinking me downwards, downwards. 

That morning, my brother asked me a question. “Have you made a firm commitment not to ruminate?” 

I was quick to brush him off. “Yeh, I feel like that goes without saying.” 

But on closer inspection… have I not found my mind wandering more and more during meditation? Have I not been increasingly curious about its contents, searching for the next creative idea?

My commitment to not ruminate had waned. And at the precise moment I needed it, my Qigong teacher reminded me of the alternative: “Let all your life be a Qigong practice.”

I’m writing this at Republic of Fremantle, at our fortnightly community Write Night. Only a few minutes of writing time remain, and part of me wants to tell more of that night. 

The deep conversation with a new friend in the Bedouin tent, which started with Nina Simone and Arctic Monkeys and ended with accepting that all of life is being with its ups and downs. 

The deep sense of safety I felt when I spotted my counsellor, and how we chatted and laughed, counsellor and patient, in this moment friends. 

The appreciation I felt at the closing circle, in a sea of smiles, seeing the creators of this lovingly-crafted event glistening with joy at seeing it come to fruition.

I could tell more of this, but better to leave it there, to let it be, to breathe a little while, and let my shoulders relax, and feel the satisfaction of something started and completed. 

Writing can be Qigong too.