The Softness Paradox

This edition’s focus on “Musings on Softness” resonated like the breeze through a bamboo wind chime as I observed myself thinking yin thoughts: soft, receiving, passive and feminine. Can anything be softer than water I reflected, exploring the softest things I could envision? Water is so soft that it is impossible to grab a handful of it. When you toss a rock into water, the rock passes right through the water without damage. It has no shape of its own; molding itself to whatever is containing it.

And yet we all know the nature of water is not limited to softness. When it attacks, nothing hard can stand in its way for long. When heated to form steam it is invisible but has enough power to split the earth. When frozen it forms abrasive boulders that can move mountains. It can be aggressive like a mighty flood and then calm like a tranquil pond, fearful like an avalanche and then refreshing like a mountain spring on a hot summer’s day.

How polar and seemingly contrary are the forms of water. Interconnected in the natural world, its forms can be both soft and hard. It is easy to imagine yin and yang as complementary opposites within a greater whole. Because of my TCC practice I am learning that everything has both yin and yang elements, although they may manifest more strongly in different objects or at different times. Yin and yang constantly interact; it seems perhaps that each never exists in absoluteness.

So, can I muse on yin without yang, softness without considering hardness? Perhaps it is found in relationships. I recall the tender sweetness of my relationship with my son growing up. But when he darted into the streets on his bike in front of a car, my actions were swift and firm. They were hard indeed, hard enough so he would learn not to do that again. At the time he did not think I was soft, but there was softness in my heart while hardness in my actions. So is it that the soft thing isn’t always helpful, and the helpful thing isn’t always soft?

Does solitary softness exist in the animal kingdom? Inside the robin’s egg is a soft and gooey life form that will someday grow into something wonderful. But the egg cannot survive without its hard blue shell. Later the mother robin nurtures her new born until one day she pushes the young robin out of the nest for its own good. What seems soft can be hard and what seems hard can be soft.

Physical activities yield no exception. A relaxed soft grip on the golf club and flexible swing is required to make a hard hit on the ball. Tension gets in the way of results. Same for a baseball pitcher; he must have soft grip on the ball and a flexible arm to get the most force out of his delivery. In the martial art gung-fu, the basic idea is to defeat the opponent by yielding to him and using his own strength. A man breaks under his own pressure.

So, I find a paradox. For me to muse on softness seems to require I consider hardness. Whatever example comes to mind, I must grasp both ends. When the spontaneity of the universe prevails, I get the impression there is a balance between the two. When it doesn’t, hardness seems to dominate. Can there be anything more important than allowing softness to flourish, to grow spontaneously like a flower? The bamboo wind chimes continue to resonate.