The Cosmic Cycle: Yin and Yang
In a palace shaped by seasons, Yang rises from a spark to a blazing emperor before fading into shadow. Yin, steady and wise, expands through stillness and reflection. This tale of cosmic succession weaves through joy, unraveling, and return—an eternal dance of power, presence, and the rhythm of time.
Years ago I listened to a recorded lecture from one of my favorite Chinese cosmological teachers, Liu Ming, where he off-handedly talked about Yang as an emperor of China. That is, he had crafted a neat metaphor for the movement of qi through the lens of Chinese imperial intrigue. He never fully told the story, but you’d get little snippets here and there that gave me a little taste for this remarkably vivid tale of cosmic enfolding. So, I decided to finally write it out. Below is a storybook telling of the endless cycle of Yin and Yang. Thanks for the inspiration Ming, you are deeply missed.
A Tale of Yin and Yang Through the Seasons
At the waning edge of winter, atop frozen soil and beside deep snow drifts, the palace lies quiet. In its dim corridors, Empress Yin rules—not with force, but with gravity. She is composed, ageless, elegant. She wears robes the color of smoke and old bone, and she walks with the authority of someone who has seen many cycles. The court respects her deeply, though few understand the depth of her wisdom. She watches the land with calm eyes, aware that her time is nearing its turn.
Beneath her care, a subtle fire barely glows in the brazier of Heaven's hearth. From a glowing ember, a child is born. He is small, restless, always moving. This is Yang, a prince of heaven, but still just a seed of what he will become. She wraps him in thick robes, feeds him warm broths, keeps him close. She sees in him not just potential, but inevitability. The future will be his. But not yet.
As the calendar turns toward spring (Lìchūn 立春 ), the air still holds winter's bite. Yang, the young prince, plays carefully in cold courtyards, his laughter muffled by woolen layers. He presses his hands to the frost-covered windows, watches birds stir in bare branches, and kicks up dry leaves still left from autumn. His breath fogs the air. He is not ready to bloom, but he is watching—waiting, learning the rhythm of the light.
Empress Yin keeps him close to the hearth. She feeds him rich congee, wraps his small hands in silk, and murmurs old stories about the seasons to come. She is still in full command, her court steady and dignified, her presence the axis upon which the world turns.
As the days grow longer, the garden soil begins to warm. Buds swell, and small green shoots push through cracks in stone paths (Jīngzhé 惊蛰). Yang grows stronger, his voice louder. He sheds his layers more eagerly now, dashing barefoot in moments, though still called back to warmth when the wind rises. His laughter returns to the courtyards with a new brightness, his curiosity sharpening as he questions the guards, the gardeners, and the scholars who pass through the halls.
By the time of Spring Equinox (Chūnfēn 春分), Yang stands taller. His movements are confident, his energy infectious. He begins to take small roles in court life, bringing light and warmth with him. The empire stirs under his presence. Though Yin still governs, her posture has softened and her courtiers begin to include the young Yang in their discussions. She watches his rise not with worry, but with knowing.
As the weather reflects a real warmth the people associate with Spring (Gǔyǔ 谷雨), Yang is now a young man. The trees explode with flowers, anticipating the fruit that will grow and spring crops push through soil with excitement. Yang begins to speak in council, not just to learn but to lead. His clarity, his vision, his energy inspire the court, and people feel more alive around him. Empress Yin has grown more grandmotherly—her presence softer now, more distant. She no longer walks far from her chambers, but her gaze remains sharp. She watches as her grandson comes into his power and smiles softly to herself.
As Summer begins (Lìxià 立夏), Yang is crowned Emperor, and he sits upon the throne of Heaven. He is golden and tall -- his robes shimmering like sunlight on water. Under his rule, the empire blooms and fields overflow; rivers rush. Trade, laughter, and labor all dance in the heat of his glory. He builds bridges, leads hunts, reforms old laws. Artists and philosophers flourish under his protection. Festivals stretch into the night, and the common people sing his praises in poems and songs. He is not only powerful, but admired—a symbol of vitality, purpose, and light.
Empress Yin no longer appears in court. Her strength has waned. In her final days, she watches the gardens from her window, her hands folded, her face serene. Just before solstice, she slips away without fanfare, returning to the Earth she once ruled.
At the peak of Summer (Xiàzhì 夏至), Yang reaches his zenith. His courtiers sing his praises in endless scrolls. The empire is dazzling. The land pulses with vitality. Yang stands at the center of it all—radiant, resplendent, unstoppable.
But something in him has begun to flicker. At night, he dreams of cold winds and quiet halls, waking with unease. He notices new lines at his temples and a tremor in his fingers after speeches. He begins to wonder—who will come next? Will they honor what he has built, or sweep it away?
He feels his hold on power growing soft, so he tightens his grip. He grows wary of succession. Questions in council grow sharp, and he rewrites old laws, not for justice, but preservation. His greatness has not vanished—but now it guards rather than gives.
Yang's smoldering paranoia begins to burn too hot (Dàshǔ 大暑 ). The more he clings, the more the fire turns inward. Ministers walk in fear. The once-lively court grows hushed. Where once he inspired, he now watches shadows on the walls, convinced they conspire against him.
What he built now feels fragile, something easily taken by a greedy successor, and the weight of preserving what he has made presses heavily on his shoulders. His sons whisper in the corridors—he hears their voices, never their words. His meals are tasted three times. His sleep is broken by dreams of smoke - the scrolls detailing his mighty deeds burning to ash.
He lashes out, throwing goblets and shouting in anger. He storms through halls in the dead of night. The land dries, fires spark, storms become violent. Crops wither. Even the sky grows weary of his rage.
He begins to consider darker things -- rewrites to the rules of ascension; purges of his heirs and theirs. His legacy looms large—but he can no longer see where it ends and he begins.
In a quiet corridor of the palace, a child coalesces from the darkness and a mild evening breeze. She is barely more than a whisper—Yin reborn. Not the old Empress, but her descendant. She wears no crown. She carries no sword. But her presence cools the air.
When she takes the Emperor's hand, something stirs deep within him—an echo of a memory, soft and piercing. He sees the old Empress Yin, his grandmother, as she once was: her steady gaze, her warm bowls of broth, her hands wrapping his in silk. He remembers the way she ruled—not through command, but through presence.
The child does not speak. She does not need to. Her silence contains the weight of lineage, the rhythm of seasons, the calm inevitability of change.
Yang looks into her eyes and realizes that the changes he has been fighting are not a threat, but are part of an infinite continuity. The shifting focus is not erasure, but remembrance. His fire, long untamed, begins to settle. The roar within him quiets to his own steady heartbeat. The raging heat in his chest gives way to a soft, aching warmth.
He weeps—not in despair, but in relief.
And he begins to fade.
The season turns and Autumn begins (Lìqiū 立秋). The whole empire’s posture changes, becoming softer as its leader shifts. Yang no longer commands attention, but walks with quiet dignity. He has rescinded his violent orders and made space for child Yin's training and encouragement. He watches her growing stronger. Yin asks questions. She studies the stars and the scrolls. Her mind is sharp. Her movements graceful. The court begins to notice her—not as a novelty, but as a presence.
For some people in the court, Yang's decline feels like a loss. They miss his vibrancy, his potency. But Yang reminds them that this is not a time of mourning, but of transition. As Yang fades, Yin blossoms. Her elegance deepens. Her voice is low, steady. She is a student of history and a keeper of lineage. She walks with her grandmother’s memories in her blood.
This is not the end of Yang. It is the maturation of Yin.
Yin ascends to the throne as Winter begins (Lìdōng 立冬). There is no parade of trumpets, no grand decree—only the silent, seamless knowing of the court. She does not seize power. She inhabits it. Her posture carries the gravity of the ancestors. Her crown is delicately woven silver studded with opals and saphires. Her presence is cool and luminous, a lantern in a long corridor.
Under her rule, the palace deepens (Xiǎoxuě 小雪). The music grows slower, more intricate, more complex. Dignitaries speak in lower tones. Rich foods—root vegetable stews, glutinous rice, spiced broths—are served with quiet reverence. She recalls the lineage of rulers past, weaving their memory into her counsel.
Yang, now fully faded, lingers only in warmth—by the hearth, in dreams, in the firelight of her gaze.
In the deepening dark of Winter (Dōngzhì 冬至) the palace glows with lantern light. The air is cold, but the halls are full. Empress Yin presides over a court rich in song and ceremony. Musicians play ancient melodies. The scent of braised meats and warm grains fills the air. Elders share stories beside braziers. Children recite poems beneath embroidered banners. Time slows.
There is no shouting, no striving—only a deep, reflective stillness. A quiet majesty. Her reign is one of nourishment, memory, and depth. She gathers the past into the present like a cloak and wears it lightly, beautifully.
Yet even after Solstice, Yin's power expands. The days remain short, the wind sharper (Dàhán 大寒). Snow thickens on the stone steps of the palace, and frost etches the windows with delicate, unspoken truths. Her court grows even quieter, not with absence but with reminiscence.
Yin moves through the chambers like a dream remembered. Her presence invites silence, reflection, restoration. It is a time of keeping close, of drawing inward, of sitting with what is real. The foods are darker now—black sesame, fermented beans, strong teas. The songs echo farther in the cold, their notes clinging to the walls like stories.
She does not seek stimulation, only stillness. She does not resist the coming end. In this, she is different from Yang. She will not fight the fading of her influence, because she knows it is not an ending. It is a return.
And in the quietest room of the palace, she watches the hearth. And at its center, a single ember stirs again.
The cycle begins anew
The Whole Story
How Tea Healed Me
Travis Cunningham L.Ac.
When people ask me, “Travis, why are you so into tea?” My answer inevitably points to my experience that tea is Medicine.
“You mean like, it’s good for your digestion?” they ask.
“Well, yes… but that's not quite the extent of it,” I say. It is at this point that words usually fall away from me. How could I possibly communicate just what tea has meant to me? What simple and precise words would paint a picture worthy of my own intimate experience? The truth is, that tea has changed my life. A story might be as close as we come to delivering our experience to another person. And so, If I know that person well enough, I usually tell them the following one:
The second time I drank tea with my teacher was one of the most remarkable experiences of my life.
As I climbed up the steps to the mystical tea room, I was a mix of turbulent emotion. My heart had just been broken by a woman with whom I was in love. The sting of those final moments of her memory haunted me. She was everywhere I went and would be nowhere, ever again.
As I passed through the doorway, my teacher greeted me with a smile. “It's good to see you again my friend,” said he.
“It's good to see you as well,” said I. My smile was an act of protection while I shook his hand in greeting.
“How are you?” He asked.
“I'm doing alright,” I replied, showing nothing to the tea master. “How are you?”
He looked at me for a moment and then smiled. “Not too well, actually,” he said, almost humorously. “It's been one hell of week.”
“Yeah,” I said, now smiling back. “It has.”
He leaned forward slightly as if speaking to a child. “But I think,” he said, “things are going to get better very soon.”
At that moment, the second and third guest walked through the door and the night began.
As the first, second, and then third tea were served, I relaxed into the glowing atmosphere of support. I was upheld by the people at the table, the tea plants, and the master himself. He was flawless. Telepathy was an understatement. Every time I had something to say, he knew. He would stop his “orchestra” of service, and ask for my thoughts.
The teas pulsed within me. Currents of magnetic and electric force seemed to rearrange my twisted heart. They took me into a place that was foreign to my recent experience -- a place of quiet and a place of peace.
Was this the tea? Or, was it the master? Was it the room, or its people? It was impossible to say. All I knew was that it felt good to be me again.
As my awareness came back to the room, the master pulled out a container from one of his back shelves. “This is something that I never serve,” he said. “But for whatever reason, it's calling out tonight.”
As he placed the precious tea into a bamboo cup, my eyes lit up at their site.
“These are flowers,” he explained, “from very old trees. We're going to drink this tea and see what they have to tell us.”
The flowers were pink and golden. They were the tiniest of things, and they seemed incredibly delicate. I had never seen such flowers in my life, nor have I seen them since.
As he poured the water into the flower-filled pot, my mood shifted. I became aware of my recent experiences and the darkness that characterized them. I could feel my emotions clearly, but somehow was not a part of them. They were objective; detached from me, but still present. They were like the smoke from an incense stick.
The master poured the tea into my cup. It smelled sweet and floral, like plums and orchids. I sipped it and savored the flavor - so sweet! So kind!
My eyes closed and I went inward. And then, I saw...a field!
My vision was as clear as the room I was in moments ago. It was a field filled with plants, valleys and hills. Most prominently, it was raining. It rained and it rained. All of my dread became clouds, and my sadness, the raindrops. There was no sunlight, and no flowers. How could there be?
“When will it stop?” I asked. “Will it ever stop?” But it went on and on.
It was then that I saw something. I saw the flower of one little plant. Except, the flower wasn't there yet. It was as if I were looking at the spirit of the flower to be.
The spirit of the flower was in the stem of the plant. And the closer I looked, the more I saw. The rain fell to the ground and into it's cracks. It found the roots of the plant and quenched their thirst. As the rainwater was absorbed, the spirit of the flower rose.
Suddenly, I became excited. The rain wasn't blocking the sunlight, it was helping that light turn into flowers! With every drop, the spirit of the flower rose. And though the flower came into sight only when the sun shone, it was nurtured in every moment by the rain. The flower was as much rain as it was sun!
It hit me then, that my dreaded and painful experiences were just like the rain. They were helping me make flowers.
I opened my eyes and tears fell down my cheeks. I smiled and wiped my face, concealing my private journey.
The tea master closed with a final tea. It was grounded and full. Soon after, we all said “thank you,” and went our separate ways. Though I did not share my experience with anyone that night, I am forever grateful to those that were there. Several of them would eventually become my close friends.
For me, tea is a medicine of the spirit. It is a friend which has stood by me long enough for me to give myself a second chance. I think any friend that can do this is one worth keeping around.
I work with tea because it has become a part of me. Every time I pour it, I am saying thank you - for all that tea has given me. It has given me relationships, teachers, friends, fun, and the ability to look at myself.
Demolition Days: The Metal of Something New
The remains of the walls after Day 1
As a modern American practitioner of Chinese medicine, I have often wondered just how relevant an ancient perspective can be in contemporary life. How much of the symbolism and language that we call “Classical,” can touch and feel our present situation? Is Chinese medicine, its cosmology and approach, able to grasp who we are and what we do? Or is it merely a relic to who we have been?
“Loud noises!” shouts my friend and business partner, Travis Kern, as he turns on a saw, that buzzes like a ferocious bumble-bee orchestra. I watch, as it cuts a line through the Sheetrock of the wall in front of us. There’s nothing quite like sharp metal going to work.
Our newly acquired clinic space is being rearranged. We are doing the “build-out” ourselves. And the first stage in the process? Demolition. The unnecessary walls have to come down before the new walls can go up.
Several hours before, I am standing in my back yard in a very uncomfortable pose. My neigong teacher and friend Brandon, calls it Wuji stance. Though you wouldn’t know I am uncomfortable by looking at the “slight smile” on my face, you might be able to tell if you looked close enough to see my entire body “slightly” shaking.
Wuji is one of the first practices taught in traditional neigong. It is considered a basic practice, because it builds a kind of essential conductivity in the tissues of the body. Unfortunately, in order for this conductivity to be built, the body has to become song.
Song is a term in Chinese associated with the idea of relax or release. Brandon says that it is not just a quality of relaxation within the muscles, but a stretching of the tendons and fascia: “Like steel wrapped in wool.” If a person is able to become song, they can more easily conduct qi. Once qi can be conducted, then it can start to be worked with and used for other purposes.
In order to become song, the person has to learn to “sink the qi” downward. Downward, is always the first direction when learning neigong or tai chi. “Sinking,” is associated with the Metal element in Chinese medicine. And it always seems to be the most difficult.
Why is sinking so difficult? I’m not sure… maybe it’s because the modern body is conditioned by chairs and unnatural movement patterns to favor above and not below; maybe it’s because the modern mind is conditioned to exist only from the neck up; maybe it’s because modern culture worships expansion and growth and shuns contemplation, receptivity, and allowing. Why is sinking so difficult? I’m not sure. But trying to sink the qi sucks! It sucks big time.
In neigong, sinking the qi must be done first. If sinking isn’t done first, then too much qi can “rise” to the head, and cause problems such as insomnia, anxiety, and even mania or delusion (if extreme). This is because the goal in neigong isn’t simply to go up to the head, it is to go into (and become) the whole.
Becoming song, and thus “sinking the qi,” requires a person to give up all of the unnecessary tension that they are used to holding, in order to rest upon the basic structure of the body. Our points of tension are difficult to let go of, because they are what we have been using to “hold us up” for a long time. It makes sense then, that we have to let go of the things that hold us up, in order to sink and go down.
As I watch Travis’ metal saw cut through dusty Sheetrock, I am reminded that Sheetrock is made from gypsum or, in Chinese, Shi Gao. Shi Gao is used in Chinese herbal medicine to treat the Lung (which happens to be associated with the Metal element), when certain patterns of pathology “attack” the lung in form of a cold or flu.
Seeing that metal saw cut into the metal wall after trying to “sink my qi” (the direction of metal) all of that morning, provided me with a direct example of how the symbolic language of Chinese medicine is still relevant today.
There is something, perhaps innate, about beginning, that requires Metal. In the case of the clinic, Metal is taking down unnecessary walls and clearing the space of what was. In the case of neigong training, it is releasing the unnecessary tension and holding patterns of the body so that the tissues become more able to conduct qi. In both cases, we start with Metal.
As Travis and I sat back and enjoyed a not-quite-cold-enough but still enjoyable beer, we reflected upon the accomplishments of the day. Our work was shown back to us by the newly minted openness in our store, and in that moment, we drifted into feelings of serenity. As it turns out, “sinking the qi” is not always so difficult.