You'll explore the water element's wisdom, reflecting on endings, surrender, and the cyclical nature of life, learning to trust the process of transformation.

English

In part 7 of this 8 part reflection series on the Art of rowing and life, learn about the power of the creative cycle and the five elements, specifically the wisdom of the Water element, water's wisdom and winter's invitation to turn inwards. This series is inspired by the author, Wenlin's first experience participating in Silverskiff, the world's longest rowing endurance regatta, as a novice rower.

Silverskiff: A Love Story VII: How To Arrive At The Ending

How to arrive at the ending Since discovering rowing, I've observed it has always been a reflection of my life. Leaving Singapore, traveling and arriving in Turin in 2018, I discovered the words for it in a language that wasn't yet mine. Mi è capitato. It happened by chance. In a similar way, da cosa nasce cosa, as one thing led to another, this silverskiff reflection series has taken on a life on its own. Like a single thread, I've been woven into an intricate, infinite web merging with this organic flow of life in unexpected ways. As the darkness descends and winter's embrace slowly wraps around us, I follow the journey of this thread and I feel the touch of the invisible weaver. I witness and write alongside the co-author of the story of my life. Whom author Paolo Coelho calls in his beloved book, the alchemist, the hand that wrote it all. It is through this co-creation that we have now arrived at part seven and six reflections, each with a different mood and tone, crossing through space and time and the intimate memories of my life, old and new, have been written through these hands. Within the final four parts, we began the journey through the creative cycle and the five elements, starting with the wood element in part three, which we chopped to fuel fire in part four. In part five, the fire element was extinguished to reveal the earth. And in part six, within the earth element, we excavated metal. And now, on the cold surface of the metal element, vapor condenses to form water. The metal element gives rise to the water element. When we water a seed with time and the right conditions, it grows into a magnificent tree. The wood element, as we first began in the third part of this series. The creative cycle of the five elements is now complete. Because the creative cycle is infinite, there is no beginning or end. There isn't an element or phase that came first. But because of the finite nature of most of our experiences, the way we humans measure and experience time, from start to finish, we often have to arbitrarily set a starting point. Often in Chinese medicine and Taoist philosophy texts and courses, the wood element is introduced as the beginning, since it is the element, energy, and phase that is synonymous with bringing an abstract idea into manifest reality, much like the moment we are born into this world, or the instance when you start to see a seed sprouting and bursting through the soil. But before the seedling emerges from the soil, in the darkness of the soil, the seed must have first been planted by the invisible hand, just as before you were born, you were first conceived in the watery womb of your mother. Likewise, before you conceive of any idea and start to act on it, you first receive it from the ocean of the collective subconscious. If life is a never-ending river that flows into itself, which we call the Tao, the divine, the path, the way, that which cannot be spoken of, then the water element is the closest to this source. It holds the memory of the divine, the invisible hand, and the origin of everything in nature. The water element represents insight, intuition, and unshakable trust. Within the framework of yin-yang, it is the period when yin, feminine energy, is at its strongest, and yang, masculine energy, is at its weakest. And this can be experienced outwardly in the world during midnight, the new moon, and the cold of the winter that is approaching us. The water element is associated with preconception, but also with endings, and the final phase of life, death. Our ending as we shed this material body, and as our immaterial spirit returns to merge with the divine. Through this, we recall separation from those dear to us, the passing away of relatives and friends, and the notion of our own death. Within the creative cycle, each of the five elements is associated with an emotion. When out of balance, the water element manifests, as fear. Each winter, like the ending of a project, relationship, or time period, hits me hard. I feel a part of me, a memory, a relationship, a behavior, something that has served me well in the past, wither and die along with it. I'm left barren and empty, with a lingering fear that what I have lost will never quite be filled by anything or anyone else. Starting things has always been my sweet spot. Being a natural doer, I feel most in my element bringing an idea from conception to creation, and I take pride in making things happen, characteristic of the wood element energy, which I shared about in part 3 of this reflection series. Perhaps this was already written by the invisible hand before I was born. In my name, Wen Ling, within the character Ling, exists a sub-character also pronounced Ling, which means forest. Chancing upon Chinese cosmology for the first time in my life, after leaving Singapore, I discovered a peculiar finding. My constitution is predominantly of the wood element, and I completely lack the water element, which is the mother of the wood element. And maybe this is a reason why, intuitively, I had sought the wisdom of the wood element. It is also the reason why I am so fond of water. Early in my journey, I painted and wrote a poem on water, and eventually I fell in love with the pole and rowing. Through these 17 months studying water's wisdom, rowing on the pole, I've learned many valuable lessons, including a lesson I thought I already learned and internalized in the last years. But writing this, realized that I have once again forgotten. On the 16th of November, Thursday morning in autumn last year, as I was still learning how to row decently in the single boat, I was preparing to leave the dock and I pushed the boat away. But the push wasn't strong or decisive enough, and I was left just slightly away from the dock. Our coach, Emma, told me to retract my left oar and bring it close to the side of the edge of the dock so I could push against it. But I hadn't held my right oar firmly to my chest, and as I retracted my left oar, the narrow single boat started to tip out of balance. And before I could react, or anyone could do anything, I fell over. As the coldness of the pole embraced me, my body contracted, fear started to consume me, and my mind started to go into overdrive. It took all my might to stay calm and recall the steps I needed to follow from the capsized safety training video from British Rowing that I watched hundreds of times, knowing that this moment would surely arrive. I slipped my feet out of the shoes, resurfaced, and immediately hung on to the single kei boat for my dear life, while coach Emma came to help me get back to the shore. With his help, both the boat and I were brought to safety. My habitual way with dealing with endings is not to acknowledge them at all. I immediately dive back into it. I keep doing, and I keep going, hoping for a chance to correct my wrongs, to quickly get it right. And that was exactly how I responded after capsizing. Shivering and dripping wet, overcome by emotion, I wanted to get back into the single kei immediately, to go at it again. The best and fastest way to learn is through repetition, and having failed, I didn't want that ending, the memory of the wrong way of doing things, to stay with me. I needed the memory of how to do it right. But it was freezing, and I was completely soaking wet, and I hadn't brought clothes to change. I would catch a cold, my concerned friends and coach said. So I was told to go back, and if I wanted to, I could row on the rowing machine in the gym on my own, while the others rowed on the river. That must have been the hardest I've ever rowed on the rowing machine, and an exact mirror of exactly how I felt this year, the morning right after Silver's Gift, when I returned immediately to my rowing club to train, desperate to redeem myself as quickly as possible. The next day, as if like a gift from the pole herself, I received these words of consolation, and hidden within them, a much-needed reminder of the lesson I thought I had learned, but keep forgetting. Within the club, where the greatest Italian rower, Giuseppe Abagnale, grew, right above the door of the male changing room, are written these words, success is long patience. As I contemplated the deeper, hidden meaning of those words over the next few days, the first layer came to me as I chanced upon an old edition of the weekly newsletter I'm subscribed to, Farnham Street, by former spy and author of the best-selling book, Clear Thinking, Shane Parrish. Within this newsletter, Shane talks about how he was obsessed with breakthrough moments, those magical instants when success suddenly appears. But he says these moments are merely the visible tip of a long, hidden process. Using the bamboo as an example, for five years, it appears to do nothing, focusing entirely on developing its root system, which is unseen underground. Then, suddenly, it shoots up over 50 feet in just weeks. But this isn't a miracle, it's the result of years of invisible preparation. Thinking of this example, a friend and member at my rowing club immediately comes to mind. For over two years, she relentlessly committed to rowing, taking hundreds of private lessons in the single boat early in the mornings on the river, and devoting thousands of hours studying rowing online, unseen by others. The fruits of her labour arrived this November, when she completed her first race ever, silver skiff, with excellent results. That's how real success works, slowly, then all at once. Writing this reflection, I realised I had already witnessed this when I was in elementary school in Singapore. During weekends, I would watch my elder sister, who is an avid fan of Chinese martial arts novels, play her favourite computer game, Jing Yong Qun Xia Zhuan, The Heroes of Jing Yong. Within this game, the protagonist has a special fighting technique called Ye Qiu Quan, Wild Ball Fist, which is a rather useless technique from levels one to nine. My sister would spend months religiously training, encountering and patiently fighting other players, acquiring and practising other fighting techniques to accumulate experience, collect tools, treasures, and improve her attacking and defending skills, waiting just for this moment, when her Wild Ball Fist technique reached level 10. She was now invincible. Most of us want the dramatic growth, but we abandon the boring, invisible work that creates it. We give up because we can't see the daily progress. But like the bamboo's roots, progress happens beneath the surface long before it's visible. The secret to success isn't a secret at all. Success comes from consistently doing ordinary things well, trusting the process even when results aren't visible. This was echoed by a fellow member in our club who is well known for winning medals at the Masters competitions, as he shared with me his journey. The first race was a very intense one. The two races I rode, I got last. My first silver skiff, I got quite near the last. My second silver skiff, I got second in my category. The third, I was quite sick, but I rode it anyway, and my forearm froze exactly as it happened to you. Rowing takes a lot of patience, experience and kilometres, and even then you can screw up easily. As my intuition had told me earlier this year, this is the most patient you will need to be in your entire life. In rowing and all other areas of my life, I should keep showing up and do the work, and trust that success will arrive at the right moment. But arriving here, I sensed I hadn't quite yet arrived at the ending of this article or series. There was a vital piece missing. The invisible hand urged me to go back in time and follow the unravelling of the thread of my life to find this piece. Going back in time, I recall in my early 20s when I was working as a healthcare market researcher in Singapore. I was also a dedicated student of yoga, and I would attend classes almost daily. Reaching the end of each yoga class, as the teacher guided us to get into Shavasana, the final resting corpse pose, I would quietly sneak out of the class using work, engagements with friends, or dinner at home with family as excuses. But as my yoga practice deepened, my experience of Shavasana changed. It became a resting place where I could let it all go and just be, without all the doing, all the striving, that seemed to fill my life and define who I was. In the darkness of the yoga studio, after all the effort was over, in Shavasana, I would let go of all the things I couldn't control in my life. The stresses of unbearable clients, a failing romantic relationship, a difficult relationship with a family member. As the tears and sweat trickled down my face, I would let it all go, and let myself just be. Later on, through an acquaintance who served on the board of the International Association of Yoga Therapists, IAYT, I learned the true meaning of Shavasana. Shavasana was not just a physical pose, but a symbolic gesture signaling to myself that I was consciously letting parts of me that no longer served me decay, dissolve, and depart from myself. Most importantly, I realized that each time I woke up after dying, I now had a choice. I didn't have to wake up the same person I was before. Dissolution begets rebirth, in the words of Tibetan Buddhist teacher and psychotherapist, Neo Mao. So much has unfolded in these 17 months, since I began to study rowing. And especially in this season before, during, and after participating in Silver Skiff. Flowers had emerged and blossomed on my branches. My blossoms bore fruit, and I reaped a bountiful harvest. And now, the lush green of my leaves is transforming into shades of gold, orange, and russet reds. And slowly beginning to fall to the earth. Though I'm overly eager, and I cannot wait for the new baby leaves of spring to unfold, and with them, the promise of new beginnings, as I realized in part two of my reflections, not yet. As autumn deepens into winter, nature reminds me of the hidden, deeper meaning of what long patience is. What I need to do now, and the lesson I keep forgetting. There's a time and place for everything. And within the cycle of life, the creative cycle, each season, and each of the five elements, is associated with an essential quality, and an invitation to embody that quality. Spring season, the wood element, Sheng, which means birth, or rebirth. Summer, the fire element, Zhang, which means growth, and flourishing, expansion. Late summer and transitions, the earth element, Hua, transformation, transmutation, and assimilation. Autumn season, the metal element, Shou, harvest, and the process of sorting what is to be kept that is precious, and what is to be let go of that no longer serves you. And lastly, winter season, the water element, Cang, retreat, treasure, hiding, and hibernation. Through the process of training for silver skiff, through the flow of the river of time, once again, I have changed, and so has the world around me. It is now autumn in the world, and in my journey, and these decaying leaves, old ways of being and acting, outdated self-limiting beliefs, ideas about myself, others, the world, have become too heavy for me. I can no longer take them with me into the next season and cycle of my life. I have to let go of what no longer serves me through the slow process of shedding what has become redundant and heavy. And though winter isn't quite here yet, the first snow in Turin has arrived early this year, on the 21st of November. And along with it, the winter season and the water element's invitation to retreat within myself and surrender. To lay down and take time patiently to die, trusting that in time as the snow melts and the sun's warmth reawakens the earth, I will be reborn and ready to blossom again. Arriving here, the Silver Skiff Reflection series has now reached an ending. It is complete. What will come next? What story will be co-authored with the hand that wrote it all? I'm curious. But only with the flow of the river of time will we discover.