It has no name. It is not taught. It has only one practitioner. It is a fluid flow of movement or stillness. Its opening stance is lost, but felt. Its different positions are hardly discernible. Once begun it goes on its own volition indivisible from the tapestry of the everyday. Breath and light merge and come apart. There is laughter and tears, loss and discovery but no one can yet distinguish the vectors where they cross and evanesce .Its last stance is a plume in the wind.
