Yi king hexagramme 40, une histoire de chien

Suivons John O’Connor dans sa perception de l’hexagramme 40, deuxième trait. Inspirant.

John O’Connor vit en Australie, au nord de Melbourne. Ici, on serait tenté d’ajouter « au vert » pour signifier qu’il ne vit pas en ville mais à la campagne. Mais dans l’Australie de John O’Connor, le climat est sec. Très sec. Et le mercure escalade les degrés du thermomètre de façon extravagante. La pluie est une bénédiction, la sécheresse une préoccupation de tous les jours. De sorte, que pour le « vert » on s’en tient sous ces latitudes plutôt à l’idée qu’à la réalité. Dans le quotidien de John, il y a des serpents, des lapins qui viennent grignoter la nuit les pousses du jardin ou les jeunes arbres, des perroquets bavards et colorés, des renards, des arbres foudroyés, des pistes de terre poussiéreuses, des moutons et, bien sûr, des chiens.

John étudie le yi jing depuis de longues années. Il cultive son savoir avec discrétion et humilité, l’applique indifféremment au monde du sport, au quotidien des hommes et des sociétés. Certains événements lui inspirent des textes, celui-ci est lié à l’hexagramme 40, 2ème trait mutant. Du nom du chien aux circonstances, presque toutes les informations fournies peuvent être rattachées à l’hexagramme.

Prêt à décrypter ?

Flash was such a gentle dog he would allow the currawong to take his dog biscuits in broad daylight right from under his nose. But he would never share his food with a thieving fox. He’d seen the cruelty of foxes towards newborn lambs.

Flash was a very talented sheep dog. The farmers said he was an « eye dog » because he held a fixed gaze, like a good poker player, using a minimum of movement to gain the desired effect. Finn nurtured his sheep and Flash was there to keep the flock centred and moving in the right direction. They made a good team. He was terrified by the violence of thunderstorms and other loud noises. And he couldn’t understand Finn. He’d seen him standing out in the rain, arms punched jubilantly skywards rejoicing in the rolling thunder and lightning. Why he danced on the edge of the abyss was a mystery to Flash.

Flash had a weakness like most other dogs – he enjoyed a good chase. One day at work he startled a fox sleeping in the fork of a big old tree. The chase was on. Finn called him back but he pretended not to hear, knowing that his master was all forgiving. Eventually the fox escaped but there was a cost to this chase. A grass seed became lodged in his inner ear.

He returned slowly to his master shaking a lop-sided head. Finn could see that he was in pain. He acted promptly, booking Flash in for a visit to the veterinary surgeon for an operation under a general anaesthetic to remove the grass seed. They said he could go deaf (deafer said Finn with a smile) if the seed wasn’t removed. He was put on a fast – there were no dog biscuits for dinner that night.

Flash fell into a dream-like state under the anaesthetic. He fearlessly wandered over an ethereal landscape where lightning strikes dotted the skyline, hunting down one fox after another for his master. Riding home unrestrained in the back of the truck he flattened his ears and leaned his head over the side, deeply breathing in the exhilarating fresh air that comes from rain. Flash was living in the moment, becoming one with the road’s unbroken white line that ran straight through him. He was in safe hands with Finn as they motored homewards.

Early the next day Flash was woken by a loud repetitive noise close by his sore ear. He looked up to see the beady-eyed currawong pecking at the biscuit scraps on his metal dinner plate. Flash dog was back in the land of the living – hearing intact.

John O’Connor



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