Spiritual practice can take many forms, from silent meditation or prayer, to doing a seemingly mundane task with great care and thought. Walking meditation is one example of the latter. Tantra has been gaining popularity as a way of transforming sex into spiritual practice. Often people choose familiar and non-threatening practices, or those which are backed by the pedigree of tradition. When was the last time you heard of someone taking up skydiving as a way of getting in touch with the Divine?

So I can imagine what some folks would think when I tell them what I do as a form of meditation: I crack a single-tail whip.

For most people, the image of a whip is one which provokes fear, even when heroes like Indiana Jones use them. The crack it produces is enough to startle, and it has often been used as an instrument of torture and punishment, even death. Then again, Christianity has as its central image the very instrument of torture and punishment used to kill its founder – the cross or crucifix. Such transformation of imagery is a major spiritual theme throughout history, and one from which we can draw many lessons.

Yes, the strike of a whip can cause pain, even serious injury; the cracking noise it produces is, after all, produced by its end traveling past the speed of sound. Yet with the right knowledge and sufficient practice, one can learn to crack a whip safely, and with elegant form. In doing so, the initial fear can be transformed into a healthy respect, both for the instrument itself, and for oneself.

The very structure of a single-tail is what allows it to produce its crack. The tapering thong intensifies the energy of motion so that even a simple flick of the wrist at its handle can cause the string on its end (the “cracker” or “popper”) to accelerate over seven hundred miles per hour, creating a miniature sonic boom. So throwing a whip is not an exercise of brute force, but of proper movement.

This is why I never throw a whip without first making sure that I’ve let go or put aside any tensions, resentments or anger, usually through simple deep breathing exercises. I am not saying that these emotions are “inherently negative” – they have their proper place and forms of expression in our lives – but often when we do such physical things with such forceful emotions in play, we frequently use more force than we consciously intend, and with less control. This can not only interfere with the state of mind we are trying to achieve in spiritual practice; it can lead to physical damage of the whip itself, and even accidental self-injury. Awareness of this is another way in which the mindful practice of whip-cracking helps in seeing how the spiritual and so-called “mundane” are in fact connected to one another.

Another example of this connection is in creating sufficient space for use of the whip. I usually pick a large room with a high ceiling, where I have a radius of seven to eight feet to work with (four feet for the whip, two for my arm, and an additional foot or two for good measure). My initial motivation was as a simple safety measure, but doing so also creates a sacred space. Once while cracking a whip in a large room in my church, a friend entered the room to work on a project for that morning. I gave a polite notice for him to stay clear, and he not only respected it physically, but in the same quiet demeanor that he might show for someone engaging in tai chi chuan, yoga, or any other movement-centered spiritual practice.

Often I find it helpful to “loosen” my whip before beginning a series of throws. This serves not only the practical purpose of readying the whip physically, but developing a sense of connection and continuity with it – of making the whip not merely an instrument but a part of myself by which my energies are released. These can be done by simple exercises:
(a) holding out my arm with the whip hanging down, then twirling it with a circular wrist motion;
(b) swinging the whip overhead in a circle, like a propeller;
(c) a crisscross or figure-eight motion in front of the body, which can even produce a few pops here and there.

The circus throw is one of the simplest forms to use, very much like casting a fishing line. Hold the whip in your dominant hand, almost a foot away from your hip, with the inside of your arm towards you. Raise your arm until it is parallel with the floor, then bend the elbow back, and snap the forearm and wrist out again with the tip of your thumb pointing forward. This should be one smooth and continuous motion – up, bend and snap. One thing to watch out for is a tendency to pause when your elbow bends, causing the whip to lose momentum. Often when teaching people to do this, I have them watch me first, then mirror the motion as they watch me. Once they’ve become accustomed to the form in this way, I give them the whip, show them how to hold it – with the ball grip nestled in the palm – and let them have a go.

The moment a beginner first handles a whip, with the intention of making it crack, all signs of apprehension seem to dissolve. No longer is it some remote artifact; no longer are the lessons merely theoretical. The whip and the holder join, in form and purpose. And once that first unmistakable crack is heard – and felt – I’ve yet to see a beginner fail to smile, not only on the lips, but the eyes and posture, as if every cell in their body is rejoicing in the sharing and release of energy. For that moment, I am also back in that “beginner’s mind,” sharing in the rush where the crack of the whip breaks not only the barrier of sound, but other barriers within.

There is much to the actual practice of whip-cracking which is similar to other forms of meditation. For one thing, focusing too hard on every movement, and trying too hard to make a solid crack every time, turns out to be self-defeating. If I worry about every little motion, rather than letting the whip move as it was created to do, then the form is ruined and the effect diminished. And yet, paradoxically, I find my throws more fluid, and my cracking more consistent, when I let go of such mundane focus, letting the whip do what it was made to do. It is similar to producing the sweet resonant tones from a Tibetan singing bowl, by moving the wooden mallet slowly and smoothly, with little effort, letting go when the bowl seems to “tell” me when to stop through the strength of its vibrations. In the end, it is not the sound which is the goal itself, but the harmonic connection with the instrument, with oneself, and with the Divine. Likewise, it is not the form in which we find that connection, but the ability to do so, and the insights we may gain from it.