Do less to achieve more. 

This is the mantra by which West Chester University’s Professor Mitch Goldfarb lives.  Surprisingly though, he is anything but lazy.  Goldfarb wears many hats, and could be considered a master of many trades. 

He is a music producer and songwriter.  A professor of Tai Chi Chuan in the Kinesiology department of West Chester University, and some semesters, a professor of music at Immaculata University.  He is a website and e-commerce marketer and designer.  A photographer.  A writer.  A husband, father, and grandfather. 

But it is his Tai Chi practice and teaching that informs the rest of his life and career.  The art of Tai Chi is a soft martial art from China that focuses on meditation, internal strength, and wellness of the mind, body, and spirit. 

Goldfarb practices the Short Yang form, introduced by Chinese scholar and professor, Cheng Man-Ching.  Goldfarb began practicing in 1997, upon reading a book in which a character experienced life-altering results from practicing Tai Chi.

            “In Tai Chi, we celebrate laziness,” says Goldfarb, a small middle-aged man, as his eyes gleam beneath wire-rimmed spectacles.  “It’s about seeing where we can let go, and learning where we’re doing too much.” 

Tai Chi is a spiritual practice not only for its meditative qualities, but for its Taoist philosophy, which promotes the idea that chi, or life force, runs through each of us and can be awakened or depleted.  Tai Chi aims to replenish this chi through slow and deliberate movements, and to bring awareness into the body. 

Goldfarb strongly believes that when we are aware of our bodies and minds and we work in harmony with our surroundings, work becomes effortless.  This lends an explanation as to how he maintains his geniality and enthusiasm for life, even in the midst of his busy schedule.  Pursuing his passions, Goldfarb genuinely enjoys his busy work schedule.

“I love everything I’m doing,” he says, and his tone softens.  “That’s really been the blessing of my journey.  I keep doing stuff to feel good, and it makes the phrase ‘without effort’ ring true.  If you are engaged, it’s not effortful.”

“Mitch understands the secret,” Goldfarb’s student Randy Edwards says.  “He’s discovered how to live life, and I wish I could internalize it.”

It is precisely for this reason why so many of Goldfarb’s students keep coming back to his Tai Chi classes, both within and outside of the university.  It’s the classic “I want what he has” syndrome from the high school days all over again; fortunately, these people can have what he has.  In fact, Goldfarb’s purpose in teaching is to bring his students exactly what he has found, and it may be simpler than one would expect. 

“My goal,” Goldfarb says, “is to empower the gifts that are already in these students.  It’s about helping them connect to the magic that is already within them.  I’m a conduit.  They give themselves the gift.”

And many of his students are receptive to this, seeing how this secret has worked for Goldfarb.

“I try to have a positive attitude,” says another of Goldfarb’s West Chester students, Seth Shriner.  “But Mitch is genuinely vibrant and cheerful all the time.  That’s a person I want to learn from.”

Not all students take so readily to Goldfarb’s teaching, however.  While some students remain in awe and show eagerness to learn what Goldfarb has to teach them, others are turned off at first by the slowness of the movements, the thoroughness of his teaching, and the spirituality of his practice.

“I don’t get it,” says one student after his class.  “It’s so slow, and I don’t feel like I’m doing anything.”

All lip aside, this is a view that seems to be shared amongst a fair few of his university students.

“His class is not for everyone,” says Shriner.  “Sometimes I think those people just don’t get it, but I realize it’s a very different way of thinking, and it takes careful examination and acceptance of yourself in a way that may not be easy for everyone to do.”

Although the task of slowing down and becoming present may be daunting to some, Goldfarb comes equipped to show students the way.

“It’s my responsibility to interest my students; to make it entertaining, and fun, and creative, so they can have a taste of what it’s all about.”

Indeed, Taoism and Tai Chi are contrary to Western thought; in an action-oriented society, many people may feel guilty about slowing down to focus on breathing and the body.

“While I’m doing Tai Chi, I think of all the other things I should be doing, and I feel like I’m wasting my time,” another frustrated student expressed early on in the semester. 

Perhaps, though, this is exactly why the class should be offered.  When so many of us cannot seem to escape the daily grind, there is something refreshing about setting down the burdens of the day to simply experience the here and now in order to put everything else into perspective.

Goldfarb is the prime example of this.  Morning to night, he is out and about, teaching classes, taking classes, and working on his latest projects.  For many it would easily become overwhelming, but as Randy Edwards stated, Goldfarb seems to know the secret to handling it.

Goldfarb approaches everything with a bright smile, a playful sense of humor, and an eager, “That’s great!”  Wherever he goes, he remains present and alert, absorbing and sharing whatever joy is to be found in his midst.

Listening to Goldfarb spew his schedule from memory, one is amazed by how perky he sounds. (“In the morning I work on my music projects.  Then I teach three university classes during that day, then I go to Philly to take three classes from one of the grandmasters, Maggie Newman, and one of her students.  Then I go home for dinner and I take a three mile walk with my wife.”) 

It seems so contrary to his mantra, “Do less to achieve more,” yet it fits for him, as his passion is evident.  Everything Goldfarb does is play.  Instead of worrying about the next place he has to be, he enjoys every moment he has to do the things he loves. 

His careers are in line with his passions, and he has human interaction all day long.  Even in the midst of work, he maintains a playful environment and, most importantly, leaves room for everything to take its own course under his guidance.

“We’re so focused on control in our society,” he says.  “I used to be all about control.  Even the door to my music studio said ‘control room.’  When we realize we’re not in control, we’re able to find greater enjoyment in our lives because we can finally let go.”

This is reflected, too, in his Tai Chi practice.  Much of the art focuses on letting go of the muscles, and allowing chi to move you.  As I watch him guide his students, his constant suggestion is, “You’re doing too much!  Let go in the shoulders.  Just take a deep breath and relax.”

He then holds the student’s arms up by the wrists as he suggests she stop holding the arms up.  Her arms collapse, her shoulders sink, and her wrists remain raised in Goldfarb’s fingers.  The room goes silent and still.  Goldfarb then flashes an encouraging grin.

          “It’s so easy,” he says.  “We’re bringing laziness to an art form."

The morning has a secret

I want to tell you and I want you to hear:

The cycles of destruction are the yang of rebirth.
Little like emptiness to yield abundance,
as I have felt your grief and the sting of love’s cold bite;

Yet I know, as surely as the frost burns the pit of your belly,
the glow of your hearth will quickly soothe it.

Sweep away the ashes and let them ignite.
The morning has a secret in its softness
and the new sun that wakes you
will stun you perfectly.

Dear Molly,

The day I met you was the happiest of my life.

 I had already known you years before you were born, and had felt you coming. When Marvin passed away, I knew, at the age of three, that my dog Molly was on her way. Our dad promised me you would be here. You were playing in the stars with Marvin and Grandpa. Four years before you were born, you were already part of our family.

As time went along, I grew impatient. I was angry that you still weren’t here. Having moved to Philadelphia, I was displaced and unsettled. I wished desperately for you to come to me, to be my companion in a time of discomfort. I was seven when we moved to our home in Oreland, and we began actively searching for you.

I remember so clearly the day Dad told me someone had referred him to a breeder with seven Bichon puppies, four girls and three boys.

 “Can we have one?” I’d asked eagerly, smiling with excitement. Dad was reluctant. My hopes were soaring, and he didn’t want to see them crush me.

“We’ll see…” he’d answered. I was deflated, but held onto the little gem of hope.

Weeks later, we were in Flemington, NJ, and I was joyfully surrounded by you and your litter mates for the first time. I couldn’t contain my enthusiasm.

A few weeks after that, I was bouncing with glee as the end of second grade approached—not to get out of school, but to bring you home the next day. That was June 12, 1999.

I knew I wanted a girl, and her name would be Molly. Your breeders let me choose between two of their girls—“Molly One” and “Molly Two.” They not-so-secretly wanted me to pick you, “Molly One,” their favorite girl of the litter. I recognized you instantly; there was no question in my mind that you were my dog. Even our Dad, reluctant as he was to get a fluffy little dog, was won over when you licked his face.

I smiled the whole way home, and couldn’t wait to hold you. You were hesitant to come out of the safety of your crate when we brought you inside. They were the last few moments you would have to yourself. In the following days, I did nothing but hold and play with you. Dad saw you getting overwhelmed, and made me leave you alone for five minutes. He even set the timer. You went to your bed, and I lay on the floor for the longest five minutes of my life.

That first summer when you were a puppy, you loved to run in the yard. You used to run one lap after another up and down the lawn. You would bite the grass at the end of each lap and do a flip before turning around and running the other way. You were so fast that even we couldn’t catch you. Soon, though, we learned you were powerless to praise—all we had to do was say, “Good girl, Molly,”—and you stopped in your tracks, and rolled over for a belly rub.

 For the next couple of years, my friends and I did everything with you. We performed shows in which you starred; we dressed you up in doll clothes; we took you for walks until you couldn’t walk anymore. You went along with everything we put you through, and never thought to snap, bite, or growl. You hated it, but perhaps you didn’t realize you hated it. You knew it was out of love, and you couldn’t turn down any kind of love.

You were always joyful, always playful, even when you got your cone, which you wore for the rest of your life. Everyone said it gave you character. You still loved to be held, still loved your belly rubs, still loved your walks and your meals. You loved being part of our family. If someone was upstairs and someone else was downstairs, you sat at the top of the stairs, holding the family together, making sure we were always a unit.

You were thrown when I left for college. You didn’t understand why I had left the family, and you were angry with me for trying to come back home the following summer. Eventually you made peace with me coming and going, and realized that the family was still a unit. That was the only thing that mattered to you.

I missed you when I was gone. I talked lovingly about you to my friends, and thought of you frequently. And as this inevitable time has approached, I’ve struggled deeply with the thought of you not being with me, of never being able to see you again. But no matter how far away you are, you will never truly be gone. You exist so deeply within my heart, you’ve become a piece of my very being, and that can never be erased.

This is because you taught me love in its purest form—wantless, genuine, heartfelt love, a recognition of the spirit in another. Everything must come and go, but the mark you’ve left upon our souls is eternal and indestructible. I wonder how such a tiny creature could leave such a profound shift in the world, but it’s because you are so much more than the little dog that has pranced around for thirteen years upon four little legs. Your spirit has transformed ours, has spurred a shift in the world. Is that God?

If I want anything less than to let you go, it would be for you to suffer as you do now. And so I now release you, into your highest form, into your pure and painless existence, knowing you will forever continue to inspire change in our lives, that you will never really be gone, even when no one is here to remember you. Your soft spirit has shifted the world; however subtly it may have begun, its momentum will drive us eternally.

Thank you, Molly, for who you are, and the gift you have brought to our family and our world.

Your loving sister,
Liz
April 24, 2012

Empire State Building

When we reached the 86th floor
our minds and legs still raced
keen and contentious
with the New York pace.

I rested my head outdoors against the cold metal bars,
and saw the lights of buildings we forged our path around,
saw headlights of the taxis we dodged
when they seemed yellow and menacing—
and suddenly all were dwarfed by our height
to trivial dusts of brightness,
far-off stars beneath the haze of our breath.

Silence pervaded in a fog of stillness:
Nobody spoke.
It was just us, risen above the plane
where lie our trials and our treasures,
a thin sprinkling of ash soon to be whisked away and made anew.

I warmed your cold hands in mine
and watched your dark eyes,
freed for once from the size of the ground

Wondering

We were coming home from the theater
At the end of a dark night,
Chattering and flirting,
Lugging the old Volkswagen
Under green maples along the driveway.

We sat on the trunk and stared at the darkness,
Lit by four thousand fireflies.
And we were speechless
Because the earth had finally
Stumped us in its sudden surprises.

We thought we could know all
We had not yet known
And were ready to attack
With our sharp wit, quick tongues
And scholarly minds but for once,
Amidst the flickering backdrop
Our eyes scarcely penetrated darkness
And we paused for a long time,
Silenced and
Unsure of what to wonder.

First Kiss

“I had a dream last night that we kissed.” Through the phone I could feel Harrison’s pulse stop for just a moment. We were thirteen. We had never kissed. We had managed a hug once when our parents were in the kitchen; it was soft and warm. It was a little uncomfortable. “More than a hug” was something we both yearned for. “What was it like?” he asked. I lied. “It was great.” I couldn’t tell him his lips had felt paper thin and slippery, and my hands kept falling from his waist. It finally happened one August afternoon when we had a brief moment to ourselves. We had talked about having our first “more than a hug” many times before on the phone. Sometimes I was brave enough to call it a kiss. But we never talked about it in person, or came close to making it happen. But this one August afternoon as we hugged, knowing we had only moments alone before my mother realized we were missing, I pulled back to say, “Can we try that ‘more than a hug’…?” “Okay…” Harrison’s lips found mine. It was soft but messy. His freckled lips didn’t know what to do against mine, unsure and slow. It was better than my dream, but I thought I would feel differently after my first kiss. I felt the same. Still, as we lowered our gazes and stumbled down the steps, I ran my tongue over my lips until they were chapped.

If you saw me today you’d probably be surprised by the shade of my hair and the smell on the back of my neck so new in so short a time. You’d probably be surprised that the sun that wakes me is no longer the sun that wakes you; and the deep clouds that draw me into the night: my own ghost, one you never knew. You’d probably be surprised by my barefeet in stilettos the dirt of your ground still  settled in the cracks of my toenails. If you saw me today, you’d probably be surprised that I still grin and swing onto my lap with laughter like you once knew, because I know that I have loved you.