Discover the Ancient Ways of the Qilin for Modern Spiritual Enlightenment
The rain was falling in soft gray sheets over Portland when I first encountered the Qilin. I remember staring out my apartment window, watching the droplets trace paths on the glass while feeling that particular urban restlessness that settles in after too many consecutive rainy days. My PlayStation hummed quietly in the corner, still warm from last night's session with the Silent Hill 2 remake. I'd been marveling at how Bloober Team had transformed what was once considered a developer of middling or worse horror games into creators of this revelation. But something nagged at me—the same question many were asking: could they make similar magic with a game entirely of their own creation, without that tremendously helpful blueprint of an existing masterpiece?
That's when my eyes fell upon an old book I'd picked up from Powell's City of Books last month, its cover depicting the mythical Qilin—that celestial Chinese creature often called the "Chinese unicorn" in the West. The text described ancient spiritual practices centered around this benevolent being, methods for finding enlightenment that predated any modern self-help trend by thousands of years. I found myself wondering if these ancient ways of the Qilin could offer modern spiritual enlightenment much like how sometimes we discover profound truths in unexpected places. The thought lingered as I made coffee, the rich aroma filling my small kitchen while the rain continued its gentle percussion against the windowpane.
Portland has this strange duality—the cost of living is burdensome and ought to be addressed, but dammit if I'm not compelled to make it work because, despite its faults, I love it here. This city reminds me of my relationship with certain video games. Take NBA 2K24, for instance—the game has its glaring problems, but thankfully, The City, MyCareer, MyNBA, and its WNBA modes combine to overcome those issues and still make it worth playing in numerous different ways. Perfection isn't necessary for something to have value, whether we're talking about urban living, gaming experiences, or spiritual practices. The ancient Chinese philosophers understood this when they developed the ways of the Qilin—they weren't seeking perfection, but rather harmony amidst imperfection.
I decided to experiment with one particular Qilin meditation technique mentioned in the book. It involved visualizing the creature's hooves barely touching the ground, representing how we should move through life with gentle awareness. Sitting there in my living room, basketball game paused on screen, I tried it for exactly seventeen minutes—I know because I checked the clock both before and after. The practice felt strangely familiar, like something I'd always known but forgotten. It reminded me of how sometimes a game remake can feel both entirely new and comfortingly familiar simultaneously. The Qilin method didn't solve all my existential concerns, but it created a small pocket of peace in my otherwise hectic Wednesday.
Later that week, while walking through the Pearl District, I noticed how the Qilin principles mirrored aspects of my own city. The mythical creature was said to appear only during the reign of a benevolent leader or when wisdom was most needed. Portland, like any city, has its moments of unexpected wisdom—the street musician playing something so beautiful it stops you in your tracks, the perfect cup of coffee from that tiny shop you almost walked past, the way the cherry blossoms on the waterfront seem to understand exactly when to bloom to maximum effect. These urban miracles aren't so different from the Qilin's sudden appearances in ancient texts.
The more I researched, the more connections I found between these ancient practices and modern life. The Qilin was said to walk without disturbing a single blade of grass, which made me think about how we navigate digital spaces today. When I play games—whether it's the psychological depth of Silent Hill 2 or the basketball simulations of NBA 2K24—I'm essentially walking through digital grass, trying not to disturb the underlying code while still deriving meaning from the experience. The ancient ways of the Qilin for modern spiritual enlightenment aren't about abandoning technology, but rather about bringing mindful awareness to how we engage with it.
By the following Monday, I'd incorporated three specific Qilin principles into my routine: the gentle walking meditation, a visualization practice involving water (appropriate for Portland's climate), and what the text called "compassionate observation"—noticing without judgment, whether observing my own thoughts or the world around me. The results weren't dramatic, but they were noticeable. I found myself less frustrated when my Trail Blazers lost their third consecutive game, more patient with the city's infrastructure projects that slowed my commute, and even more appreciative of game developers who take creative risks, whether they're working from established blueprints or building something entirely new.
What surprised me most was how these ancient methods enhanced rather than conflicted with my modern interests. Playing through the WNBA mode in NBA 2K24 after practicing Qilin meditation felt different—I noticed nuances in the gameplay I'd previously overlooked, appreciated the animation details I'd taken for granted. The same principle applied to my experience with Bloober Team's work—instead of just comparing the remake to the original, I began appreciating it as its own entity, understanding that creative works exist in conversation with their influences rather than merely replicating them.
The rain eventually returned, as it always does in Portland, but this time I welcomed it. I'd discovered something valuable in those ancient texts—not a complete solution to modern anxiety, but a set of tools for finding moments of clarity. The Qilin methods have become my personal "blueprint," much like how the original Silent Hill 2 provided a foundation for its remake. They don't solve everything—the cost of living remains burdensome, games still have flaws, and spiritual enlightenment remains an ongoing process rather than a destination. But these ancient practices, like my beloved city with all its imperfections, have become something I'm compelled to make work because, despite their ancient origins, they offer something genuinely valuable to my modern life.
