Today, I return to teaching Taiji weekly after a long and unplanned hiatus that began with Covid. I have since offered Taiji out in natural landscapes via local city parks and land trust, and still plan to do so, but one-off Taiji outdoors - while soothing and picturesque - does not do Taiji justice - as it lacks consistent practice and a mirror. ;-)
To my surprise, my class is already full - speaking to the thirst we have to heal, relax, and flow. To mark the occasion, it is an apt day to share the next installment of Temple Arts… with a photo from years ago when I first started teaching (credit: Edwin Carubio).
Taiji
When I was seven, I wanted to be a Ninja Turtle, but karate and kung fu classes aimed at kids - with the yelling and shouting - scared me away. So the dream remained hidden until adulthood when I finally found a style that fit me. What called me to martial arts was the discipline, focus and precision. What made Taiji so attractive was the quiet power. Just because it's slow, doesn't make it easy. And just because there's lots to remember, doesn't make it hard. The mystical forces of yin and yang... just like in the movies. "The force runs strong in our family..." As a Thai person, I was new to the world of Chinese martial arts and its culture of lineage. Long lines of masters and indoor disciples. Students who proved themselves worthy were entrusted with the “secret family recipe” to be passed on with the utmost care and discretion. Some might not get this sort of gatekeeping. But when an artform involves combat, it is the teacher’s responsibility to assess their students’ character and conduct, their “wu de,” martial virtue.
My teacher, Tony Wong, once told us about how, when Buddhism and Taoism first met, prospective students showed up at the Shaolin temple gates begging to train in kung fu, and were tested before being let in. Modern martial arts has long diverged from these temple ways. Many still aren’t clear about the whole of what Taiji is. Neither was I when I began. Yes, Taiji is what old people practice in the park, and yes, it’s a martial art complete with strikes, kicks, and weapons. It also has the power to heal. Warriors who went into battle needed to be fluent in healing their own injuries. Taiji is a 401k plan for my body, and I should have kept count of how many Tylenol pills I haven’t had to take because of Taiji and its sibling practice, Qigong. When I went to get a Thai massage, the therapist said that they didn’t like the yoga and Taiji people because we made them work harder to find knots – and more than the pampering, I like to use massages as a diagnostic of how I’m doing.
My teacher put together a comprehensive full-body set of Silk-Reeling Exercises, repetitive spiral movements and joint rotations that relax the muscles and improve range and mobility – the accumulation of what he’s gathered from his handful of teachers. The movements train rootedness, alignment, and sinking – and serve as drills, not unlike Mr. Miyagi’s “wax on, wax off” chores in the Karate Kid. More than helping students keep their balance and prevent falls, though, what I consider to be the real miracle of my teacher’s practice is that the artifact of his early internet website (www.chenfamilytaiji.com) is still standing.
Like Mr. Miyagi, Tony is a bonsai hobbyist. In training his plants, he explained that “some seedlings can be trained into any shape easily and stay that way. Some continue to fight and resist no matter how I bend and clamp them. Some can be tricked into following the sun as I rotate the pot. Some simply go their own way and break off any parts that I try to bend.” Tony tests budding instructors, but not so much formal acceptance as indoor disciples like the old days. Rather, he watches for a student’s commitment to their own healing and training. This kind of healing comes with time and repetition – two things most aren’t able or willing to give or wait for, and thus, they are left stalled at temple gates.
Tony told stories of his Sifu, Chen Qingzhou, who was part of the generation that spread Taiji outside China. As a young child, the yet-to-be Grandmaster withstood life-threatening illness through his practice of Taijiquan. As an adult, he continued to train during the Japanese Occupation and Cultural Revolution. Taiji saved his life, and like a loyal friend, he returned the favor, and saved its life. He kept it alive, practicing and sleeping in a snowy cemetery where he could not be seen and caught. Before his martial arts school, he made his living as a calligrapher. Seeing a seal-carver sell at festivals, he said, "I'm going to do that!" He saw tiger paintings sold better, gave it a try, and gained the attention of a painter willing to teach him. Whatever craft he found, he dove in.
Martial arts schools in China typically lookout for gifted students to bring fame to the lineage. My teacher observed his Sifu spending time with a “so-so” older student, providing extra instruction, and answering their questions. A younger, gifted student asked Sifu why he spent so much time with such students. He held the hands of this younger student – who could potentially pass on Taiji to the next generation – and because of that, he replied, “we all deserve a chance to learn.” Recalling Chen Qingzhou’s childhood, it pained him to be kept from school due to debilitating sickness. His fire for learning so strong that he begged his parents to let him return to school.
I was so moved by his perseverance and his generosity. His larger responsibility to spread a healing art surpassed that of adhering to the conventions of lineage. Both Grandmaster Chen Qingzhou and Sifu Tony have reached an exceptional level. One swift move and an opponent is floored before they know it, and yet, both teach wholeheartedly knowing most of their students attend class, week in and week out, rain or shine, for respite and health and will never approach their skill. "Taiji belongs to the world."