Teachings from the Taiji Classics

‘In motion all parts of the body must be light, nimble and strung together.’

In motion: And not in stillness. Why not begin at the beginning with stillness? The Teacher wanted to inform us that the secrets of Taiji are revealed in the form and movement, which is the separation of Yin and Yang. Later he will speak of the beginning, Wuji and stillness. In motion means continual practice!

Light: but still grounded. The root in the legs remains solid like a tree trunk while the upper body appears light like branches swaying easily in the wind.

Nimble: like a cat ready to spring in any direction and always landing on its feet.

Strung together: like a river. Muscles, tendons and sinews flow and form a contiguous physical unity so that in motion one cannot distinguish a beginning or an end.


‘The Qi (Ch’i, breath) should be excited,
The Shen (spirit) should be internally gathered.’

The Qi should be excited: Like a wind strirring up waves. How? As you move through the form, breathe deep, slow, thin, long and silent.

Internally gathered: ‘Gathered’ means concentrating the Qi. Where? In the Dan Tien to ensure that the body remains soft and supple. This follows the teachings of Laozi: ‘In focusing the Qi to attain suppleness, can you be as a newborn babe.’ The mind must focus, direct and store the Qi in the Dan Tien. To do this, the mind must remain calm as if sitting in the eye of a storm. If not, the Qi will spread throughout the body like a herd of wild horses and the spirit will transform into the seven negative emotions (such as anger, greed, lust). When the mind is hard, the body is hard.


‘Let the postures be without
Breaks or holes,
Hollows or projections,
Or discontinuities continuities of form.’

Let the postures: The Teacher did not say, ‘the postures should be….’ This is to teach us to seek the natural wholeness of the postures. Do not use force. Rather relax into the postures without collapsing like a rag doll.

Breaks: The form flows on slowly like a great river, never stopping.

Holes: Filled with the steady flow of movement.

Hollows or projections: Seek a balance of yin and yang, empty and full. Not sinking too far down or rising too far up or overly receding or extending. For example, in the ‘push’ the hands only reach the point where the Qi can easily sustain their distance from the body. The elbows do not stick out but sink naturally downward. In this way there is no separation between the hands, arms and the body.

Discontinuities: This means maintaining internal wholeness. The mind must be aware of all parts of the body at all times so that they are always connected and are never separated.

Continuities: The mind must not be in one place more than another. Even though function and form are connected, do not emphasize function over wholeness. Why is mind so important in Qi? Because it can be everywhere at the same moment.

When doing the form be like the ancient masters: subtle, mysterious, profound and responsive.


‘The motion should be rooted in the feet,
Released through the legs,
Controlled by the waist,
And manifested through the fingers.’

Rooted: The weight drops through the legs, to the bottom of the feet and merges with the ground. The foot remains flat and the weight is evenly distributed.

Released through the legs: As the weight slowly shifts, the foot pushes into the ground, sending internal energy through the legs. Pushing into the ground is like stepping on a billows. The internal energy compressed and directed through the legs.

Controlled by the waist: The waist is the conduit that guides the internal energy to the spine. When called upon, the waist can snap like whip, greatly enhancing the velocity and power of the internal energy. From the spine it passes through the shoulders to the fingers. Tension at any point along the way reduces the quality and quantity of internal energy.

Manifested through the fingers: The fingers, hands and arms are a reflection of the feet, legs and the waist. Root and branch, lower and upper, are the same. Then the body is not a body but a vessel containing one contiguous flow of internal energy.


The space between heaven and earth is like a bellows
Empty and inexhaustible,
Move it and even more comes out.
Laozi, Chapter 5

In the Rose Garden, Part I

I am in the Rose Garden for my morning ritual of Taijiquan. I’ve been coming to practice Taiji in this Garden for over twenty-five years. This is where I teach most of my classes. Soon I will teach a class of beginning students. I say hello to the Arab gardener who knows me well. In English he asks how I’ve been. I say fine and ask after his welfare. A few people are walking to work on the upper path. I move to a hidden corner of the garden where I am alone in the hush of the early morning. I am standing under an iron trellis that supports green leafy vines and a flourishing purple bougainvillea. Before me is a field of brilliant red roses. The only sounds I hear are birds singing and the din of distant traffic.
The land for the Rose Garden and its maintenance were given to the people of Jerusalem by a wealthy family. Later it will be filled with people, young and old of all faiths, who come to enjoy its beauty and tranquility. Secret lovers frequent the garden at night. But at this time, early in the morning, the garden is quiet and regal. Like the roses, my Taiji has blossomed here. I feel as much at home in this garden as I do in my own living room.
I do a few easy warm-ups before assuming the Beginning Posture with heels together and toes pointing out at an angle. I plant the soles of my feet flat on the ground, distributing my weight evenly. My knees are slightly bent. I focus on standing upright in a balanced and stable position. I tuck in my chin slightly and raise the back of my neck. I try to relax any point of tension in my shoulders, chest, stomach, lower back. Then I focus on my breath, inhaling and exhaling long, slow and deep. I try to empty my mind and allow it to slip into the stillness of Wuji. When the moment is right, I will begin the Taiji form by separating weight and sinking into my right leg.
Suddenly my Wuji strivings are disturbed by the shrill cawing of a crow. The racket is so distracting that I am compelled to look in the direction from which it is coming. What I see is a face-off between a cat and a crow. A gray-striped male cat is walking past a bench like the macho king of the Garden, his tail swishing back and forth like a whip. A few feet away a large gray and black crow, nearly the size of the cat, is confronting him eye-to-eye. The cawing is warning to every creature that danger is lurking nearby. The crow, its black beak raised like a sword, maintains just enough distance so that the cat cannot pounce on him. Even so, head-on, the crow represents a formidable opponent. His beak could easily injure the cat. The cat will not attack and the crow knows it. The crow has made his point.
In the scheme of hunter and hunted, the cat has lost his great advantage, that of stealth. But he does not seem perturbed. He walks with a hunter’s confidence, knowing his day will come. I watch his movements with awe. ‘Walk like a cat’ is written in the Taiji Classics. What can he teach me? He is so soft and graceful, each part in its place and integrated into the whole. It is almost as though his paws do not touch the ground. He continues walking past the crow, ignoring the crow with the arrogance of a natural-born predator.
The crow backs off slightly but his posture and voice continue to proclaim: ‘Don’t mess with me!’ I am impressed with his audacity and courage, the way he stands his ground. He knows exactly what he can get away with.
Watching this ancient drama, I am reminded of the legendary origins of Taijiquan. The immortal Zheng San-feng was meditating in his mountain hut when he heard a noisy racket in his garden. He looked outside and saw a battle between a snake and crane. The snake’s body was coiled like a whip, waiting to defend itself. Suddenly the swift crane dove toward the snake and thrust its sharp beak at its head. The supple snake evaded the crane’s attack and lunged at the crane’s exposed neck. The crane quickly raised its right wing and brushed away the snake’s dangerous strike. Repulsed by the bird’s wing, the snake curled around and attacked the crane’s exposed left leg. With lightening speed, the crane swept away the snake’s charge with its left wing. The bird then struck again and again but was unable to gain the advantage or to inflict any damage due to the soft circular evasions of the snake. The battle raged for some time. Eventually the combatants grew weary and the struggle ended with no clear winner. Finally the snake slithered away through the thick grass and the bird flew back to the forest.
According to legend, this primal battle led Zheng San-feng to create Taijiquan. He understood that the soft could overcome the hard in martial arts from the suppleness and pliability of the snake’s circuitous movements. He also realized the paramount importance of quickness and change in martial arts. The fact that both the snake and the crane quickly yielded or attacked, as the situation required, demonstrated the importance of understanding nature of change, that is, Yin and Yang, in self-defense. The Yin and Yang symbol is called Taiji while Quan means fist. Taijiquan is often translated as ‘The Supreme Ultimate Fist.’