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.’