T’ai chi is often described as “moving meditation.” To help facilitate the gentle flow of sequences, it’s good to rest one’s mind in the moment. For beginning practitioners, this may be challenging, since the actively learning brain is actively trying to remember what comes next in the sequence. But with repetition and patience, that hard-working portion of the brain will feel more comfortable stepping aside and allowing the entire mind to be in the moment. Then, the magic happens!
In t’ai chi, full stops are rare. The three most pronounced ones come when we Carry Tiger to the Mountain, a sequence that is repeated at the end of parts I, II and III. One rests in tallness and groundedness, arms crossed and rounded with the mental image of embracing the tiger. It would be a shame not to stop and relish that moment, gazing out from the mountaintop to rest and enjoy the view before starting the next sequence.
Other movements, such as Single Whip, Twisting the Tiger’s Ears and Fan Out Through the Back, are characterized by clarity, so there is a sense of finishing out the phrase in a specific pose. Then, one immediately starts the next sequence. The idea is to express clarity without a sharp edge; somewhat like the small trailing “tail” shown in the yin/yang symbol.
We are never really still. While researching this post, I thought of several visuals involving gently swirling currents. Earlier this week, practicing safely outdoors with a group of friends, we did a warmup involving circular movements of the joints and hands. It was a warm day, and with the sun shining on my head, I imagined it was summertime and I was in a canoe, drifting on a mirror-smooth lake. In my mind, I gently lowered my fingertips into the water and started swirling my hand in the same shape I was making in the air in real time, on a brown February day in the park.
Two other images then introduced themselves: drawing a knife through vanilla and chocolate batter to produce a marble cake, and the image of our beautiful planet from space, with the swirling clouds and blue water forming a pattern of movement.
Movement is immediate and gentle, and it can also be powerful and epic. In Alfred Lord Tennyson’s poem “Locksley Hall,” he writes:
“Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range,
Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.”
We are all spinning counterclockwise right now, just over 1000 miles per hour. Fortunately, the atmosphere is spinning too; otherwise, everything that isn’t attached would fly right off.
For me, it’s vertigo-inducing to think about that. I would flunk the astronaut test, since I’m one of those individuals with a low tolerance for amusement park rides involving rapid rotation and changes in altitude. Spinning too fast makes me feel as if I am quite literally about to die. Even slow-moving Ferris wheels make me nervous. My only pleasant memory of carnival rides is actually my very first childhood memory. I was probably about three, riding on the Central Park carousel when my parents and I lived in Manhattan. As I completed each circle, there they stood together, smiling at me reassuringly.
Movement is built into our existence. Some of us have the need for speed; others, such as myself, not so much. In any case, t’ai chi allows us to connect with our own natural movement, within the movement of nature. Circles, currents, and swirls are all drawn with the fingers and enacted by open, spiraling joints in ankles, knees, hips, shoulders and spine.
The fingers describe the image, so they play an important role as leaders for the body to observe and follow. During practice, I find that if I think of the names of a movement, my fingers can be channels for the flow of qi. The visualization helps me relax, which allows for more control. This is what we ask our whole t’ai chi-performing body to do: relax and flow.
For example, the Single Whip sequence begins with a circle. The upper hand forms the shape of a bird’s beak, then the lower hand, slightly cupped, rises up toward the beak. The “bird” then takes a sip of nectar out of the bowl and travels out to the side.
Forming the “beak” shape means gently gathering the fingers and thumb together without gripping. To get the idea, pick up either arm and suspend the hand naturally from the wrist. Then, with your other hand, gently grasp the fingers and thumb and smooth them all together. There is your beak, gentle and expressive. You could also think of this quote by Chuang Tau:
The bird opens its beak and sings its note,
Then the beak comes together in silence;
So nature and the living meet together in stillness
Like the closing of the bird’s beak after its song.
