The Mind and Structure in Taijiquan

At Thoughts on Tai Chi, there was recently a post about the how the mind creates the structure of the body, and how if one's mind is disturbed, the structure becomes compromised. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here. 

If you tense up because your opponent is strong, you will break your own structure even before he does anything.

Everything starts in the mind. But as Tai Chi is doing, we can say that when you perform or apply Tai Chi, it starts in the body.

The mind-set, or the natural state of just being, could be understood as Wuji, or non-differential But as soon as there is the intent of action, there is Taiji. Here I mean the philosophical concept “Tai Chi” where Yin and Yang has separated and work together through the movement of opposites. Here I separate the philosophical term from the shorter form of Tai Chi Chuan through the spelling. It’s not something recommended to do, but I think it’s a pedagogical thing to do and this is not an academic paper.

But the mind-state must be be correct for the movement and structure to be correct. The mind-state that is developed and deepened over time, is called “Wuxin” or “No Mind”. This is when the heart and mind is still and kept empty, calm and relaxed. It’s called “No Mind” because the heart is kept still, when neither unwanted thoughts or emotions can arise.

But here is the krux – to feel and know if your mind is tense or not, might be hard to understand. Why do we never talk about a tense mind? Worries, thoughts, and things we need to figure out or deal with, can make our mind tense. And then we get stuck in this state of tension though we don’t recognize it as such. It gets a habit just like tensing the shoulders or neck, or keeping the breath high can become a habit.

But again, we rarely talk about a tense mind. We should. So we can learn to relax better. Not only to relax the mind, but the body. The body’s tension and level of relaxation is directly dependent on the level of calmness of the mind.

Because if you can’t relax your mind, the breath will rise, and you will become “top heavy” and unstable, so your root will “float”.

Understanding and controlling this relationship of mind, body and breath, is obviously especially important when you are against an opponent, friendly or not.

Whatever you do, you need to first mind the integrity of your own structure and balance, and always keep it intact. In whatever you do, how small or big the thing you do – or if you stand or move, you need to keep your balance and structural integrity first and always. Structure in Tai Chi is relaxed, it is something that needs to be taken care of by itself. The body must stack itself naturally by itself, from the ground and up, naturally and without you trying to interfere.

This is something hard, something you need to practice a lot and learn how to feel. But you will lose it all if you tense up your mind.

 

The Aging Martial Artist

At Zen's Sekai, the author recently posted his thoughts regarding his Taijiquan and Kyudo practice in the context of aging. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

"I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free." - Michelangelo

Most people assume that aging means gradual loss: less strength, less speed, less range, less ambition.

Taiji and Kyūdō quietly disagree. They do not promise to keep the body young.

They promise something more durable: integrity without excess. Aging Reveals, It Does Not Automatically Weaken.

In external systems, youth is an advantage. Speed forgives errors. Strength covers imbalance. Endurance masks inefficiency.

But aging removes these buffers. What remains is structure, timing, and honesty. Taiji and Kyūdō are not practices that compensate for aging. They are practices that age well because they remove what aging cannot support.

Taiji: When Less Effort Becomes Necessary

Wu Taiji is often misunderstood as “small” or “gentle.” In reality, it is economical. As the body ages: Excess muscular tension becomes costly Overcorrection leads to injury Forcing posture creates fatigue instead of stability

Wu standing and movement strip practice down to essentials: Vertical alignment Ground connection Continuous expansion without strain.

Nothing in Wu requires speed, depth, or amplitude. What it demands instead is accuracy. And accuracy improves with age, if ego steps aside.

Kyūdō: The Shot That Cannot Be Forced

Kyūdō offers no advantage to youth once form is learned.

Strength does not improve release. Speed does not improve timing. Desire does not improve accuracy. In fact, these often make it worse.

As practitioners age, Kyūdō naturally refines itself:

Draw becomes quieter Kai becomes deeper Hanare becomes less dramatic and more inevitable. The body learns what the mind cannot command.

This is not decline. This is distillation.

The Shared Principle: Non-Interference

Both Taiji and Kyūdō are built on the same foundation:

Remove what obstructs natural organization.

Aging supports this process by making interference expensive.

Excess tension hurts,

Poor alignment fatigues quickly,

Emotional forcing destabilizes balance. Youth can ignore these signals. Age cannot, and does not need to.

 

 

Reminiscing

At Ellis Amdur's Kogen Budo Blog, there was a recent post where the author reminisces about his early days training in Japan ... in Chinese martial arts. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

 

In 1977, thanks to an introduction from Donn Draeger, I began training with Wang Shujin. Here is a video that spans from the  the early 1960’s (black-and-white) to a year before his death (color), when I met him.  We would meet at a temple near Shibuya, if I recall correctly, and in the bitter cold, try to imitate him as he went through his version of the Nanjing Synthesis taijiquan form. This form was created by Chen Pan Ling (here a portion performed by his son, Chen Yun Ching). Wang’s form was very different – he emphasized the elements of xingyiquan and baguazhang that Chen included in this form.

Wang had first started going to Japan to teach in the late 1950’s, I believe. There were several reasons for this: First of all, he was a practitioner of a syncretic religion called Yiguandao. Wang was a high-ranking member of this movement, and engaged in missionary activities, both in Taiwan and in Japan. Secondly, Wang was sponsored in his visits to Japan by Toyama Ryūsuke, one of the sons of Toyama Mitsuru, the founder of the Gen’yosha (‘Dark Ocean Society’). What people do not realize about the uyoku, the so-called Japanese right-wing is that they were intimately intertwined with religious movements, both within Japan and elsewhere. [Toyama was closely associated with the Oomoto-kyo of Deguchi Onisaburo and hence, Ueshiba Morihei of aikidō as well.] Many of men of the right were profound idealists (among the most dangerous of people) and others saw religion as a perfect avenue to move people in the direction that they wanted them to go. The early tairiku ronin (‘continental adventurers’ – agents provocateurs, spies, terrorists) were in large numbers Nichiren and Jodo Shinshu (the Nishi and Higashi Hongwanji) Buddhists, as were some of the most significant strategists who drove the invasion of Northern China.

Toyama Ryūsuke was also closely associated with Shindō Musō-ryū jo. Toyama Mitsuru sponsored various martial arts organizations, particularly from his home-town of Fukuoka, and his leading successor, Uchida Ryōhei was a practitioner of, among other things, this medium-length stick art. The Toyama family had sponsored the sponsors of Shimizu Takaji, the famous teacher of this art. Wang initially stayed at Toyama’s mansion, and through this connection, met and associated with many prominent Japanese martial artists. [NOTE: I have portrayed a lot of these men and this milieu in historical fictional form in Little Bird & The Tiger}.

There are lots of stories about Wang that, not being there, I will not waste time repeating (these often are merely, “He was the strongest man I never saw . . .”). I think, however, that it is probably hard to appreciate how formidable he was from looking at videos: he was really fat, and although he’s certainly agile in the earlier films, if one is not familiar with the purpose of his training, it all seems to be stilted, flowery or senseless. I will recount the only incident that I witnessed, for which I will give a little background.

One of Wang’s teachers was Wang Xiangzhai, the founder of dachengquan, also known as yiquan. This martial art was an attempt to distill the essence of the already pared-down pugilistic style of xingyiquan, focusing on solo training, particularly ‘post standing.’ Among Wang’s fellow students was Sawai Ken’ichi, who founded a Japanese version of this art, which he called Taikiken. Sawai was a very pugnacious man, and both he and Wang used to have training groups on the grounds of Meiji Shrine. Acquaintances of mine, some of whom studied with one or the other, told me that Sawai used to walk over to Wang’s area and berate him, saying he was wasting his time teaching baguazhang, xingyiquan and taijiquan: all he needed was dachengquan! Wang used to laugh and keep on moving. Sawai was a friend of the founder of Kyokushin Karate, Oyama Masutatsu. They had a close relationship and students of each would cross-train with the other. Thanks to this connection, some of Oyama’s students also trained with Wang Shujin. When I was practicing, one Kyokushin karate free-sparring students was among us; a very hard looking man, with a face scarred with numerous splits from kicks or punches to the face.

Wang was very ill at that time, perhaps a year before his death. He had a melanoma which had metastasized, and as one can see in the later portion of the linked video, his legs were stiff. He used to shuffle rather than walk. So, please understand, what I am about to describe was not a fight, or even a free sparring session. Wang asked the karateka to take a punch at him. He brushed it past his face – his forearm was about as big as my calf – and embraced him around the lower back, simultaneously smashing his belly into the man’s torso. It knocked all the wind out of him, and he collapsed to the ground, wheezing. [Wang thought this funny, and I recall his rumble, like an elephant digesting, that passed as his laugh]. So, what I saw was circumscribed – but lord, was it powerful.Wang was renowned for this. He would allow anyone to punch or kick him anywhere below the neck. Beyond that, he could absorb the punch and pulse it back out with such power that one risked a dislocation of the shoulder.

But I must confess – at the time, I didn’t get it. I saw how strong he still was, even while he was gravely ill. And I’d heard from others, Donn Draeger among them, what an absolute powerhouse he was when younger. But I could not see how standing around in the cold, trying to imitate him as he moved through a ninety-nine movement taijiquan form would do anything for me. [As I have written elsewhere, on a couple of occasions, I came early and saw him by himself, assiduously going over very simple movements as well as various post-standing exercises, something I was later informed was the key to his power. He practiced them four hours or more a day.]  At any rate, I didn’t get it, and after a couple of months, respectfully resigned the class, and moved on to Muay Thai.

One thing that always stuck in my mind, however, was his ability to take blows, particularly full-on kicks to the groin. And unlike some tricksters, he wasn’t cocking his pelvis forward at the moment of impact, or messing with timing so that he didn’t receive the full impact. By all the accounts I heard, he just stood there phlegmatically and took the kick, expressionless. And he did this with some of the most formidable karateka in Japan, in public demonstrations.

The Bokuto

Over at Ichijoji, the author recently had an interesting post about a bukuto (bokken) that he recently bought. 

These training swords come in all sorts of wood, shapes and sizes.

My own favorite is one that I bought for attending Kushia Sensei's kenjutsu class, where he taught his family style of swordsmanship. This specimen is made of white oak and is larger, more dense and heavier than the generic red oak ones you typicall come across. It is a weapon in it's own right.

The full post may be read here. An excerpt is below.

...

It’s probably a bit older than the others – 30 or 40 years old, I should think, judging from the colour and feel. What attracted me was the balance – it’s reasonably heavy and feels good in either one or both hands.

It is an unusual length, too, somewhere between the normal shoto (short) and long bokuto. That makes it useful both for practice and, if the need ever arose, as a weapon. Bokuto, Miyamoto Musashi notwithstanding, are not designed as weapons. They would do in a pinch, but the normal practice type are a touch too light, and are not as versatile as something like a jo, the short staff used by the riot police here.

That is not to say they are not capable of serious damage – getting whacked around the head by a piece of oak is not going to be good for anyone’s health, but their length makes them susceptible to grabbing and less effective in close quarters. 

The other interesting feature of this bokuto is that it has a squared-off tip. This is slightly unusual these days – most bokuto have kisaki (tip) resembling that of a real blade. I don’t mind this, but I certainly wouldn’t choose this design for my main practice bokuto. 

As there are more than 100 different designs of bokuto, (https://www.seidoshop.com/blogs/the-seido-blog/01-the-different-types-of-bokken-a-visit-at-the-horinouchi-workshop), it would not be surprising if among them, there was something like this. On the other hand, the tip looks quite banged about, and it is possible it got damaged somehow and was cut off.  It also looks as if it might have been cut down purposely to its current length – this is certainly not a standard length, and the tsuka (the end of the hilt) has been cut off square, without the edges being rounded at all (unlike the kissaki). 

Careful examination shows evidence of use – a few marks on the mine (spine), and some marks on the side – some of these have clearly been done with a sharp blade, more likely a practice sword than a real one.

Some koryu styles have bokuto specific to their style, (and there are differences within styles, too) but many make do with what is available. Kendo and aikido tend towards the standard types for kata work and heavier types for developing strength and body connection, but I’m sure there are variations there as well. I have tried some rather poorly balanced bokuto in the past – no doubt mass produced, probably for kendo(?), (although you get poor quality ones sold as souvenirs) and I would not be very happy if I had to use them on a regular basis. 

I have seen comments online about issues connected with weight – I never had any specific instruction on this from my teacher, but on the subject of swords, he once explained that it was good for lighter, less strong practitioners to start with heavier swords to develop the structure to be able to handle them well, and for stronger practitioners to use lighter blades, so they could develop their sensitivity for the weapon. This was under supervision, of course, and with the unspoken corollary that they would eventually progress to a sword that suited them better, if necessary. (Having used several quite heavy swords of varying balance, I can say I have benefitted, but they were not always comfortable to use).

 

 

 

 

Walking the Circle

At Zen Sekai's blog, there was a recent post about yet another martial art the author is studying and how he sees all of his practices come together. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

There are worse things one could do in one's retirement. I admire his efforts in his continuing and expanding his studies.

For myself. as an essentialist, I find myself going more deeply into fewer things.

Training Beyond Combat …

Over the years, I have touched BaGua Zhang only in passing.

My main studies have been Shaolin, Northern Praying Mantis, and Tai Chi, with occasional contact with Xingyi and BaGua. Not from lack of interest, but from lack of the right teacher.

There is an old saying: when the student is ready, the teacher appears.

What is less often said is that the teacher rarely, if ever appears in the way, place, or time one expects. As shown in my recent contact with my Shakuhachi Sensei.

Many years ago, my Shaolin Mantis Shifu taught me a BaGua “form.” It was long and complex, and it took me fully two years to complete. Yet when I finished, I felt unfulfilled. I had learned a form, but it felt empty. Over time, I forgot it. What remained were fragments: basic circle walking and a few foundational ideas. I practiced these occasionally, analyzing the movements, but something was still missing. It felt unbalanced, ungrounded.

Later, much much later, I went to Thailand to study Theravāda walking meditation. I wanted to understand its intention and purpose. Deepen my own Buddhist practice. . I found it interesting, but, if I’m honest, somewhat boring. Mechanically sound, spiritually sincere, logical, yet lacking richness. While practicing, a thought kept returning: BaGua could serve the same ends, but with more depth and dimensionality.

Eventually, I found a BaGua school in Osaka with teachers that came periodically from China. The location was perfect, close to home, and I thought, finally, this is it. Right in my own backyard. But after several contacts, and requests for a visit to talk, being side-stepped, it became clear the focus was more on membership and affiliation than on transmission. I let it go.

Next, I found a teacher online in Europe. Access was easy. I learned walking palm changes and expanded the “vocabulary” of what I already remembered. I studied, added, and practiced. Still, something felt incomplete. The movements were there, but the depth I was seeking remained elusive. The timing was bad for group Zoom class, so I accepted what I could…

Then, almost accidentally, I came across a school in Thailand. At first, I dismissed it. It was in Bangkok, a city I felt no pull toward. Too urban, too crowded. Big cities are big cities, not my thing. Even though I was already traveling to Thailand for Taiji, Kali, and Buddhist studies, BaGua there in Bangkok didn’t register as a priority. I enjoyed Chiang Mai I could learn and relax.

But the school kept appearing in my feed. I watched more closely. I read the philosophy. I observed the training videos. What truly caught my attention was a short section about a woman in her seventies, living in the UK, who traveled yearly to Thailand to train. Her story, combined with the teacher’s principles and approach made me pause to pay attention.

Curiosity ripened into a contact.

We connected online. Distance training, post-COVID, is now normal. I decided to try an online private session, with the idea possibility of supplementing it later with in-person training during a future trip to Chiang Mai. A short flight. Affordable. English instruction. Warm weather. Good food. Physical and spiritual cultivation. It felt… doable and complete.

The first Zoom session was immediately beneficial, far beyond BaGua in my head vision alone. What was being taught was not “more movements,” but foundation. Principles rather than choreography. Almost instantly, these ideas transferred in my mind to Kyūdō, Tai Chi, and Buddhist practice. Also surprisingly to Shakuhachi. Although in Zen we say there is no duality. Still it is a bit surprising to see it in real time.

Gold had been found.

A Shared Axis

It became clearer that BaGua, Kyūdō, Tai Chi, and Chan are not separate paths, but different ways of walking the same ground. This was something I felt, understood already, even with my small understanding. In Chan/Zen there is no duality, as I said. Now this became more concrete. Tai Chi teaches balance through continuous yielding. Kyūdō reveals stillness in a single, unrepeatable release. Chan points directly to what remains when nothing extra is added. BaGua moves between them, asking the body to change direction without losing its center. There is no straight line toward understanding…only responsiveness. The bow, the step, the turn, the breath all arise from the same quiet place. When the center is stable, movement becomes effortless, and direction is no longer a problem. “Movement within stillness, stillness within movement.”

“Form is emptiness, Emptiness is Form”…Zen Heart Sutra.