Today we have a guest post by Jim Russo, a senior Chinese internal martial arts teacher.
Ten thousand flowers in spring, the moon in autumn, a cool breeze in summer, snow in winter. If your mind isn't clouded by unnecessary things, this is the best season of your life.
~ Wu-men ~
Below is a list of the main themes encountered in boxing movies. But bear in mind that boxing on film has probably the longest history in cinema. Ideal for the silent era, because language is not needed to explain the drama (very early documentary movies feature famous boxing matches).
First theme:
Pitched against the injustices of society, whether it’s race or class, or the wrong side of the tracks; the ‘zero to hero’ story always has appeal; it offers hope to even the most downtrodden.
Notice how many boxing movies come out of America, clearly it taps into the myth of the American Dream. You could start with Rocky (Stallone) and carry all the way through to the ‘Cinderella Man’ (Russell Crowe), a biopic where the underdog theme is really larded on.
Probably the most famous non-boxing scene from a boxing movie, every line quotable. Great acting ‘On the Waterfront’ 1954, Marlon Brando and Rod Steiger in the back of a taxi.
Second theme:
Tragic individuals and catastrophic results.
Probably the most gritty story rendered on to screen is that of Jake LaMotta in the movie ‘Raging Bull’, artfully told by Martin Scorcese. A true-life story of how LaMotta’s urge to make a success of his life and career, results in human carnage, in terms of relationships and family.
LaMotta played by De Niro; strong stuff, not pleasant.
We also need to consider how neither LaMotta nor the fictional Rocky Balboa are blessed with high intelligence; but that seems okay in boxing movies, where philosophy never really gets a look in (unlike martial arts movies). You don’t need deep thinking to understand a boxing match.
Theme three:
Naturally, everyone pretty much understands the rules and objectives of a boxing match. Consider also how the contest and the drama is all conveniently contained in a small space; no need for long rolling tracking shots to follow the action. Compared to other action movies, this makes things so much easier to manage.
Also, the narrative on every boxing movie is split into two zones; inside the ring and outside the ring. The viewer unconsciously understands this, and accepts it unconditionally.
We also tolerate the brutality of the ring, no matter how graphic. Example; ‘Raging Bull’ was a movie shot almost entirely in black and white, but it didn’t lessen the gore-factor. In fact, it enhanced it.
The next theme:
There are women’s boxing movies, but they are quite rare (think of Clint Eastwood’s ‘Million Dollar Baby’). Decades ago, the idea was totally unthinkable. There have been combat sports movies with women as the central protagonists; recently ‘Tatami’ 2023, a judo movie which is worth watching, for many reasons, cerebral, cultural and political, and then there’s the judo.
From the male perspective there are often very positive themes of honour, duty and responsibility, as well as sportsmanship (there is also pressure against corruption).
A quick mention of bare-knuckle, whether historical or not. (But, let’s put aside anything with Brad Pitt in it).
My go-to examples for historical bare knuckles fighting are; the short section in Robert Downey Jnr’s ‘Sherlock Holmes’.
And, the not very successful, ‘Prizefighter, The Life of Jem Belcher’, 2022. The Americans don’t seem to have an interest in these stories, leaving it up to the Europeans, despite having their own pantheon of fighters from the bare-knuckles age. I suspect that across the Atlantic everything has to hook on the myth of the, previously mentioned, ‘Great American Dream’. Europe and the UK tend to be more historically nuanced.
Now, on to my main objective.
The common ground:
· Discipline and grind (Rocky chasing chickens and Shaolin types carrying buckets up steps).
· Underdog tales in both genres. It taps into something fundamentally human.
· Final climactic showdown. Think ‘hall of mirrors’ in ‘Enter the Dragon’ and any Rocky movie.
All of the above are found in martial arts and boxing movies, but…
The real differences:
· Martial arts movies don’t go for the same grit as boxing movies. They are more about grace and aesthetics.
· Superhuman potential is really ramped-up in martial arts tales. The bar is set really high. With boxing it tends to be grind and muscle, and, dare I say it; more realism?
· Endurance versus self-actualisation and philosophy. Eastern religions and disciplines very much guide the martial arts storylines. While in the world of boxing, it tends to be just doggedly staying in the fight and clawing your way out of poverty etc.
· With boxing, the themes tend towards Western individualism, while the Eastern traditions lean heavily into collectivism, even heritage or ancestor worship.
· Technical aesthetics: In boxing it’s the close-up toughness of the brawl. While in martial arts movies we find the viewpoint is pulled back away from the action, so we can appreciate the artistry and the flair of the fighters.
What exactly does it mean with a lineage in Tai Chi? And does training within a lineage mean to learn a more complete art, and does it lead to a fuller understanding of Tai Chi Chuan?
Ideally, it should. A lineage means that all of the knowledge in the same style, have been preserved and standardized by the founder of the lineage (or by the founder of a branch of a larger, older lineage). Thus, lineage is something style-specific, and this is maybe my main critique of “lineages”, that is cements the idea that there are “styles” in Tai Chi, something I personally disagree with on a fundamental level, even though I accept that “style” is generally accepted in the Tai Chi community.
What is positive and on the pro side with a lineage, is that you, can study an at least somewhat complete curriculum, and that the standard of what is taught in the schools of the lineage is the same and regulated. With other words – you can usually expect some kind of standard.
However, what is taught through lineages is not always as complete as claimed. All schools, styles and branches have their own limitations, though “lineage” might be the best example of a real problem of modern Tai Chi teaching, though their teachers often claim that what they teach is the superior school of Tai Chi. Why?
First, let me paraphrase something a martial artist said. Someone I have great respect for expressed himself very well when he said, well, I think it was something like this:
When you are looking at a performance of a high-level martial artist, you are only watching the results of that person’s, training. You are not seeing the training, how the person got to that level.
It sounds very simple and obvious, but there’s something important to learn here. Namely – that you don’t know exactly how a person achieved a certain skill just by looking at him or her. So what does this mean? Well, the problem is that when people associate a person with a style or lineage, they are mostly making assumptions based on simplifications, a simplified view on how to reach a certain point of development and achieve skills.
You could take a look at many practitioners, teachers and masters and and examine their backgrounds to understand better what I men. Let’s simplify the problem with taking myself as an example. So now, if you know how a typical Yang style Tai Chi curriculum usually looks like, and I said that I was a Yang Style practitioner, you would associate the skills that I myself can show and demonstrate, were developed by studying Yang Tai Chi and doing the typical training in this style. So, here immediately, you would do a mistake if you thought that I have achieved all of my skill only through typical Yang style practice.
By assuming I am mainly a Yang style practitioner, you woudn’t take the full extent of my background in consideration. You would not take into account such things as that I have learned things from other styles, or through cross-training in different internal arts, or by meeting up with different practitioners from various styles and schools. And you would not take into account that I’ve read tons of martial arts books and adapted methods and techniques from other schools into my own Tai Chi.
The real poetry in Tai Chi is in its simplicity. The problem is that it’s nothing you can show to others, it’s something invisible.
All high arts strive towards simplicity. Why? Because you can judge all high art forms by the perfection in its details. And here is the thing: The more simple something is, the harder it is to perfect.
There are so many more examples that would make the same point. But it is also the same in martial arts. Even though I am not a fan of Japanese martial arts in general, I still think they often do a better job at this than in the Chinese. Just look at Kendo, Iaido or Japanese bow arts – they are all about perfecting one single strike, one single shot. Endless repetition of something seemingly simple.
Even a seemingly crude and unsophisticated style as Karate, compared to Chinese martial arts, does something very well. It only has a few types of kicks and punches that are repeated and perfected. Here is something I really respect, the philosophy that less is more. Or like Bruse Lee famously said: “I don’t fear someone who has trained ten thousand kicks once, but someone who as trained one kick ten thousand times.” This is a generalization of course, but it certainly makes a good point.
And I believe that this type of mind-set is also something that separates great Tai Chi practitioners from the mediocre ones. The mediocre ones are always obsessed about visual appearance. They like to train in Chinese traditional clothes, they like a ceremony around the practice and in class, and everything around the art. And obviously – they like collecting forms, both empty handed and weapon forms.
And the worst Tai Chi practitioners do everything out of own vanity and ego, they want to feel they know something “special” and look pretty while practicing. Some are lost cases. How much they train, they can never understand Tai Chi, because they are not interested in the art itself, but they use it as a tool to feel superior to others.
And on the other side of the spectrum, there are those who only focus on the perfection of every single movement they do. Just to raise hands, or turn to the right, becomes something very difficult, something they spend years and years to perfect. They practice on how to feel how the balance and weight distribution in their own body changes by every little small shift and movement. They study years and years to embody the simple Tai Chi principles in every movement and all of the time.
Poetry means to cut away everything unnecessary, and to strive for the most simple and clear expression possible. You can show poetry through words and sounds. But when you achieve it in Tai Chi, it looks like “nothing”. Because you can’t see it.
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.
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.
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.
Yesterday was the Anniversary of the the birthday and passing day of my Tai Chi Mantis Shifu. Paul Eng. He was my second Tai Chi Mantis Shifu, the First was Kam Yuen. They were related. He passed away Ed a couple of years ago go. Eng Shifu was about 10 years ago. I first started with Kam Shifu and received my teacher certificate from him. (Northern Shaolin Tai Chi Praying Mantis)
My training included Northern Shaolin, Lohan, Seven Star, Tai Chi Mantis, Ba Qua, Hsing Yi.
Later I trained with Eng Shifu received advanced training and admission into the inner circle of Tai Chi Mantis Society via him. This post is in Honor of him.
Historical Context of Tai Chi Praying Mantis
Praying Mantis boxing (螳螂拳) developed in northern China as a family of related systems rather than a single, uniform style. While popular narratives often trace all mantis boxing to a single founder, historical evidence suggests a gradual evolution, shaped by regional methods, battlefield experience, and individual refinement.
Within this family, Tai Chi Praying Mantis (太極螳螂拳) represents a principle-oriented expression rather than a purely technical divergence.
Relationship to Other Mantis Systems
Seven Star Praying Mantis (七星螳螂拳) is the most widely known branch and is often treated as representative of all mantis boxing. However, Tai Chi Praying Mantis differs in emphasis:
Seven Star favors: Direct aggression Strong percussive force Clear, decisive striking combinations Tai Chi Praying Mantis emphasizes: Listening and sensitivity Adhesion and redirection Lighter contact leading to control
Both are aggressive systems, but their methods of arriving at dominance differ.
The Meaning of “Tai Chi” in Tai Chi Praying Mantis
A common misunderstanding is that Tai Chi Praying Mantis incorporates techniques from Tai Chi Chuan. Historically and functionally, this is incorrect.
In Tai Chi Praying Mantis, “Tai Chi” refers to principle, not choreography.
Specifically:
Using the opponent’s force against them Neutralizing rather than colliding Alternating yin and yang in timing and pressure Maintaining balance while disrupting the opponent’s
These ideas long predate the modern separation of martial arts into named styles and were part of the broader internal logic of Chinese martial culture.
Tai Chi Praying Mantis applies these principles within a mantis framework — through seizing, trapping, elbow control, and rapid finishing — not through Tai Chi Chuan postures.
Northern Shaolin Influence
Northern Shaolin systems historically served as foundational training grounds, providing:
Structure Conditioning Large-frame movement Long-range striking
Tai Chi Praying Mantis emerged and was transmitted alongside this environment, benefiting from Shaolin’s physical discipline while refining it through economy of motion and tactical intelligence.
As practitioners aged or moved into teaching roles, emphasis often shifted away from large, forceful expressions toward principle-driven efficiency — a pattern seen repeatedly across Chinese martial traditions.
Transmission and Refinement
Rather than being a modern hybrid, Tai Chi Praying Mantis represents a refinement process within mantis boxing:
Reducing unnecessary collision Improving timing and sensitivity Prioritizing control over exchange
This refinement made the system especially suitable for:
Smaller practitioners Older practitioners Situations requiring decisive resolution rather than prolonged fighting
Teachers such as Master Chi Chuk Kai preserved this approach by emphasizing principle over appearance, ensuring the art remained functional rather than performative.
Tai Chi Praying Mantis as a Mature System
Historically, many Chinese martial arts evolved toward lighter, more internal expressions over time — not as a loss of effectiveness, but as a gain in clarity.
Tai Chi Praying Mantis reflects this maturity:
It listens before acting It controls before striking It finishes without excess
Seen in this light, Tai Chi Praying Mantis is not an offshoot or compromise, but a culmination — a system shaped by experience, realism, and the understanding that true skill conserves both effort and life.
In Tai Chi Chuan, as well as in several other Chinese martial arts, the concept of being “natural” (ziran, 自然) or of performing “natural movement” is frequently mentioned.
It is therefore surprising that even some well-known teachers question this term, or appear unfamiliar with its actual meaning. Some of these teachers are highly prolific and often speak at length about concepts such as “qi,” yet their dismissal of naturalness suggests a fundamental misunderstanding of what ziran refers to in classical Chinese traditions.
Statements such as “nothing we do in Tai Chi is natural,” “everything is unnatural,” or “if Tai Chi were natural, it would be easy to perform” are commonly heard. Such remarks reveal a lack of understanding of the classical meaning of ziran and of what is considered “natural” within internal martial arts, Daoist body practices, and related Chinese traditions.
At its most basic and simplified level, “natural” or ziran refers to what is originally inherent to the human body – movement and organization as it is meant to function when it is not disturbed or overridden by artificial or forced control.
The crucial point is that most of us are not natural in the classical sense. The way we move and use our bodies is largely learned rather than inherent.
Most people walk, sit, and perform everyday tasks while carrying unnecessary tension in the body: a stiff neck, elevated and shallow breathing, and a tense, restless mind. Movements are often clumsy, and awareness of one’s own body is limited.
When people walk, they frequently hold themselves upright through tension in the upper body, maintaining balance by constantly shifting weight across small, unstable points in the feet, rather than allowing the body’s structure to support itself. Speech is often strained and high-pitched, and movement lacks coordination and ease.
Much of the day is then spent sitting, often without awareness of how these habitual patterns of tension reinforce themselves, gradually making movement even more restricted and inefficient. In this sense, what we commonly regard as normal human behavior is in fact artificial: tense, fragmented, and far removed from naturalness.
These patterns are not innate; they are learned behaviors that run counter to what is natural for the human body.
My late Chinese teacher often pointed out that small children are energetic, resilient, and rarely seem to tire. Over time, however, social conditioning teaches children that much of what they do is wrong: how they sit, move, walk, or behave. In schools, they are expected to sit still, remain quiet, and suppress spontaneous movement.
According to my teacher, this process gradually replaces natural movement with artificial patterns. He emphasized that this observation is not new but reflects insights that have existed in Chinese thought for thousands of years. Animals move with smoothness and ease, and young children do as well. Adult humans, in contrast, often do not.
My own teacher, Stephen Hwa, Ph.D., did seminars for Jou Tsung-Hwa's students and he told me in an email that Jou Tsung-Hwa was “…someone who was in search of the truth in Tai Chi, and I would like to meet him…”. Master Jou was the author of The Tao of Tai-Chi Chuan. He used the analogy of a film to explain the movement of Tai Chi. He stated that when viewed as individual, static poses, the movements make no sense. The proper motion and meaning are only perceived when the "frames" are put together and performed fluidly as a continuous sequence. The "Film" analogy teaches several core concepts of Tai Chi practice that can aptly be applied to Classical Tai Chi.
In the numerous styles, there is really only one that has a “round” form and a “square” (fang) form. The Wu Style, with all its own derivatives, often surprises people with the direct opposite requirement between Square and Round.
The direct opposite requirement is not unique, however:
I am echoing Master Hwa as I relate my own experience. Just think how one learns the art of calligraphy. My own teacher echoes this in the video link. My own experience had me learning Chinese Calligraphy, how to write in print form (brush and ink, of course). Then I studied a smidgen of cursive calligraphy. The differences between these two writing forms are analogous to the differences between those two Tai Chi Forms.
Square Form is analogous to the block printing of (pinyin) Kai Style, or what is called “Kai Shu”. The round form is analogous to Tsao Style or "Tsao Shu/Cao Shu" or the cursive script.
In Square Form, as in calligraphy, movements occur along relatively straight lines between points (the start and end points of inflection). The Round Form, with its curves, has the curves passing through those points. The Square Form is like a template for the Round Form. As you see, the curves go through the points where the lines meet.
Again, merely echoing my teacher, who was a Ph.D. engineer and scientist at Xerox Corporation. Like the Calculus of Mathematics; however, I would point out that the Round Form is like the calculus, which integrates a tiny segment of a curved motion as a straight line to form the curved motion. A Square Form is like taking one of the small straight lines and expanding it into a straight movement. The way of the universe uses principles that govern everything that appears unrelated.
Tai Chi Chuan is a completely non-violent martial art. There, I said it!
What? How can a martial art be non-violent?
Well, that’s a good question – so please let me explain. If a skilled Tai Chi practitioner is attacked, he or she does not acknowledge aggression or violence.
We don’t acknowledge aggressive manners or words. We don’t respond to them. We keep both mind and heart empty, not allowing another person’s violence to attach itself to us.
And – if we are attacked physically, we don’t perceive it as a weapon or a threat. Instead, we see the attacker’s movement as nothing more than a physical action – harmless in itself – and we simply move through space, adjusting to the motion.
If I stand still in the path of a fist, yes, Tai Chi becomes violent – because I allow you to hurt me. That is violence. So Tai Chi cannot be passive, because passivity invites violence. Instead, a skilled practitioner – regardless of the type of attack – will not meet the attack head-on. So, I will not meet a punch with my face, but at the same time, I will not try to block the force or stop the direction of the punch.
Regardless of the attack, a good Tai Chi practitioner will follow and guide the moving body.
Pay close attention here. Notice my wording: I did not say “follow and guide the attack,” or “follow and guide the punch.” I mean exactly what I wrote – follow and guide the moving body. This means the whole body. When someone attacks, we connect to their balance and their center. But again – without ever meeting force directly.
Tai Chi is about following, guiding, entering, finding the gaps, and mirroring the opponent’s movements. All of it is non-violent.
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Small circle Tai Chi minimizes arm movement, keeps shoulders down, and generates power from the core. The large Circle style has excessive arm moves, movement at the shoulders, and power from the legs. In contrast, the Classical Tai Chi taught by Master Stephen Hwa and certified teachers, emphasizes internal discipline. Every movement originates from the core of the body, specifically the abdomen and back, and the Yin/Yang Junction in the Core, a point where yin and yang energies meet, is located within the torso, not at the limbs.