SECRETS, SPIRALS, MINDFULNESS, AND WATER

There are various reasons why tai chi exercise changes the body in unique ways and develops unique skills. Among these is the fact that the movements themselves have a certain unique character. Reflecting its Taoist founder’s passion for watching and learning from nature, tai chi players spiral like whirlpools and flow like water. This chapter will offer a clearer picture of what those oft-cited terms really mean. We will explore what tai chi movements look and feel like, as well as their intended martial purpose. Even if we have no interest in tai chi for physical self-defense, knowing the purpose of a movement is invaluable in performing it correctly.

Before we have any experience with the art, many of us move as if made of two big glass marbles, one sitting atop the other in a jar full of glue. During the first year of practice the glue turns to honey and the marbles shrink and multiply as we learn to sink, relax, and turn. After another year or two of practice the honey becomes less viscous and our marbles become polished ball bearings, making every gesture more subtle and our foundation stable. Little by little, and with more time and practice, we reduce our ball bearings to sand. Newly dense and precise in our movements, we quiet our mind with meditation until we can feel how the turning of even one grain of sand affects the rest.

At the master level, the quantitative changes we have enjoyed become qualitative. Rather than working with a body made of solid bits, we move as if we are pure water. Thus transformed we experience the miracles so many long-term players report: the disappearance of lifelong aches and pains, the easing or even cure of long-term chronic conditions, the minimizing of negative emotions, the increase in concentration, the sharpening of focus, and the rise of non-dual perception as the illusion of separation from the world around us fades.

A SPECIAL TWIST ON FLEXIBILITY

Despite the metaphorical phase change between solid and liquid, one dynamic of tai chi movement remains constant as we advance: the tai chi player must follow that most archetypal of all nature’s three-dimensional designs, the spiral. There are many other ways in which tai chi owes a debt to nature, but there is no clearer example of the art’s natural underpinnings than that marvelous shape, which is seen in galaxies, the chambered nautilus, and in hurricanes, tornadoes, and waterspouts. The spiral is truly the quintessential shape of tai chi.

Perhaps you remember the balsawood toy airplane from long ago. Packaged flat and originally selling for less than a dollar, it featured a plastic propeller, wooden wings, and derived the power for flight from a rubber band. Upon first assembly, the rubber band needed to be stretched between the propeller and a metal hook at the tail, but after repeated use, the rubber band was far more relaxed. This stretching of the rubber band happened because winding the band made first one row of knots in the band, then another upon that row, and then—if you were willing to risk breaking the band in search of greater performance—a third upon that.

What does a balsa toy teach us about tai chi? Well, a twist is just another word for a spiral and when we spiral the band we also stretch it. Rather than linear stretching, as is commonly done in sports warm-ups and many forms of yoga, tai chi exerts a spiraling force on connective tissue, stabilizer muscles, and major muscle groups. Stretching our tissues to their straight-line limits, we run the risk of tears. Twisting them, however, we are more likely to feel those limits because the process is more gradual and there is more time for feedback from the tissues. More, the twisting movement itself is easier on muscle fibers, as smaller bundles are engaged serially rather than the whole muscle at one time. Stretching with nature’s spiral, it turns out, is just as effective as the straight line pull, and safer, too.

THE TOWEL, THE CORKSCREW, AND THE SPINE

Other than tossing it into the clothes dryer, the best way to get the water out of a wet towel is not to slap or stomp on it, but to wring it with a twisting motion. In general, moving liquid through a solid medium is well accomplished with spirals, a fact known in the field of fluid dynamics. One of the reasons that tai chi movements prove beneficial to organs, muscles, and joints is that spirals push blood through tissue just the way we wring water from a towel.

In order to better understand the requirements of tai chi spiraling, we might draw a parallel between the human body and the corkscrew, which also requires a particular combination of precise alignment and correct motion in order to operate successfully. The first requirement in using a corkscrew correctly is that it be applied vertically. If we position it at an angle, it will end up against the inside of the neck of the bottle rather than in the cork. Pulling up on it will merely destroy the cork if it has not bitten centered and true. In addition, when we use a corkscrew we must turn it. If we don’t, we will force the cork down into the wine. Last, we must apply downward pressure, for if we simply turn a straight corkscrew we will do no more than create a divot on the surface of the cork.

As for the corkscrew, so for the tai chi player. Our spine must remain straight, we must sink and relax, and we must turn. Turning occurs at the waist and in the hips, but not in the knees, which are designed to bend but not twist. Imagining a long drill bit attached to the tailbone and spiraling down into the ground and you have the picture of the spine acting as the axis of the drill. Of course our tai chi body is not a single corkscrew, but many. Each limb is a corkscrew, and each digit a corkscrew, too, allowing for a great number of different-sized spirals simultaneously acting in different planes and directions. As we proceed along the previously described continuum from giant marbles to water, the spirals in our body become more complex, numerous, and subtle.

THE GYROSCOPE WE CALL DANTIAN

To spiral as powerfully as water, which overcomes snags and obstructions by simply flowing around them in three-dimensional fashion, we must train our muscular core to turn like that perennial favorite toy, the spinning gyroscope. Typically, the toy gyroscope is comprised of a metal cage inside of which a rotor spins on an axle. There is a hole in the axle for a piece of string. We wind the string around the axle, give a good pull to spin the rotor, and then set the cage down on its end. The inertia of the spinning rotor allows the toy to balance on its tip. If we pick up the top and turn it in our hands, we can feel the way it resists our efforts to move it in any axis other than the axis of the spin.

This resistance is a quality that has made the gyroscope of great commercial importance. Airplanes use gyros in their instruments and ships ranging in size from private yachts to supertankers use gyros—called stabilizers—to counter the effects of rough seas. The latter are positioned at various angles and linked to sensors and computer controlled so as to present a complex, effective response to the pitch and yaw of a ship, as well as the roll. Driven by electric motors, ship gyros speed up in rough seas and slow down when it is calm, thereby matching the forces acting upon them.

During tai chi practice, our pelvic girdle and hip joints—and the muscles that drive them—create a functional unit that acts like a natural gyro, turning at different speeds at different angles and with different force according as needed. The Chinese call this combination of energy, joint, meat, and bone the Dantian, and consider it the power center of the body, and the center of mass, too. Our biggest muscle groups, the hamstrings and quads, support the area. Spiraling, turning, and sinking, the properly rotating tai chi Dantian does for us in the storm of life just what a ship’s stabilizers do in a challenging sea.

Tai chi training strengthens and refines this magnificent asset for use not only in martial practice but in other areas of life as well. Any and every activity of our daily routine can be made easier by proper use of our Dantian, including mowing the lawn, doing laundry, opening a cabinet, cooking, bicycling, carrying a child, taking out the trash, planting a garden, and even driving a car. All that is needed is the right training and the right mental connections and we can create stability for ourselves as well as accomplish great physical work.

WATERING YOUR MIND

Discipline, devotion to the art, hard work, and much practice should be enough to transform our mind/body in tai chi fashion, but they are not. There are millions of people in China and other Asian nations who rise every morning and do their form in the park simply out of habit. It’s part of their daily routine, part of their culture, part of their lives, and yet they are still not gaining nearly as much benefit as they could. Similarly, there are people in this country who practice their forms every day for years, people who may even learn to masterfully wield a tai chi spear or lunge impressively with a tai chi straight sword, but who never achieve the inner connection that really makes the art function at its highest level. How can this be?

The answer is that there are two ways to play tai chi. We can treat the art as a regular workout—like calisthenics, say, or a set of tennis—and go through the motions as best we can, building our buns and thighs with low stances while treating the sequence of moves, the form, as just one more way to move the body, perhaps in a social setting. Alternately, we can perform the practice mindfully, paying attention to every move and going deep inside ourselves. Fending off the speed-and-greed messages of the media-driven world around us, we practice until the universe contracts to a single, focused doorway to a reality greater than we can possibly imagine. Mindful practice increases our sensitivity, calm, awareness of our surroundings, and understanding of the true nature of our body, which is, variously, an assemblage of co-operating microorganisms, a series of independent linked systems, or a unified whole born of millions of years of evolution and expressing a complex consciousness.

Researchers are discovering that one of the ways in which our brains are capable of storing and accessing so much information—of melding memories and making creative leaps and associations—is by forming branching connections where neurons meet. Such electrochemical connections—the results of our experience, particularly when multiple senses are involved—actually create physical changes in our brain. The more “global” our learning (meaning the more we physically experience the lesson rather than just hearing about it) the more lasting and transformative that lesson invariably is.

Mindful tai chi practice thus builds awareness and sensitivity to our environment and helps us to notice where we have difficulties dealing with force (not enough spiraling), lose our balance easily (not enough root), or feel tension and fatigue (not enough relaxation). This last is especially important in tai chi, for all that is powerful and good in the art requires strong softness. Places we commonly hold tension include the neck, the low back, the jaw, the shoulders, and the hips. Many men also hold tension in a flat, pyramid-shaped chunk of muscle embedded deep in our gluteal region. This piriform muscle, which functions to open the hip joint laterally, is rarely used in our sedentary lifestyle and is tough to stretch because of its position among other large muscles in the rear end.

Over time, particularly in men of middle years, the piriform muscle may become foreshortened and tight, reducing the mobility of the hip joint and sometimes even contributing to the radiating pain known as sciatica. Since tai chi uses spiral motion to stretch the muscles in question, the internal focus of the practice can make us aware of this muscle, which many of us never even knew existed. Becoming aware of it, we lessen chronic pain by stretching and relaxing it. We also gain increased range of motion in the hips, which empowers our tai chi movements by improving the function of the Dantian.

There are many other examples of an aware mind leading to physical change. If we train our mind to notice particular problems without getting stuck on them, we can generate power like water, which, while yielding to the touch, can also cut rock, capsize oil tankers, and flood coastal cities. Moving with the grace and fluidity of water means using our stronger bits to support our weaker bits until they, too, can strengthen, while all the while protecting them from injury.

TOP-SECRET TAI CHI MOVEMENTS AND ENERGIES

Martial tai chi (technically, tai chi ch’uan) was conceived in the days before satellites and cruise missiles. Knowing how to fight was a key to survival in those early days, and a key to livelihood too. The Chen family, developers of the art we practice today, were highly regarded as bodyguards by both rulers and wealthy merchants. In addition to offering personal protection against assassins, Chen tai chi masters provided protection for caravans of goods traveling down bandit-infested roads.

Over time, it became clear that those who practiced tai chi were not only skilled soldiers and fighters but lived long and healthy lives. As tai chi’s health benefits became increasingly manifest, the Chen family guarded the art’s special knowledge and skills ever more closely, transmitting the information only to family members and most trusted disciples. During the years after Mao Zedong’s “Cultural Revolution,” all that changed. It was no longer socially acceptable to withhold secrets from others in this flagrant fashion. The holders of tai chi’s innermost secrets were faced with a choice—spill the beans or be sent to a “re-education” camps where people were frequently tortured to death.

The art of tai chi is all about finding creative solutions, and during that difficult time in Chinese history, the beleaguered tai chi masters found one. Outwardly, they tailored their practice to match official guidelines; in secret they persisted in practicing and teaching tai chi’s politically incorrect fighting core. Seeing themselves as guardians of information that had at one time been critical to the survival of their friends and families—and, they reasoned, might be again some time in the future—they obscured the true art any way they could on the outside while preserving it behind closed doors. It was this, the old masters must have concluded, or lose the art forever.

Spiral movement is one thing they were determined not to lose; yet ironically it is being lost anyway. This is because the martial core of the art, its original purpose, has been replaced by a greater interest in the art’s health benefits. While this makes the art a great blessing to a wider range of people than were previously even aware of its existence, it also threatens the integrity of the art. One of the marvelous things about tai chi movements and principles is that we can test them. The test may be friendly and cooperative, but it is still a test. If what we are doing does not work martially, it may be incorrect. If it is incorrect, it will not provide the maximal health benefit.

As popular practice moves farther and farther away from martial application, a tai chi gumbo has arisen. Some of the ingredients in this muddy soup were put into the original stockpot so as to purposely obfuscate closely held fighting techniques. More were added later as a result of misunderstanding the original material. Since spiral movement is one of the most important secrets of the art, a great deal of confusion has arisen over what it is, what it means, how to do it, and how to use it.

Over the years, I have variously seen the two-dimensional components of a spiral (directions of movement that create a three dimensional spiral when combined) called Pluck, Pull, Roll Back, Squeeze, Press, Spit, Float, Sink, Swallow, the “prow of the boat,” and more. While some advocates of these terms and interpretations may well have a deep understanding of the practice, such words (like the thirteen so-called intrinsic energies of tai chi—including receiving, neutralizing, enticing, issuing, borrowing, sinking) do little to reveal how to spiral.

Fortunately, there are four short words, each of which describes direction of movement relative to the center of a practitioner’s body, that together paint a clear, spiral picture. The first of these words is Peng (pronounced “pung”). To understand Peng, we might imagine holding the axle of a bicycle wheel between the fingers of two hands. The wheel is in a vertical plane (as it would be on the road) and the tire valve is next to our breastbone. To start the Peng movement we spin the wheel so that the tire valve goes down toward the ground and comes up again on the side of the wheel that is away from us. The first-down-and-then-up path of the valve is Peng.

As simple as it sounds, the direction of movement we call Peng has powerful ramifications to our tai chi practice. Because it starts close to you, goes down, and then comes up, Peng lifts the opponent. Deprived of his connection to the ground he has nothing to push off against. This weakens whatever attacks he can manage while trying not to fall down, rendering him virtually harmless. Peng is the most martially important of the four directions of movement precisely because it addresses a practitioner’s first and overarching concern—his safety. Please remember, we don’t have to care about using tai chi to fight to benefit from these explanations. It’s just that considering a movement’s original purpose makes it so much clearer.

If, while holding the bicycle wheel in our hands again, we spin it so that the valve—again starting by our breastbone and rotating in a vertical plane—goes up first and then down, we have described An (pronounced “ahn”), the second direction of movement. Where Peng is the bottom half of a vertical circle, An is the top half. Where Peng lifts an opponent and throws him away, An unbalances him, then drives him into the ground. We can use Peng to send a training partner on an enjoyable “flight”; the Internet is full of videos of tai chi players doing exactly this. An, by contrast, is a conversation stopper and no fun at all, as it leaves a partner on the ground at your feet.

Remember, Peng and An take place only in the vertical plane. To create a three-dimensional spiral we must add the horizontal plane to our movements, and for that we turn to the third direction of movement, Ji (pronounced “jee”). To understand Ji, let’s ditch our bicycle wheel in favor of another useful and common object—the rotating serving plate called the Lazy Susan. Set in the middle of a dinner table, this device allows us to pass food to one another easily. If the person across the table asks for the broccoli, all we have to do is spin the Lazy Susan and presto, broccoli delivered. Whenever the broccoli is circling away from us (either to the left or the right) in this horizontal plane, we call the direction of its movement Ji.

We have only one direction of movement left to explore, and that is Liu (pronounced “lyoo”). Having already wrapped our mind around the concept of circles and spirals, vertical and horizontal planes, this last one is easy. Liu describes the direction of motion of receiving the broccoli. When we ask someone to pass it to us on the Lazy Susan, whether it comes in from the left or comes in from the right, the direction of movement is Liu.

Each of these elementary directions describes half of a circle, and with its dimensional partner a full circle. Each pair of movements defines a geometric plane. Life, however, does not happen in two dimensions, but in three. We get those dimensions when we tilt the bike wheel to one side or the other, or when we lift one end of the Lazy Susan. Combining the horizontal and the vertical dimensions into myriad combinations, we are mixing up Peng, Liu, Ji, and An.

Those mixtures are spirals, and the tai chi player’s ability to execute them improves with time and practice. Like marbles turning to bearings, sand, and eventually water, the spirals that begin as simple movements of the arms come to involve not only our muscular core but also our tendons, ligaments, and bones. More, as our tai chi level improves, the spirals decrease in size while they increase in complexity, leading to better circulation of blood, lymph, and qi, as well as greater martial effectiveness.

Sophisticated spirals require relaxation, practice, and correct instruction. They also require a quiet mind able to develop the body by paying attention to the little cues that come in, and to respond to external forces with awareness, equanimity, and relaxation. Eventually, when the spirals become sufficiently small and subtle, they can no longer be seen. At this point they are said to be energies rather than mere mechanical devices, abiding in the body at rest but ready at any moment to manifest in response to an attacker’s force.

Noticing a connection between the way a silkworm produces silk and the spirals we have been discussing, masters of yore gave tai chi spiraling movement the name Chan Si Jin (pronounced “chan su djin”) or “Silk Reeling.” Today we recognize that silk reeling depends upon varying proportions of Peng, Liu, Ji, and An, and must pervade every movement we make in our practice. Unique to authentic, traditional tai chi, Silk Reeling demands training of both mind and body, and differentiates the art from any other.

EXPLORATION #1

Straight Line Vs. Spiral

MOVING IN A SPIRAL ENGAGES MUSCLES DIFFERENTLY THAN moving in a straight line. Using a dumbbell can help you feel this difference. The weight should be slightly challenging, but not uncomfortable. As before, choose a weight between 2 and 20 lbs, according to your strength and fitness level. Now stand with your feet shoulder-width apart and execute a straight curl, beginning with the weight at our side, palm forward, then lifting it up to your shoulder while keeping the elbow pointed down. Make sure to avoid turning the wrist. Return the weight to your side in the reverse movement. You could think of the pair of movements, the raising and lowering, as curling and uncurling. When you cannot manage even one more full curl, make note of how many curls you did and where you feel any muscle soreness or joint stiffness. Repeat the exercise using your other arm.

After a suitable rest period (how long depends upon your physical condition and your age, but ten minutes should be enough to allow any soreness to fade), curl the same dumbbell from the same starting position, except that instead of having your palm face forward, turn it around so your palm faces to the rear. The weight should follow the centerline of your body. Keep your elbow pointed down and rotate your forearm along its long axis, spiraling the weight as you lift it until it has turned as far as you can turn it. When you can’t do even one more curl, again note the number of curls you did and where you feel any muscle soreness or weakness. After another rest period, try increasing the weight by 25 percent in both exercises. Repeat the exercise on the other side. At some point you will notice that because you are recruiting more muscles, you can lift a heavier weight when you spiral than you can when you do a straight curl.

EXPLORATION #2

Spirals in Our Joints

IN THIS EXERCISE YOU WILL EXPERIENCE THE SPECIFIC EFFECT of spiraling on the shoulder, elbow, and wrist. Begin by standing with your feet shoulder-width apart, your arms by your sides, your shoulders down and relaxed, and your spine straight and head erect as if being held by a string from heaven. Now raise your left arm out to our side. Keeping your shoulder down and relaxed, rotate your elbow so that it points at the floor while keeping the palm facing downward. If you feel any sense of strain in your shoulder, check and make sure that your breastbone is dropped and your shoulder blades don’t protrude. Once you manage this technique with the left arm, repeat it with the right. Last, perform the movement with both arms simultaneously. This will be easier if you can keep your breastbone sunken inward, your lower back dropped, and your tailbone tucked under.

This may be the first time you’ve thought about the effect a seemingly isolated movement has on the rest of the body. Cultivating a new awareness of the integration of the body is the purpose of this exercise, as such integration is a critical aspect of physical practice. Using our structure to avoid injury and connect force with the ground is what allows us to contend with opponents bigger than we are. More, allowing force to pass through us is a skill that spares our feelings as well as our muscles and bones, thereby lessening the effects of insults, stress, turns of ill fortune, and the ravages of disease.

EXPLORATION #3

Spirals Contending with Force

THIS EXPLORATION REQUIRES THE ASSISTANCE OF ONE PARTNER and is even better with two. As before, pick people who are cooperative, have an easy disposition, and are interested in learning about tai chi body dynamics. Once again, begin with your feet shoulder-width apart. Extend your right arm out to the side again, and without performing the spiral ask your partner to take your hand and use your arm to bend your elbow. Even if you resist, your partner is likely able to succeed if he uses both hands. Do the same exercise on the other side.

Now try resisting using the spiral you practiced in the last exploration. Keep your shoulders down and relaxed, soften your chest, drop your lower back, extend your arm so that your palm and elbow are down. In addition to performing the physical spiral, put your mind into it. Imagine the currents of blood spiraling through your arm. Imagine the muscles turning under your skin. Let the spiral connect not only your palm and your shoulder, but your shoulder and your feet, passing like a wave all the way through your body. The difference in your strength should be apparent to both of you.

As a last step in this exploration, ask a second partner to help by working the other arm at the same time. Challenged by forces on both sides, you have to be doubly good at taking force to the ground to contend with this exercise. Notice what happens when you try. Do you feel your attention jumping from one arm to the other? Successfully resisting attacks on both your arms at the same time gives you a taste of the multitude of spirals tai chi training creates. It also cultivates a level of awareness that will eventually extend to the entire body.

WATERCOURSE

Taoist Masters and Tai Chi

Tai chi is based on philosophical Taoism, a way of looking at the world distinct from Taoist religion, a popular, pantheistic, animist movement with many sects that arose sometime after 100 C.E. (as much as 2,000 years later) largely as a social and political response to the rising influence of Buddhism in China. Philosophical Taoism is based on an understanding of an intelligence or force known as Tao (sometimes spelled Dao). The word Tao expresses a way or path. The Japanese version is Do, as in karate-do (the way of the empty hand) and bu-do (the way of war).

A number of celebrated Taoists authors have attempted to illuminate the Tao. An early one was King Wen of Zhou (one of the early states in the region before China existed as a nation). Around 1100 B.C.E. he allegedly penned the I-Ching (Book of Changes), a detailed description of the forces and processes of nature. Two others who lived perhaps 600 years later were Chuang Tzu, famous for penetrating Taoist stories, and Lieh Tzu, known for wise commentary.

The most famous Taoist author is the aforementioned semi-mythical figure named Lao Tzu, who has been so immortalized in myth and legend (some say he was born wise, white-haired, and bearded after gestating for 100 years in his mother’s womb) that his role in the popular imagination is more relevant and important than whether or not he was a real person. If he was, he may have worked as a fortuneteller to the king of the Eastern Zhou dynasty during the sixth century B.C.E.

Fortunetellers in those days didn’t play with crystal balls or cards. Nor did they make educated guesses based on subtle cues a customer unwittingly offered. Instead, they interpreted natural signs and forces. Having meditated for many years and cultivated great insight and sensitivity, a sage like Lao Tzu was able to predict both political cycles and the course of natural events such as storms and floods. His magnificent, maddening, and beautiful little book Tao Te Ching has been translated into more languages than any book save the Bible. It expresses the way the world works and the way the wise person lives in fewer than 5,000 brilliant, sometimes abstruse words. There may be no system of movement anywhere that is a purer expression of an underlying philosophy than tai chi is of Lao Tzu’s Taoist philosophy.

Unlike some Western concepts of God, the Tao is not separate from people or from any other aspect of nature. Voiceless and disembodied, it proceeds indifferently, like the ocean tide. All-inclusive, omnipresent, omnipotent, and transcendent, it is nonetheless ineffable and unknowable. Fish don’t sense the water in which they swim, and people—evolutionarily preoccupied by material survival and more recently psychosocially blinded by a culture of speed and greed—live behind a veil that won’t allow them to perceive the Tao. Lifting this veil requires coming solidly into our body and quieting our mind. Tai chi practice helps us do both. There is no inherent conflict whatsoever between the physical practice of tai chi and any belief system or religion. It is often true, however, that after many years devoted practitioners often come to see spiritual matters differently.