Tai Chi-riquí

Today's "365 Tao", a wonderful & inspirational (not to mention, incredibly successful) book by my Sifu, Deng Ming-Dao . . .

"Form"
At first, form is needed.
Then doubt and inhibition must be dispelled.
Eventually, form is celebrated with joy,
And expression becomes formless.

In all fields of endeavor, including spirituality, one must start out with certain structures, procedures, and forms. Even though one admires the seemingly effortless virtuosity of the masters, it will take some time before one can reach that level.
Take dance, for example. The novice student must drill constantly on the basics, isolating each step and movement with meticulous attention. Although the emphasis on structure may add to the beginner's inhibition, it must be done. Eventually, the dancer will learn to let go. The steps will have become a natural part of movement. Then dance can be celebrated joyously. Our now mature dancer may even dance in a way that seems so spontaneous, so magical, that it will seem formless -- or more precisely, the form will emerge with fluidity, grace, originality, and beauty.
The same is true of spirituality. At first, all the restrictions and practices seem quite constricting. Eventually, you reach a stage where meditation flows quite spontaneously. Every day is new, fresh, and full of wonderful insights. The beauty of the world then shows itself as it is, doubts fade away, and the banality of ordinary life is replaced by the awe and grandeur of the soul. This is true formlessness.

A new book by my Sifu . . .

WITHOUT LEAVING ONE’S DOOR

As I was walking through my neighborhood, I heard the sound of a radio before I could see its source. When I passed a house, I saw a man sitting in his wheelchair, staring out at the street while the radio played behind him.

I don’t know the man’s story, and it seemed too rude to inquire. He was elderly, and I assumed he had not chosen to sit in a wheelchair. Still, he wanted to look out at the world.

We don’t live only for ourselves. Or only for the screens that dominate our lives today. Or only for our work. Or only for our families. We live, and we live in this world. We need to look out at the world because doing so helps us see where we are and why we’re living.

Could we say that the man sitting there was engaged in a kind of meditation? If you accept that premise, then aren’t we all? Lǎozǐ said that we can know the whole world without leaving our door, and yet sometimes we do need to see what the world is like. That’s why travel is such a powerful metaphor in the Dàodéjīng. Whether we travel to see the world or sit watching it from our doorway, it places us exactly where we belong.

Chapter 47 of the Dàodéjīng reads:

Without leaving one’s door,
know all underneath heaven.
Without peeping through lattice windows,
see heaven’s Dào.
The farther one goes,
the less one knows.
Thus, sages know without traveling,
name without seeing,
and accomplish without expectations.

This passage refers to an inner kind of knowing. It does not argue against moving through the world. After all, chapter 35 speaks of the traveler. Rather, Lǎozǐ points to an inward way of knowing, one in which, like the man in the wheelchair, we are looking not at the street but into our souls and their place in an inner world just as infinite as the outer one.

You need both.

__________

This series shares introduces key thoughts and shares the process for my upcoming book:

The Complete Dàodéjīng
Lǎozǐ’s Classic on Wisdom and Harmony
A new translation with commentary
Deng Ming Dao
6 x 9 inches, hardcover, estimated 480 pages
Estimated publication date: November

From one of our excellent Students:
"I was standing in the gym with my friend Kathy Smith discussing single-leg balance. Being a super athlete and mom of an Olympian, she could stand endlessly on one leg. But as soon as she closed her eyes, all bets were off. Same for me. Eyes open, I can hold it for a minute. Eyes closed, 12 seconds is about the limit.
. . . . The reasons are real: muscle weakness in the stability chain, decades of shoes dulling sensation in our feet, and an over-reliance on vision that quietly rewires the brain over time. The great news is that balance is largely a brain thing, and the brain adapts faster than muscle builds.
. . . . Here's my pro tip: Practice in a progressively darker room. Hard enough to demand focus, not so hard as to be impossible. And then, try standing on one leg while brushing your teeth. Habit-stacking at its best."
Photo taken during a recent public demo at Funicular Circus, Volcán, Panamá.

Tai Chi Volcan !
ONE change for one class this week: Tues/martes & Thur/jueves at Los Brezos . . . 4:30 - 5:30 ONLY !

Since 2013, Tai Chi-riqúi has been sharing Yang Style Tai Chi classes in Davíd, Boquete & now . . .3 NEW CLASSES . . . in Volcán !

After I had just told one class the classic story of Yang learning from the Chen Family ! . . . . . "Yang Luchan (1799–1872) arrived in Beijing in the mid-nineteenth century, likely in the 1850s, to teach what would later become known as Yang-style Taijiquan. His arrival occurred at a pivotal historical moment, when the Qing Empire still appeared to retain imperial continuity but was already entering a phase of profound structural decline.
Although nineteenth-century Beijing was one of the largest cities in the world, it remained culturally and materially far removed from the industrialized capitals emerging contemporaneously in Europe. The city functioned within the framework of a late imperial order whose rhythms, institutions, and daily life had changed comparatively little over centuries.
To modern observers, the fact that Yang Luchan lived during the same century as railways, photography, and industrial manufacturing in the West can create a misleading impression of historical proximity. In reality, the social environment into which he introduced Taijiquan was overwhelmingly preindustrial. Beijing was a city of narrow alleys, guilds, courtyards, sedan chairs, bannermen, itinerant vendors, and military retainers. Transport relied primarily on animal or human labor, literacy remained limited outside educated classes, and traditional cosmology still shaped both medicine and social conduct. Even among elites, intellectual life was structured through classical Confucian education rather than modern scientific paradigms.
Yang Luchan’s importance lies not only in the technical transmission of Taijiquan but in the fact that he carried a highly specialized rural martial system into the political and cultural center of the Qing Empire. Having trained in Chen Village, in Henan province, he entered Beijing, where martial arts still possessed immediate practical value. Combat skills were not recreational pursuits but components of security culture within a society marked by weak policing, regional instability, caravan trade, militia organization, and periodic violence. Martial artists could find employment as bodyguards, military instructors, escorts, or retainers within aristocratic households.
According to traditional accounts, Yang gained prominence through challenge matches and demonstrations of exceptional skill among Manchu bannermen and elite circles. His teaching reportedly reached members of the Imperial Household and military officials, contributing to the spread of Taijiquan beyond its original regional context. This process reflected broader patterns within Qing society, where systems of patronage and personal reputation were more important than institutional certification or public sport structures.
The cultural appeal of Taijiquan in Beijing also stemmed from its ability to bridge martial function and classical intellectual aesthetics. Unlike systems associated purely with external force, Taijiquan could be articulated through concepts already familiar to educated Chinese elites: yin and yang theory, Daoist cosmology, breath regulation, and principles of internal cultivation. This gave the art unusual legitimacy among literati and officials who might otherwise have regarded martial practice as socially inferior.
Yet the Beijing of Yang Luchan’s era was also a city confronting the first shocks of modern geopolitical reality. The O***m Wars had already exposed the technological weakness of the Qing state relative to industrial powers. Foreign influence was expanding, internal rebellions were devastating large parts of the empire, and confidence in traditional institutions was beginning to fracture. Taijiquan therefore, developed during a historical period in which Chinese civilization still maintained its traditional cultural framework while increasingly losing military and economic dominance on the global stage.
This context is essential for understanding the later transformation of Taijiquan. In Yang Luchan’s lifetime, the art still belonged to the world of lineage transmission, practical combat, and imperial social hierarchy. By the early twentieth century, however, after the collapse of the Qing dynasty in 1911, Taijiquan would gradually be reinterpreted as part of a broader national project of cultural preservation and physical regeneration. The shift from private martial discipline to public cultural heritage mirrors China’s own transition from late imperial society into the unstable modern republic.
Thus, Yang Luchan’s arrival in Beijing should be understood not simply as the introduction of a martial art into the capital, but as a symbolic moment within the broader encounter between traditional Chinese civilization and the disruptive forces of modernity. Taijiquan emerged from a world that, despite existing chronologically close to the industrial West, remained socially and materially rooted in premodern structures. Its subsequent evolution reflects the extraordinary speed and violence with which China transformed during the century that followed."
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NEW CLASSES beginning soon in VOLCAN !