Risa Aratyr's Open Salon Blog

The Legend of Guang Ping Yang

Thu, 29 Apr 2010 01:04:41 -0400

^{[Part- 3 of a 3- Part series; click here to read Part-1; click here to read Part-2]}

Though Webster’s does define “history” as a chronological record of a series of significant events… often including an explanation of their causes, it cites this as a secondary meaning. The popular desk reference’s preferred definition of “history” is tale, story.

The idea of history as a catalogue of sequential events that operates within the strictures of cause-and-effect is convenient, but facile. Events occur within layered matrices of temporal, logistical and cultural context. Events are perceived through an array of senses that form different constellations in different individuals, are easily colored, easily fooled and conditioned by the unpredictable interaction of genetics and experience. The sensory perception of events is interpreted by analytical faculties inevitably compromised by emotional factors and predisposed to patterns of reasoning largely determined by the influences of early childhood; language, education, family dynamics and values, religious upbringing, peer relationships and community interface. To top it off, recorded chronicles of events – even those that aspire to the highest standards of objectivity – are subject to both immediate and retroactive editing, manipulation and outright censorship by socio-political bodies and aesthetic and ethical authorities.

When an historical sequence of events is especially suspect (due to poor documentation, an evident bias on the part of the historian, overtly doctored data or a prevalence of unsupportable facts), the dubious tale is often labeled a “myth.” Though this term may be somewhat applicable in its sense of an unfounded or false notion; a person or thing having only an imaginary or unverified existence; fictitious – again, these are secondary or even tertiary meanings. A "myth" proper is defined as a usually traditional story of ostensibly historical events that serves to unfold part of the world view of a people or explain a practice, belief, or natural phenomenon. Myths express profound cultural truths, not precise historical data. A people’s mythology is not their history; historical fabrications and errata are not the stuff of myth.

“Legend” is also entangled in semantic confusion. Commonly misused as a synonym for “myth,” the word is actually closer in meaning to “history.” Webster’s number-1 choice for the entry is a story coming down from the past; esp. : one popularly regarded as historical although not verifiable.

Myths occur in a time before memory. Histories are judged on the accuracy of their timelines and authenticity of their sources. Legends are history born of memory – tales anchored in real events, real people and real time that nevertheless float carelessly adrift of exact dates and precise details. A legend is the annually-toasted miracle goal that won the school the state championship back in 1935 (or was it 1936?). It’s the adventures of Robin Hood or Wong Fei-Hung. It’s the spine-tingler Uncle Nathan swears is true because he heard it from Great-Grandma's own lips – how her hair turned white at 17, when she saw her father’s ghost in the attic window. Whether a pivotal moment etched into communal consciousness, biographical anecdotes embellished by countless repetition or a cherished bit of family lore, at the heart of every legend is a seed of truth that has grown in the telling.

Yang Lu-Chan taught his two sons – and only his sons -- the true art of Tai Chi Ch’uan. The younger son, Yang Chien-Hou, was possessed of a gentle nature and kind to his students, and so was the more popular teacher. His elder brother, Yang Pan-Hou, was stern and fierce, and his teaching methods were cruel… but his kung fu was better.

When compelled to royal service by Imperial command, Yang Pan-Hou obeyed the Emperor’s will -- but his obedience was only a semblance of submission. By day and in public, he taught the Emperor’s soldiers and palace nobility “Tai Chi Ch’uan for Manchurians” – a modified version of the Yang Family martial art. By night and in secret, in a secluded garden behind high walls and locked doors, he practiced true Tai Chi Ch’uan with select members of his own clan.

Passing by the Royal Stables one day, Master Yang was alarmed to discover a young stable-boy practicing the secret form he had taken such pains to hide from prying eyes. When confronted, the boy – Wang Jiao-Yu – confessed he had been spying on the clandestine nightly sessions. On learning that Wang was not Manchu (the non-native ruling class) but Han (native Chinese) and that he originally hailed from Yang’s home prefecture of Guang Ping, the Master asked the stable-boy if he truly wished to study Yang Family kung fu. Wang immediately dropped to his knees and demonstrated his earnest desire by bowing before Yang 100 times, each time striking his forehead on the hard stone paving.

When he finally rose, Yang advised the boy that if he sincerely wished to learn the authentic art of Tai Chi Ch’uan, he must first learn to bend over and touch his chin to his toe. He gave Wang 100 days in which to attain the skill. Wang achieved the difficult stretch before the time limit had elapsed, and so became one of Yang Pan-Hou’s three disciples.

The echoing theme of eager young lads spying on other families’ martial arts sessions either casts doubt on the story or clinches it. Some may find the similarities to the Yang Lu-Chan legend too close for comfort. Recalling that, at the time, martial art systems were vigilantly-guarded family secrets, others may imagine the “spy-and-try” method of acquiring kung fu training was standard for any aspiring student who was not of the master’s blood-line.

Another element of the story some deem questionable is the “secret form.” Myriad traditions boast a secret form or two, but in the open-instruction atmosphere of 21st century martial arts, these claims are frequently dismissed as colorful invention designed to boost class enrollment. Such skepticism is understandable, but in this case, ill-founded. When the more flimsy details of the Guang Ping legend are discarded and the tale stripped down to its bare historical bones, the existence of not one, but several secret Yang Style forms seems almost certain.

The Emperor did, indeed, summon one or more Yang Family masters to the Forbidden City. The master(s) so summoned did, in fact, teach at least some resident military personnel and palace nobility an intentionally-altered style of Tai Chi Ch’uan. Factoring in the diversity of interpretation (though disciples took pride in maintaining their masters' forms exactly as transmitted, strict standardization of martial arts systems did not occur until the mid-20th century, when mandated by the Cultural Revolution), there is every reason to assume five closely-related, but distinct Yang forms were in circulation during the second half of the 19th century: Yang Lu-Chan’s system he passed on to his sons; his sons’ individual versions of their father’s form; the form the Yang masters taught their kin and Han-born students; the highly-modified form they taught the Imperial Guard and Emperor’s relations.

Under the sepia light of retrospect, out-moded customs look ridiculous, old-fashioned ideas appear irrational, and the perils confronting legendary heroes hardly seem credible. As a story of events long past, the secret-garden episode offers a happy-ending guarantee. In the moment, defying the Emperor by teaching his soldiers and relatives a modified version of Tai Chi Ch’uan was a traitorous act that, if discovered, would not only cost the duplicitous master his head, but bring retribution on his entire clan, wiping it from the face of the earth. The creation of Beijing Style not only drove the true teachings underground, it meant that the greatest Tai Chi Ch'uan masters of the day could no longer teach or perform their art publicly without revealing that the form they had taught their Imperial students was not the genuine article.

Knowing the dire consequences that would ensue, should word of their nightly activities reach the ears of the Emperor, the dangerous game of sneaking into a midnight garden in the heart of Manchu territory surely took its toll on Yang Family morale. Given that not all Yang progeny would have been viable candidates to receive the true teachings (due to a lack of potential or discretion, unsuitable disposition, or gender (as girls married into other clans, they were considered untrustworthy repositories for family secrets)), the unexpected appearance of an exceptionally sincere and talented hometown boy may well have been viewed as fortuitous. Nor is it beyond imagining that Yang Lu-Chan saw something of himself in the young stable-boy and, recalling his own history, approved his son’s decision to accept Wang Jiao-Yu as an “inner-door” disciple and heir to the true mysteries of Tai Chi Ch’uan.

In an escapade worthy of Hong Kong cinema, the tale picks up again as a sheriff and his nine deputies chase a notorious thief and certified kung fu genius – Robber Li aka Chi-Li – into a dead-end alley. Though the solid-stone Lu-Tsu temple blocking the far end of the alley would stop any other thief in his tracks, the sherrif knew there was little chance it would daunt Robber Li.

Robber Li had powerful kung fu. He could fly over twenty-foot canals and leap from the cobbled streets to the tiled rooftops laden with loot to make his get-away. Never had anyone been able to catch him. But when the sheriff and his men barreled down the alley after the elusive thief, they found him prostrate on the ground, knocked out cold. Mystified, they looked to see who had done this wonderful deed. The alley boasted only one other occupant, a wizened old tea seller, sitting on the ancient steps of the temple.

Naturally, the sheriff questioned him, but the old man denied any knowledge of what had happened to Robber Li. Nevertheless and despite his protestations, the night’s events soon set tongues in town wagging about the aged tea seller and his remarkable kung fu skills. Every day, throngs of people gathered at Lu-Tsu temple to ogle the old man; the curious, hoping to see the master in action, and the eager, begging him for instruction. Insisting he was no more than he appeared to be – an old man selling tea to support himself – he refused all suppliants.

As the weeks went by, the curious lost interest, the eager lost patience and the crowds dispersed… except for one particularly persistent fellow, who took to sleeping during the day so he could spy on the tea seller at night. After many fruitless watches, his patience was rewarded. One morning, in the gray hour before the dawn, he succeeded in catching the old man at practice. Though the tea seller’s movements were gentle as clouds drifting across the sky, the power projecting from him made trees bend and their leaves rustle as if buffeted by a mighty wind.

By mid-day, the whole town was buzzing with the news: the old tea seller had indeed defeated Robber Li with his astonishing kung fu. The crowds returned in full force. No longer able to deny it, the old master acknowledged that he was Wang Jiao-Yu, Yang Pan-Hou’s erstwhile disciple, and eventually accepted four disciples of his own.

A nefarious bandit with super-human strength and agility, a kung fu master disguised by age and poverty, magical powers unveiled (yet again) by a young insomniac with a predilection for spying… It’s too fantastic for history, too contemporary for myth, too archetypal for legend – surely this is the stuff of fairy tale!

At first glance, this Robber Li business does seem to be a narrative of adventures with fantasy elements and supernatural characters – a fairy story, by definition. Suspending disbelief long enough to consult Webster’s, however, reveals that fairy stories/folktales are characteristically anonymous, timeless and placeless – un-authored tales that happened long ago and far away. Those who tell the tale of ‘Robber Li and the Tea Seller’ are eager to cite its source; they either heard it from Kuo Lien-Ying, one of Wang Jiao-Yu’s four disciples, or from Master Kuo’s students. Nor do the Robber-Li events happen once upon a time in the fairyland of Xuanpu. The tale is set on a legendary time-scale (about 50 years after Yang Pan-Hou and Wang Jiao-Yu parted ways) and at a site anyone can visit (Lu-Tsu temple in the Ho Ping-Men sector of Beijing).

Moreover, though the story lacks the check-able source required of an historical tale (the police blotter confirming the existence of Robber Li and the circumstances of his arrest, for example), its direct, traceable line of oral transmission eliminates it from fairy-story contention. If a tale begins with a time-marker (“When my mother was a little girl…”), or points an ephemeral finger over a nearby hill, (“There was an old man had a farm in western Telemark…”) or ends with a six-degrees-of-separation connection to the characters, (“I heard this tale from old Seamus, whose grand-dad it was saw the seal-woman on Falcarragh strand…”) – if it evokes a sense of memory and suggests an immediate connection between the storyteller and the people in the story – it is the stuff of legend.

As legends age, their dates blur, their place-names fade from the maps and the implied personal link to the story is lost. Old legends teeter on the brink, awaiting redemption or refutation. The former puts them in the history books; the latter relegates them to fairy tale anthologies. Robin Hood epitomizes this legendary limbo. With a good 900 years separating the storytellers who were chronologically and geographically close to the events from, say, Ridley Scott and his 2010 cinematic take on the tale, Robin Hood would have de-volved to a fairy tale character long ago, had scholars not established that he was an historical personage. Likewise, he would long ago have secured a place in the academic texts had those scholars been able to definitively establish his identity. His reality does not redeem him from the realm of folklore; the fanciful nature of his adventures does not refute his historical existence. Robin Hood remains quintessentially legend: a story coming down from the past… popularly regarded as historical although not verifiable.

Kuo Lien-Ying was a renowned fighter with superb kung fu. His opponent was a spry 112 year-old, a remarkably preserved old man, but surely not the martial equal of 30-something year-old Kuo. Yet it was the venerable master of Lu-Tsu temple won the match, and won it soundly. Amazed at the ease with which he had been defeated, Kuo humbly bowed to the victor and begged the old man to accept him as a student. The old man declined. Kuo bowed again, but instead of departing, sat down on the temple’s ancient steps and waited out the day, hoping Master Wang Jiao-Yu would change his mind.

The next day, Kuo returned to the temple with the same request. Again he was denied. Again he retired to the temple steps, and again Wang Jiao-Yu ignored him. The next day was the same, and the next and the next. For six long months, Kuo went every day to the temple to beg Master Wang to teach him Tai Chi Ch’uan. Every day Wang refused to do so, and Kuo would retire to the temple steps to keep his quiet vigil.

At the end of the six months, Kuo’s demonstration of patience and perseverance finally gained the master’s attention. Convinced of Kuo’s sincerity, devotion and respect, Wang issued him the “chin-to-toe” challenge. Kuo attained the difficult skill well within the 100-day time limit. After passing the master’s other tests of skill and character, Kuo Lien-Ying became one of Wang Jiao-Yu’s four disciples.

When their revered teacher died at age 121, those four students alone in the world knew the original Yang Family martial art that had earned Yang Lu-Chan the epithet "The Unsurpassed" and won his son Yang Pan-Hou such renown in the days before the Emperor demanded his service. The venerable Wang always called this art “Guang Ping Yang Tai Chi Ch’uan” to honor its original masters – all men of Guang Ping – and to distinguish it from "Beijing Style Tai Chi Ch'uan," the bastardized form Yang Pan-Hou had taught the Manchurian troops and nobility.

Yang Pan-Hou kept Guang Ping Yang Tai Chi Ch’uan hidden from the Emperor. Wang Jiao-Yu secretly preserved the form through the fall of Ch’ing dynasty and the rise of the Chinese National government. Wang's four students discreetly maintained the Guang Ping Yang legacy until Mao Tse-Tung went to war against China’s traditional arts and enacted policies eliminating most kung fu schools, forms and styles and standardizing the rest.

Two of Wang Jiao-Yu’s disciples – Masters Kuo Lien-Ying and Wang Zhi-Qian – fled to Taiwan where they opened schools and taught the art as it been taught to them. Master Wang’s other two disciples did not escape China, and on the mainland, Guang Ping Yang Tai Chi Ch’uan did not survive.

^{Bing Gong - "Single Whip Down"}

Except for the numbers, which are naturally suspect, this part of the legend is far less magical than the Robber Li section and far easier to authenticate. Granted, Master Wang may have been as young as 94 years of age when he accepted Kuo Lien-Ying as a student. He may not have lived 121 years, but “only” to 112. Perhaps Kuo only waited outside the temple for three months, practicing chin-to-toe all the while, but as the six-month figure was the one Kuo himself quoted when telling the tale, it would be presumptuous to second-guess him.

The masters' respective number of disciples should not be doubted. That Yang Pan-Hou had only three disciples and Wang Jiao-Yu only four partly was due to the rampant secrecy that so permeated the time and the culture. Individual character may have had an influence, as well. Yang Pan-Hou’s reputedly harsher teaching methods may well have deterred potential students from seeking him out as a teacher.

It is also entirely possible that the true teachings are so philosophically complex and physically demanding, the art itself limits the size of the “inner door” disciple population.

The modern health-and-exercise versions of Tai Chi are appropriate for all ages and fitness levels, but to excel at the true spiritual-martial art of Tai Chi Ch'uan requires exceptional physical fitness, intense mental focus, a shining spirit and a practical, working knowledge of Qi. Masters who teach advanced practices, it has been suggested, do not care to waste time with pupils who simply cannot "get" it, and accept only those with sufficient skills to absorb the teachings.

^{Roger Leo - "Chin to Toe"}

Were this a genuine legend, of course, it would contain an "in the ballpark" time marker, a reference to a nearby and recognizable locale, and a personal connection, linking the storyteller to the story. Far be it for the tale of Guang Ping Yang to disappoint.

In 1965, Kuo Lien-Ying emigrated from Taiwan to San Francisco and began teaching martial arts in Chinatown’s Portsmouth Square. That’s where I met him, in 1972. That’s where I learned Guang Ping Yang Tai Chi Ch’uan. And that’s where I heard this story.

More Tai Chi Tales

Tue, 30 Mar 2010 13:03:32 -0400

^{[Part-2 of a 3-Part series; click}^here^{to read Part-1, "Tai Chi Tales"]}

Yang Lu-Chan had quite the reputation as a martial artist, and deliberately so. His two sons and only true disciples, Yang Pan-Hou and Yang Chien-Hou, were also renowned for their kung fu skills. Pan-Hou particularly was a “chip off the old block” in terms of his hot temper, his predilection for sparring and his fame as a fighter.

In a land where top martial artists were idolized like rock stars, news of a champion's novel and superbly powerful system of combat travelled fast and far. When the tidings reached the ears of the Emperor, he summoned the foremost master of the new art to Beijing to instruct his Imperial Guard in the system. Most sources identify Yang Lu-Chan as the master in question. Others name Yang Pan-Hou, still others claim Yang Chien-Hou was chosen to train the Imperial troops. It is quite possible and, in fact, more than likely that all three arrived in Beijing together, along with assorted members of their clan and household; that each took responsibility for instructing a separate segment of the militia and/or royal family; that the Yang-Family constellation in residence in Beijing at any given time varied with the seasons, the circumstances at the old homestead and the exigencies of state.

In the care of one Yang or another, Tai Chi Ch’uan came to the Imperial City, where it was taught to the Emperor’s Guards and members of the Imperial Family. Among the guards was one Wu Quan-Yu; Wu taught the form to his son, and from this stream, Wu Style emerged. Beyond Beijing, a union of Yang Style and Zhao Bao subsequently produced both the Wu Shi and Sun Styles. According to the International Tai Chi Chuan Association (ITCCA), Original Yang Style was secretly preserved “in-house” for four generations – passed down from Yang Lu-Chan to Yang Chien-Hou, to Yang Cheng-Fu, to Yang Shou-Chung – at which point Shou-Chung began teaching it publicly, along with fifth generation disciple, Chu King Hung.

Or so the story goes. But it is only part of the story.

In the centuries before the Emperor tapped the Yang family for their martial art expertise, China was a land ravaged by political upheaval. When rebels attacked the Imperial City in 1644, the Ming Emperor hanged himself in response, effectively ending the Ming dynasty. Seizing the moment, the Manchu – a powerful northern dynasty – marched to Beijing, ostensibly to assist the beleaguered Ming. The Manchu's true agenda was to seat their seven year-old ruler on the throne. Their success in this endeavor marked the beginning of the Ch’ing or Manchu dynasty – the last imperial dynasty of China.

There was no love lost between the new aristocracy (Manchu) and native Chinese (Han). Over time, this enmity grew and festered. The Emperor was Manchurian; the Yangs were Han. When the Emperor appointed Master Yang (elder or junior) martial arts instructor to his Manchurian troops, it was an appointment Yang was loath to accept, but could not refuse, on pain of death. Already well versed in the various permutations of secrecy, the Yangs were politically motivated to keep their system “all in the family,” as well. In his seminal work, Tai Chi Classics, Waysun Liao comments:

Unwilling to teach the Manchus, Master Yang deliberately modified the T’ai Chi meditation forms, converting them into a kind of slow-moving, outer exercise and completely ignoring the inner philosophy and mental discipline which is the key to T’ai Chi.... Master Yang knew that if the royal family learned of his unwillingness to teach them, and of his modifications, the Emperor would take retribution for this offense and appease his anger by murdering not only him, but his entire family. Since Master Yang felt he could trust no one except his own sons, it was to them and to no one else that he taught the genuine art of T’ai Chi.

While all essentially concur with Liao’s story-line, those who trace their Tai Chi Ch’uan heritage through the elder of Lu-Chan’s two sons insist it was Yang Pan-Hou posted to Beijing as martial arts instructor, and he who modified the form. “Reluctant to divulge his family's martial arts ‘secrets’ to the occupying forces,” explains JoAnn Gee- (Laoshi) Schoon, “Yang Pan-Hou deliberately omitted those elements which comprised the powerful, effective fighting techniques.” Master Donald Rubbo elaborates:

The Manchurians were aristocrats and were not inclined to the more strenuous exercises, so Yang Pan-Hou adapted his father's Guang Ping form to be more delicate and less martial, and taught them a middle-to-small frame form. This the Yang Tai Chi style that has come to be known as the Beijing Yang Style.

Whichever Yang or Yangs altered the form, there is no doubt but that the art was stripped of its martial power before it was taught to the Emperor’s guards and Manchu elite. Once the rich-and-famous Imperial Family embraced the practice, its popularity soared among the Chinese leisure classes. It retained this popularity until the end of the Ch’ing dynasty; when the dynasty fell, the displaced nobility carried their altered forms with them out of China and taught them to others, claiming – and believing – that their style was the true art of Tai Chi, for had they not learned it the Yang masters themselves or from their devoted disciples?

In his search for a teacher, Dutch Tai Chi player Frits van der Putten found the current diversity of style and tangled lines of inheritance so confusing, he created a graphic to help sort out the various Yang systems (viewable as either a table or a tree at http://www.taichi-uden.nl/diversity.html). Van der Putten’s findings, which he published with the caveat, “This data is far from complete…” lists no less than 15 separate Yang traditions identified by 25+ different labels, and each with its own passel of “direct-line” teachers. Most of these styles claim to be or have access to “inner door” teachings and/or the secret form or forms that are Yang Lu-Chan’s true legacy.

All claims aside, to the trained and untrained eye alike, the Yang forms most people practice are full of beauty, empty of threat. This is not to say the moves cannot be used effectively in combat. The energies of the Eight Gates (ward-off, roll-back, press, push, pull, split, elbow strike, shoulder strike) and Five Steps or Directions (advance, retreat, (look) left, (look) right, center (equilibrium)) are all present, albeit in such gentle guises, only the martially-sophisticated observer can recognize them as aggressive or defensive actions. But are these patently subtle moves the same Yang Lu-Chan used to overcome all opponents? Could any of these forms be the signature style of the greatest martial artist of an age? Or rather, is the effective application of the preeminient Yang styles in combat more a demonstration of masterful QiGong (the direction of internal life-force through focused intention) than proof of the inherent martial supremacy of the system?

The ITCCA (Original Yang Style) makes no bones about it:

The movements can be tested in chi-tests and not in combat application, because although T'ai Chi Ch'uan works extremely well in self defence once it is mastered, its roots lie in inner principles, which Taoist masters used when they created T'ai Chi Ch'uan some 1000 years ago. This is why a T'ai Chi Ch'uan master does not excel primarily in exceptional combat skills, rather in amazing demonstrations of inner energy…

Synchronous with, and perhaps in acknowledgement of the loss of the system’s martial aspect, the martial aspect of its name has also waned. Today, the appelation Tai Chi Ch’uan (“Supreme Ultimate Fist” or “Grand Ultimate Boxing”) is rarely used; the art is more commonly referred to by the abbreviated Tai Chi.

Some Yang Style players may protest that as Tai Chi is an internal art, its external appearance is not a valid measure of its martial efficacy and that the style’s languid charm is deliberate, a manifestation of the Taoist principle that “the soft overcomes the hard.” All well and good, but even a cursory comparison of the traditional Chen and, say, the Beijing Yang forms reveals that though both are internal, Taoist-based arts, the Chen Style boasts unmistakably martial punches, stamps, kicks and jumps that the Yang Style is completely lacking.

Tai Chi Ch'uan's martial art/healing art dichotomy is as old as the practice itself and entirely in keeping with the system’s origins. The internal arts focus on the cultivation of life-energy; whether that energy is then used to eliminate an opponent or an ailment is a matter of choice.

Less in keeping with its origins and history is its regrettable slide from matchless martial art to New Age health fad, a plunge precipitated by the precept that the system is not intrinsically martial. Most modern-day masters readily concede that if Tai Chi Ch'uan was once a martial art, it is now primarily – even exclusively – a healing art that enhances health and fitness by improving balance, flexibility and coordination, stimulating circulation, building strength and calming the heart-mind.

True enough, the practice does provide terrific health benefits -- but so do virtually all exercise systems. Myriad studies have proven that physical activity is beneficial for body, mind and spirit, regardless of the nature of the activity or its level of difficulty. While performing Tai Chi for health purposes will certainly reward practitioners with the desired results, executing the movements with no awareness or understanding of their martial applications is, at best, good QiGong. True Tai Chi Ch’uan does not exist independent of its martial context.

_{Part-2 of a 3-Part series; click}_here_{to read Part-3, "The Legend of Guang Ping Yang"}

Tai Chi Tales

Fri, 26 Mar 2010 03:03:58 -0400

Chang San-Feng was meditating on Wu-Tang Mountain one day, when he observed a snake and a crane engaged in mortal combat. Every time the snake struck, the crane would gracefully evade; every time the crane attacked, the snake would quickly coil. Inspired by their contest, the monk created the “Thirteen Movements” (or “Thirteen Postures” or “Thirteen Stances”) that later became Tai Chi Ch'uan.

Or so the story goes.

Whether Chang San-Feng existed at all is a matter of scholarly debate. Chronicles of the Ming dynasty indicate that he did, from 1391 to 1459 A.D. Other records credit him with founding the Wu-Tang Temple almost two centuries earlier; still others make him a man of a much later time. The four-hundred year span of possibility, the difficulties implicit in verifying the authorship of “his” writings, plus the folktale quality of Tai Chi Ch'uan's origin story have led some to conclude Chang San-Feng is a literary construct.

Though Master Chang and the snake-crane battle may be apocryphal, the connection between the Thirteen Movements and Taoism is beyond dispute. The four fundamental Taoist principles are implicit in the legend: observed and observer comprise a single system [Oneness]; the contest is one of opposing strategies (attack/defend, advance/retreat, strike/yield) [Dynamic Balance]; the combatants employ these strategies in an alternating pattern [Cyclical Growth]; the use of one strategy triggers the use of its opposite [Harmonious Action]. These principles are also basic to the modern forms of the practice. Tai Chi Ch'uan is ubiquitously described as “meditation in movement” or “moving meditation.” Both phrases are unnecessarily nebulous. Tai Chi Ch'uan is Taoism in motion, the kinesthetic Way.

The Taoist connection gives the Thirteen Movements respectably long ideological roots reaching back to the 6th century B.C. Even so, as philosophy-based, health-enhancing exercise systems go, it is a relatively late addition to China’s ancient and extensive roster. It may or may not have been conceived in the mind of an individual monk; almost certainly it was born on Wu-Tang Mountain; unquestionably its existence was fostered by the pervasive spiritual-martial arts ethos of its native land.

The principles of Taoism indelibly etched upon the story are clear evidence of Tai Chi Ch'uan’s philosophic antecedents. Its earliest precursor in terms of form is likely China’s first martial art, Wu-chi chih hsi, “Movements of the Five Creatures,” aka “Five Animal Games,” aka "Five Animal Frolics,"

a fighting system devised by the physician Hua-Tuo during the Three Kingdoms period (220 – 265 A.D.) and still practiced today. Hua-Tuo advocated regular physical and mental exercise for a long and healthy life. Wu-chi chih hsi imitates the movements of five animals – tiger, deer, bear, ape and birds – to encourage good digestion, stimulate circulation and work the joints of the body.

By all accounts, it was Wang Chung-Yueh who eventually elaborated on Chang San-Feng’s writings, theories and practices (or the writings, theories and practices attributed to Chang San-Feng) and linked the original thirteen stances in continuous sequences, creating a form akin to contemporary Tai Chi Ch'uan. Wang’s student, Chiang Fa, brought this form to Henan and taught it to the Chen family. Or, in an alternate reality, the Chens were already practicing Tai Chi Ch'uan, and Chiang Fa acquired the form from them. A third possibility is that Chiang Fa discovered the Chens practicing their family martial art, Pao Chui (“Cannon Pounding”), and integrated elements of the Chen system into the revamped Thirteen Movements. However that moment in time actually played out, Chen Style Tai Chi Ch'uan is today universally regarded as the oldest existing form of the art.

Henan is an east-central province. The Southern School (not to be confused with modern-day Southern-Style or “soft” Tai Chi) was founded when Chiang Fa and his kung fu brother Chen Chou-T’ung quarreled, and the latter left the Henan fold. The Southern School flowered only briefly; all present-day schools and styles are descendents of the Northern School and the Chen family legacy.

Tai Chi Ch'uan practitioners who insist their style alone is authentic and disparage other traditions as degradations of the “true” art are perhaps unaware that of Chiang Fa’s most notable disciples – 1st generation students who learned the system directly from him – none went on to teach it as it had been taught to them. Chen You-Heng branched off into “New Frame Style.” Chen Yau-Pun established the “New School” that later produced Zhao Bao and Hu Lei styles. Chen Chang-Hsing trained in Chiang Fa’s Thirteen Movements and his family’s Pao Chui systems, perfected their fusion, and taught it as “Old Frame Style.”

That Tai Chi Ch'uan’s pre-history is rife with stylistic divergence runs contrary to modern efforts to standardize the form (some of them very successful), and, arguably, contrary to the nature of art itself. True art is not immutable, but an energetic interplay of defined structure and indefinable spirit, of prescribed techniques and the unbridled soul. Renee Fleming, Maria Callas and Leontyne Price may perform the same operatic repertoire, but if their renditions of “Un Bel Di” all sounded exactly alike, who would bother to listen? What makes these sopranos worth hearing is the unique and inimitable quality of their individual artistic expression.

Putting a personal stamp on the Thirteen Movements was a privilege initially reserved for Chen family members. The martial arts of the day were not only family traditions, but closely guarded family secrets. (How it came to pass that the quarrel between Chen Chou-T’ung and Chiang Fa ended in the former departing for southern climes and the latter becoming the undisputed martial arts master of the Chen clan must be a fine tale for the telling.)

When the Chens refused to accept Yang Lu-Chan (1799 – 1872) of Hebei Province, Guang Ping Prefecture, Yongnian County as a student, therefore, it surely came as no surprise. The surprise was that Yang did not immediately return home. Some sources have him staying on as a servant in the Chen household, others make the less likely claim that despite the emphatic rejection, Yang elected to hang about the Chen village “without any rancor or disappointment.” All sources agree that during his stay, Yang managed to spy on the Chen training sessions and practiced the family art on his own. In time, Yang’s vastly-improved skills aroused suspicion. Presumably to teach him a lesson, Chen Chang-Hsing (“Old Frame Style”) insisted he spar with his students. When Yang defeated them all, Master Chen was so impressed, he took Yang as a disciple and taught him his martial arts secrets. Like his teachers before him, Yang mastered the form, then made it his own.

The information that Chen taught Yang his secrets is separate from and as significant as the fact that he taught Yang the form. While being born into a given family automatically qualified a child for training in the family trade, craft or art, it did not automatically make a child privy to the family’s most precious trade, craft or artistic secrets. The proverbial “secret move” the master refuses to teach even his best students – though those students be his sons – is no fabrication. Patriarchs of 19th century China were no fonder of being shown-up by their progeny than are the dads of today.

This penchant for intra-familial, as well as extra-familial secrecy is germane to tracing a form’s lineage. With masters hoarding their “killer” moves and sharing the deepest mysteries of their art with none but a select few, practices must and do degrade over time. That a system has been passed down through several generations of masters all of whom share the same family name is no guarantee that it has retained the core teachings that once made it a formidable art.

When Yang Lu-Chan returned to Guang Ping and began giving instruction, his students did not get the “full monty.” Yang shared all his secrets only with his two sons, Pan-Hou and Chien-Hou. “Shared” is perhaps too benign a term. Yang drilled his boys in martial arts with such brutality, the elder attempted to escape by running away and the younger repeatedly tried to hang himself. The contemporary perception of Tai Chi Ch'uan as a gentle practice for gentle people is belied by evidence that at least some of its first masters were fierce, uncompromising men who esteemed the art for the martial prowess it conferred. Yang Lu-Chan never refused a challenge. Indeed, in his determination to prove his martial superiority, he sought out opponents against whom he could test his skills and ruthlessly denied the reticent among them the option of declining the match. Yang’s skills were unbeatable. His spotless record of victories earned him the sobriquet “Yang the Unsurpassed” and earned his martial art system the respect reflected in its name: Tai Chi Ch'uan – “Supreme Ultimate Fist.”

^{Part-1 of a 3-Part series; click here to read Part-2, "More Tai Chi Tales"}

Yi and Qi

Tue, 11 Aug 2009 03:08:30 -0400

At the core of every artistic effort lies the essential and essentially indefinable interplay of intention and energy, of Yi and Qi. No matter the art (knitting, writing, love-making, acting, cooking, archery), the manifestation of its practice (the sweater, novel, pleasure, performance, feast, bulls-eye) is realized through the creative process of integrating will and action.

The vigorous relationship between Yi and Qi is impossible to quantify in empirical terms, but aesthetically evident in all the arts, and especially in those that are physical in nature, that are movement-based. The aching lyricism of a premier danseur’s soaring tour jetes, a basketball champion’s gravity-mocking hang-time, Bruce Lee’s renowned One-Inch Punch – intuitively we recognize that exceptional art and athleticism cannot be achieved by technique or spirit alone, but only by their union. No matter what skill, craft, sport or art we practice, when the substance of our practice is to engage in the dynamic interaction of Yi and Qi, it is excellent practice that enriches and enlightens. It is real kung fu.

So. The merit of our practice lies in the intention that guides it, not in the style or form we practice, not in its lineage, not in our master’s skill or the abilities of our instructors, not in their methods of instruction, and certainly not in the color of our belt, our rank, or our level of proficiency.

I wanted to get that out there on its own, because one of these days I’ll have something to say about another dynamic balance – yin and yang – and an especially elegant expression of that balance in the Guangping Yang Tai Chi form. But in order to discuss the particulars, I’ll need to tell the tale of Guangping Yang Tai Chi Ch’uan. And once we start talking about our particular forms, styles and schools, once we start getting into our traditions' lineages and histories, a certain amount of cross-system comparison is inevitable – and comparisons inevitably lead to conflict.

The prevalence of school, style, form and personal rivalries in martial arts films isn’t a cinematic trope. It’s a reflection of reality, past and present. Until the middle of the last century, rivalries were settled by combat. Arguments over which form, style, skill, master or student was the “best” were resolved by pitting them against each other – and may the mightiest kung fu win.

Let me pause and relish that phrase, “… the mightiest kung fu.” Something is always lost in translation, and translating from a broadly ideographic, conceptual language (Chinese) to a grammatical, left-brain language (English) only compounds the loss. At the risk of belaboring a point I’ve made many times before, kung fu is a term widely and erroneously understood to be synonymous with “martial arts.” I suspect this misconception is as common in China as it is in the States. Here or there, when people say, “His kung fu is powerful,” they are usually lauding the effectiveness of a fighter’s strikes or the precision of a competitor’s form. In fact, kung fu is an umbrella-term for the entire martial arts package; an artist’s energy, intention, dedication, concentration and spirit, the arts, styles, forms, movements, skills, weapons and techniques s/he has learned or mastered, their lineages, histories and origins and how well the artist executes them in practice and performance. Whatever our intended meaning when we say, “the mightiest kung fu,” the actual meaning of the phrase acknowledges that the outcome of a bout has more to do with the integrity of a fighter’s practice than the inherent superiority of his/her fighting style. The skillful application of intention and energy, of Yi and Qi, is the key to victory.

If a competitive edge is a valid empirical measure of good kung fu – and I believe it is – then the proverbial and ubiquitous rivalries reflect a basic truth about the martial arts; all forms, styles and masters are not created equal. Equality can be found in our ability to take advantage of or overcome the circumstances of our training, but not in the training itself. Different practices were developed to achieve different results, for one thing. For another, arts evolve over time and distance, and martial artists put their individual stamps on the ones they master. Some environments are more conducive to learning than others, some arts better suited to specific body types or temperaments. Our progress is swiftest when our master’s teaching style matches our style of learning. We benefit more by studying the least of the arts from a great teacher than studying the greatest of arts from one less gifted.

When it comes to forms, the modifying influences listed above have enhanced a few and degraded others. If that statement offends, remember; I am not impugning anyone’s kung fu. Intention and energy can turn even the emptiest form into a powerful practice. With proper intention and energy, we could become kung fu masters by practicing the “Hokey-Pokey.” Still, few would argue that the “Hokey-Pokey” will, in and of itself, awaken the Qi or train the Yi. That’s not what the movements were designed to accomplish.

Some forms are powerful in and of themselves. How rewarding our efforts when every movement we practice hones our Yi and cultivates our Qi. How profound our experience when the core of our art is the creative integration of will and action. How excellent our kung fu, when we play Guangping Yang Tai Chi Ch’uan.

Standing in the Stream

Sat, 4 Jul 2009 02:07:35 -0400

I spent most of last month Standing in the Stream.

Searching on-line for an image to illustrate, I came across this descriptive guide to the practice:

Imagine that you are standing in a stream, with the current flowing toward you. Two balls float on the surface. You remain motionless, steadying them in the flowing water, with your fingers parallel to the surface of the stream. Concentrate on holding the balls steady as they try to float away with the current. Your body sinks down so that your feet reach down into the soil of the stream bed and take root.

I snagged the image and text above from a post called “Playing With Balls on Running Water,” an apt and evocative title that captures the essence of the practice as described above. Both are posted here with the kind permission of the author, Walt McAllister – a poetic and profoundly insightful master/ seeker/ artist/ philosopher. As this was the only graphic of the stance I could find on the web, it brought me directly to Walt’s blog. In true “6-Degrees” style, the connection turned out to be a re-connection; Walt was also a Portsmouth Square habitué and student of Sifu Kuo Lien Ying back in the day. Small world. And in a lovely stroke of writer-esque irony, while I’ve grandly labeled my bit-of-froth blog “Stringing Pearls: reflections on qi,” Walt’s astonishingly deep and thoroughly-researched reflections on Qi, clearly born of a lifetime passion for and dedication to the energetic arts, are posted under the modest heading “Froth From Walt.” (http://frothfromwalt.blogspot.com/)

That said – and with all due respect to the world’s QiGong masters, with all due honor to the beauty and power of the practice in question, and in full recognition of the benefits “Playing With Balls on Running Water” must bring the practitioner – that’s not what I’ve been doing. I’ve simply been Standing in the Stream.

Guess I’ve been doing it “wrong.” Fair cop… but is doing it “right” the right goal? Or is the goal excellent, playful practice that brings about its own perfection? Is the worthier goal kung fu?

We give serious lip service to the superiority of learning through discovery, rather than by rote. We acknowledge that we learn more from our mistakes than from our successes. We ask that teachers give students the tools to learn, not the answers, because we want our kids to find the answers for themselves. We revel in the “ah-HAH!” experience – that glorious thrill that suffuses our being when we really get something, like fireworks going off in the pleasure centers of our brains – and recognize that our “ah-HAH!”s are intimately, inextricably linked to figuring stuff out on our own. And yet….

Yet, born and bred in a competitive, goal-oriented, fast-lane, consumer society, we are conditioned to crave and expect at least some measure of instant gratification. Aloud we insist, “Life is a journey, not a destination.” Tacitly we judge ourselves and others by where we are, not how we got here; by quantitative standards of individual progress, not qualitative appreciation of an individual’s process. We recite affirmations to help us accept where we are in the moment, but with our self-esteem and status bound up in the number of our achievements and the rate of speed with which we attain them, we can’t resist assessing the “here-and-now” on the basis of whether we’re getting far enough fast enough. If we’re not – if our tallies come up short – we conclude there must be something wrong with our path, our guides, or our method of travel and chuck them all to seek a truer path, wiser guides, and a smoother ride. For most, even stepping onto the path of enlightenment doesn’t mean stepping off the merry-go-round and giving up the brass-ring mentality. Our world boasts a few fully-realized souls who know how not to encumber their goals with ego attachments. Aspiring to swell their sparse ranks may be laudable, but only if our aspirations hinge on the journey. As soon as “enlightenment” becomes a coveted goal, it boomerangs us back to the very value judgments we wish to expunge, turning relative degrees of enlightenment into a criterion of excellence and making our actions and everyone else’s ripe for enlightened/unenlightened comparisons.

If I seem to be saying that we shouldn’t set goals for ourselves – I’m not. I’m saying we often make goal choices blithely, habitually and without conscious intent, conforming to cultural patterns and pressures so ingrained in us, we’re unaware of their influence. I’m saying that unconsciously applying similar goal-paradigms to all the learning we do may, at times, prevent us from learning much at all. Our desire for corroborative evidence of our successes goads us into trading the lengthy, laborious and uncertain possibilities of trial-and-error, intuitive, self-guided education for finite courses with certified instructors who stick to their syllabi, warn us which parts of the lecture are going to be on the test, and give us that all-important “final” grade – glorious proof that we’ve met our goal, or damning proof that we’ve failed to.

Within academia, the system sort of makes sense (though it doesn’t necessarily make for good learning). While the Ivory Tower doesn’t deny us “ah-HAH!” experiences, they are not its primary purpose. The Tower’s degree and credential programs exist to award specific students official documents attesting that said students have successfully jumped through specific hoops. With both the institutions and their attendees in cahoots about goals and prizes, neither dare suffer free-form classes. Equivalency is required, if the paper prizes are to be worth anything: across the board, homogeneous curricula is presented in analogous style within comparable time increments using similar textbooks and resources. Before a course can be added to the schedule, its parameters and learning outcomes must be described and posted and the instructor’s syllabus must clearly outline the exact topics, readings, activities and homework for each session, note dates and times for all quizzes and tests, and explicitly define the grading rubric. Except in very rare cases and very alternative educational institutions, a teacher who deviates from this plan will be castigated by the students and garner perilously poor supervisorial assessments.

Beyond the Ivory Tower, and especially in the areas of artistic or spiritual education and training, there’s little rationale for employing such stringent protocols. We apply them, anyway. The academic model so well suits our ladder-of-success notion of how learning works, we’re skeptical of instruction that doesn’t conform to it. Some believe the lack of hoops and prizes means there’s nothing of value to learn; others may doubt their ability to negotiate a learning path that’s utterly lacking familiar hoops-and-prizes landmarks. We want words, descriptions, explanations. We require ideas, patterns and sequences we can wrap our left brains around, even when we’re attempting to learn a right-brain skill. We don’t want to wander lost, searching our souls for answers. We want practical, easy-to-follow directions to the heart of the mystery. Caught between the reality of their students' time-deprived, activity-cramped lifestyles and the necessity of attracting and retaining sufficient numbers of them to make a living, modern-day masters cater to our desires and yield to our expectations, drawing up the requested maps, replete with legends, keys and glossaries. Hurray. Everybody gets an “A”.

We had been standing in Wu Ji awhile, the posture of primordial emptiness and limitless potential. My attention rested in my lower dan tien; my intention was a quiet mind and senses fully open. Sifu’s arms drifted gently away from his body and to his sides until they floated between heaven and earth, about waist high, palms toward the earth. Drinking in the lesson, I shifted my intention to my dan tien and allowed peng – rising energy – to lift my arms in harmony with his. Opening fully to Sifu’s direct transmission, I let his stance inform my own, cell by cell and without conscious effort. Opening fully to my physical, emotional and energetic sensations, I let the new stance inform my awareness and teach me about itself.

There are as many stances as there are Hindu deities. Some require major kinesthetic re-education to master, some we were born knowing. This stance… this one my heart-mind-body recognized at once. Flowing waters had taught me this stance when I was just a little girl and I’d practiced it all my life. Stepping across a rill, wading into a river, walking into the ocean, our arms naturally drift from our bodies and out to our sides as the water deepens and rises around us. It’s partly about balance; the bottom of the stream-bed, river-bed, sea-bed is invisible to our eyes, but energetically perceptible through our palms and fingertips. We steady ourselves on shifting sands or rolling rocks by centering our dan tiens in a fuller circle of qi and rooting in the wet earth through our arms – and we do so instinctively.

Whether we’re striding out so we can dive in and play like otters, or strolling out to stand in the flow like a boulder and bask in our aqua-centric view of the world, there is a point where we stop – especially if the water is cold. Our legs can take it, but chill waters are a shock to the thin skin over our bellies, ribs, and organs. Naturally, inevitably, we pause with our lower halves submerged, our upper bodies in the air, and the dividing line between water and sky exactly at our dan tiens. Standing in Wu Ji, in Zhan Zhuang, in Crane or Cat or Upholding Heaven, our heads are always anchored in the sky, our feet in the earth, and our dan tiens are always at our center. But standing in an ocean or river, standing in the stream with everything below the waist in one element and everything above it in another, our experience of the world as a balance of yin & yang isn’t limited to the energetic and gravitational. Our experience is brilliantly, blissfully tactile.

I spent most of June standing in the stream. I didn’t bring any beach balls with me, didn’t play with channeling my energy into a dynamic resistance to the current. I stood still in the flow and let it rush between my legs, around my hips, under my arms, through my fingers – accepting all the stream carried to me as the days stretched and the light peaked and the mid-summer tide rose and fell. Broken branches from the wind-torn trees bobbed by or scraped along me, some made slick by the racing waters, some made slimy by their sojourns in stagnant eddies and pools. Twigs stripped of their summer green streaked through the heart of the current like tiny Viking longboats. Breeze-blown blossoms danced awhile, then drank too deeply and sank to the depths. Bedraggled seeds spun downstream, snagging the minnow’s unblinking gaze. Shivers of silver brushed against my legs. Silt swept over my toes. Yellow leaves caught on my fingers, clinging, even in death. I’ve been Standing in the Stream while the moon waxed and the moon waned, while babes laughed and friends cried, while dear ones died and lost cousins returned, and the rivers ran down to the sea.