I am writing this blog post in the wake of the school shooting in Uvalde, Texas.  As I consider the tragedy of that event, I am reminded of a question that one of my students once asked me—“If you don’t stress the value of the effectiveness of t’ai chi ch’uan as a martial art, then what good is it?”  That is an excellent question, and every time I teach a t’ai chi class I weigh how much I should emphasize the physical damage a particular posture can inflict, as opposed to its innate value in developing health and balance, both mental and physical, in its practitioner.

T'ai chi ch’uan literally means “Supreme Ultimate Fist.”  It was given its name because at the time it was created fighters who employed its techniques and philosophy were considered unbeatable in the arena.  Indeed, one of the early teachers of this martial artform, Yang Luchan, was nicknamed “Yang The Invincible” because he never lost a fight.  But now, almost two centuries after Yang’s death, we are facing a different fighting world.  While bare-knuckle brawls still take place with dreary regularity, such encounters are increasingly concluding with one of the participants producing a firearm and shooting the other, often fatally.  As I noted in an earlier blog posting (see “IRL”), no martial artist stands a chance against a firearm unless the weapon and the person pointing it are within arm’s reach.  And so the question persists, since we can’t stop people from killing us with guns, why bother learning this form of self-defense?

T'ai chi ch’uan, because it is practiced slowly with purpose and softness, provides us with more than just a means of self-defense when we encounter danger.  Over time, it makes us sensitive to our surroundings, enables us to ignore distractions and focus on what is unfolding, encourages us to remain flexible in a rapidly changing situation, and provides us with the tools to avoid or escape confrontation. In short, t’ai chi ch’uan develops within us a presence of mind, which can be quite valuable in these turbulent times.  

Occasionally I am asked by my students, “Have you ever used t’ai chi ch’uan in a fight?”  To which I wryly answer, “I use it every day in the fight of my life—the one with myself.”  Aside from becoming aware and avoiding potential trouble, when stirred to anger I use my many years of practice and training to hold my tongue and avoid precipitous action.  This form of restraint is encapsulated in the expression we often use to characterize t’ai chi ch’uan, “Strength Through Softness.”

To some, the practice of t’ai chi ch’uan might seem archaic, a form of self-defense that is now wholly irrelevant, useless in a time when the weapons deployed have radically changed.  But I cherish it as a vestige of a more civilized time, and treasure it as a contemplative martial art for meeting this dramatically different and uncertain world with awareness, calm, and peace.