1918–2016
Professor Chi, the Taiji Path
Locally known as Professor Chi, he was a teacher I was introduced to by Taiwanese soldiers attending training on the U.S. Army MIM-23 Hawk Missile System in Huntsville, Alabama—home of Redstone Arsenal, one of the U.S. Army’s many training centers.
At our first meeting, he asked to see my Taiji. He was in his 60s at the time. After observing my movements, he remarked, “This is not Taiji, it’s slow Shaolin.”
I simply responded, “Okay.” And so, my real training with him began.
He told me that he had learned directly from Master Cheng Man Cheng. As one of the high school teachers of Cheng’s daughters in Taiwan, he had asked them if they could introduce him to their famous father. Master Cheng agreed to teach him—though not as a formal disciple.
Training Begins
He had me repeat only the opening movement. Each time I finished, he softly said, “Again.”
For an hour, I repeated the same movement. I didn’t know what he was looking for, but when he finally saw it, he gave a small nod. At the time, I didn’t understand what had changed.
Each week, the process continued. If my movement was correct, he would add more. If it was not, he simply said “again”—over and over, always with a slight smile.
At one point, out of frustration, I asked, “How do I know if it’s right or not?” He replied in his soft, Taiwanese-accented English: “After many years of practice, you will know.”
He smiled. I laughed. And I went back to practice. In time, I realized he was right. There is an old saying:
“Off by an inch, miss it by a thousand miles.”
We must be deeply mindful in practice. Through this process, I learned to evaluate, ask, and answer my own questions—a skill that would prove invaluable when I later traveled to China to study Taiji.
Training in China: A Different Approach
When I trained in China with Master Zhang, I asked questions through an interpreter to verify my understanding. Master Zhang encouraged questions, but he answered through the art itself—allowing students to feel the answer.
I quickly learned to be careful when asking—because the answers were always given hands-on. My Chinese was not strong enough to express complex ideas directly, so I had no choice but to watch, listen, and practice.
While others asked questions, I practiced.
One day, I asked Master Zhang’s first grandson a question about Taiji practice. He responded: “Your thinking is very Western. Taiji is not like this. It is not a step-by-step process, and it cannot be explained in this manner.”
His voice was gentle, his words relayed through another student who could translate.
While I agreed with him in principle, I also had my own thoughts: “That approach works when practice is expected to take many years and remains consistent. But even in China, many students may never truly understand Taiji—even after decades of practice.”
The Point of Practice
The goal is not simply to “get it.” It is said, “A teacher can lead one to the gate, it is up to the seeker to walk through on their own” We are building the foundation through practice. What matters is constructing it so well that, eventually, the practice itself begins to unfold naturally—passing through the gateless gate.
Of course, having a master-level teacher helps. But even then, there is no guarantee that one will find Taiji—or that Taiji will find them.
empty circle taiji 