Zhan Zhuang – the Only Shortcut in Tai Chi

 

Earlier I promised I’d share something about Zhan Zhuang – the “standing meditation” we briefly did at the end of tonight’s class.  What I promised was an essay that goes into detail about what it is, why it works and why we should do it.

Zhan Zhuang is a “supplemental” exercise to tai chi, much like our Qigong helps us limber up and get the blood going, and qin na (joint locking, which we’ll discuss much later) helps us make better use of the postures and transitions.  Briefly, Zhan Zhuang is a standing “exercise” which, if performed correctly, consistently and diligently, heightens awareness of our bodies and how they work.  This awareness then manifests itself when we practice tai chi, but also in everything we do throughout the day.  We move with greater coordination, balance becomes easier, we find out we have strength we didn’t know we had (because we didn’t know – or forgot – how to use it) and we are better able to address chronic aches and pains because we can sense them, localize them and work to alleviate them just by standing, sitting & moving differently.

Tai chi develops this same exact sense, but it takes a LONG time on its own – on the order of months or years.  Zhan Zhuang accelerates this development – a matter of a few weeks’ practice is enough to begin to grasp the “knack” of moving in a structurally-sound, balanced, rooted and coordinated fashion.  It really is the only shortcut in tai chi – everything else takes as long as it needs to take. 

That’s a pretty tall order, but this deceptively simple exercise delivers on these promises.  I wish I’d learned it earlier in my tai chi career.

 My all-too-brief introduction didn’t do the practice justice.  It merits much more discussion by people with more authoritative opinions – I’m just an end-user.

Here’s what I promised.  It’s an essay, rather long and a bit dry.  But this dry reading is necessary to get a full understanding of the practice and how to do it the right way.

“Zhan Zhuang – Foundation of Internal Martial Arts”
http://www.yiquan.org.uk/art-zz.html

Notice the website’s name.  You heard me mention Yiquan in class now and then.  It’s an “internal” martial art like tai chi, but it looks considerably different.  This martial art makes much greater use of Zhan Zhuang than tai chi does; it follows, therefore, that Yiquan players know more about it, spend more time at it and have brought it to a fair degree of refinement.   

Well, they have, and there are videos showing what they’ve come up with.  I alluded to one beginning exercise but it’ll help if you have videos to show you, for there are several.

Chapter 2: Zhan Zhuang
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZiIQqtajWzg&list=PLHYYEmZxUzQbmy3mmHFV911d5Szh6s-2a&index=11

This is the first video in a playlist of short videos on Zhan Zhuang.  I encourage you to watch them all and begin to work the methods described in them, starting in the order in which they’re presented.  They are geared toward Yiquan but they apply just as well to our art.  I strongly suggest watching these videos on a device that enables activating the “closed captioning” with a big enough screen to follow along, even if you don’t have artillery ears like I do.  The presenter’s English is very good (much better than my Chinese), but his accent is VERY strong.

Chapter 1 is mostly about Yiquan itself.  It’s up to you whether you want to watch it, but the first video – the introduction – does a good job of explaining “yi” or “intent,” which is as important in tai chi as it is in yiquan.

It’s not necessary to follow his program exactly.  He suggests spending increasingly long times in Zhan Zhuang postures, up to an hour.  This is unnecessary, especially if you practice tai chi at home.  It’s like I said before about meditation – start short, only a few minutes at a time, progressively building up to longer periods.  It isn’t necessary to go for longer than about 15 or 20 minutes in total in order to unlock Zhan Zhuang’s benefits, but to get the most out of them, we should practice tai chi in addition.  Tai chi is sometimes called “moving meditation,” so having a “moving meditation” and a “standing meditation” seems to create a nice balance.

More on Qi and Jin

In a previous post, I said the Chinese make a distinction between qi and jin.  A basic understanding of the differences between the two is important when learning the form.

Qi, as we’ve discussed before, is a word with a cluster of meanings all relating to energy of some sort, such as breath, air, physical energy, “vital force” and things like that.  It’s important to point out that each of these meanings is distinct from one another, and based on the context.  In other words, qi doesn’t mean all these things at the same time.  For example, when we’re doing qigong, the teacher may say “take the qi in deeply.”  In this case, she or he just means air and they’re referring to abdominal breathing – filling the lungs “from the bottom up.”  The teacher may say “sink the qi to the dantien.”  This is a sort of shorthand term for “relaxing and settling in such a way that the lower part of your body feels solid and rooted, while the upper part feels light and agile; and your center of gravity is a few inches below your navel.”  It’s just easier to just say “sink the qi to the dantien.”

In time, with focused practice in tai chi and with supportive exercises like qigong and zhan zhuang, we can achieve a fuller sense of this qi within us, and in time be able to put it to use in greater coordination, better balance and better health.  But the important thing to remember is it’s inside us – it doesn’t leave the body.  I said before and it bears repeating – qi is not “The Force.”  We can’t shoot “qi balls” like in anime, and we can’t stop Emperor Palpatine’s finger-lightning with our magic qi force field.  We can’t use it to levitate or fly, no matter what you saw in wuxia movies (I’m a sucker for movies like “Hero” and “House of Flying Daggers”).

Jin is a different concept.  In “The Complete Taiji Dao,” Master Zhang Yun defines jin as “trained force.”  It’s as good a definition as any, but it needs fleshed out.  In tai chi, the word jin is almost never used on its own.  It’s normally modified as to what type of jin is being discussed. 

For example, fa-jin or fajin is “explosive energy,” such as is done in kicks or powerful throws – most tai chi moves can be expressed with fajin, but it’s pointless (and often counterproductive) for students to try to practice it until they gain a fuller understanding and command of their internal energy and feeling.  It’s an efficient way of moving, as opposed to using brute-force, and this takes practice and study. 

Peng jin is “warding-off energy” and it’s a difficult concept to communicate.  It’s a sort of internal solidity that’s based upon our physical structure and not our muscular strength, easier to demonstrate than to describe.    I’ve demonstrated it in class and it’s one of the things we’ve spent a great deal of time on - long-time students remember working with the bicycle-wheel training tool in this regard.

I’ve already explained some of the “eight energies” in the “Jargon” post.  Many of them don’t need that much explaining.  Zhou jin, for example, is an elbow strike, and that’s about all there is to say of it.

One of the most important “trained forces” is ting jin.  We’ll be spending a LOT of time on ting jin in the future.  Ting jin translates literally to “listening energy” but it’s not strictly limited to hearing.  It is rather a very heightened focus on sensory input, combined with interpreting the meaning of the input.  If that sounds like nonsense, an example may help illustrate…

If you’ve ever danced with a partner – the sort of dancing you see on “Dancing With The Stars” where you and your partner are physically touching – you may at times have felt as though you knew what your partner intended to do next, just from the sense you got from your hands, his or her hands, how they shift their weight, subtle changes in facial expression and so on.  That feeling – that “listening by touch” – is ting jin.  It’s part of what makes dancing with a partner – particularly one whom you’re fond of – so exhilarating and fun. 

We use ting jin when we interact with a partner in Push Hands exercises.  Push Hands is meant to develop ting jin because we’re in physical contact with our partner and moving while in contact.  One of the objectives of Push Hands is to develop the ability to discern our partner’s intention, as well as whether he or she is balanced or off-balance.  Of course, our partner is trying to discern the same things about us!

It’s an important aspect of tai chi.  It’s a challenging and engaging exercise, and one which I’ll begin introducing as soon as we all feel safe and comfortable in doing so.  I can promise you that being attentive in Push Hands will accelerate your growth as a tai chi player.

I just can’t promise you that it’s anywhere near as romantic as dancing the tango.

Relaxation and What We Mean by It

 

Years ago I wrote a blog post about relaxation in tai chi and qigong.  I must have had a really good head-of-steam on for the topic because it’s much longer than it needs to be.  I’ve talked about relaxation in class but it’s one of those things we need to either feel or compare to a feeling we recognize in order to understand it.

You’ve heard me say that Grandmaster Yang Jun describes “relaxed” in the tai chi context as “midway between ‘stiff’ and ‘limp’;” and while this is entirely correct, it’s annoyingly brief.  You’ve also heard me say that “relaxed” in a tai chi or qigong context is not the way most people think of relaxing – that is, flumped on the couch like a pile of mashed potatoes, watching something mindless on the television.  Tai chi and qigong “relaxation” is different, and you’re probably familiar with the feeling. 

Think back to the last time you did anything you’re pretty good at, without some sort of anxiety nagging at you.  It could be anything – for me it’s of course tai chi.  For my mom, it was crochet.  For you it might be gardening or cooking a meal you know well, or playing a musical instrument or singing or ping-pong or golf; something that engages your mind and is somewhat active, but is well within your capabilities and you know it.  That lively, engaged feeling of quiet confidence, that feeling of not being pressured outside your capabilities, of just doing and being "present in the moment."

Next time you’re involved in that activity – whatever it is – take stock of how you feel.  It may only take a moment or you may choose, if the activity allows it, to take a longer time to inventory how parts of you feel.  You may notice you’re not tensed-up anywhere that shouldn’t be.  You may notice that the worried, stressed feeling you had earlier is set aside.  You may notice you move more gracefully because none of the movements in the activity are unfamiliar or hurried.  You may notice that you’ve forgot, for a few moments, that nagging pain you’re used to enduring.  I tend to forget, when I’m doing tai chi or qigong, that I have really annoying tinnitus.  It doesn’t go away – I’m just no longer conscious of it.

That feeling is what “relaxed” in tai chi and qigong ought to feel like.

The benefit of this “relaxed” feeling is not only in the immediate sensation of it, though this is important.  Just as important is the fact that it’s at this point when the mind and body are ready to perform tai chi at a deeper, more “internal” level.  We begin, at this point, to cultivate the mastery of our internal energy (our qi), put it to practical use and discover abilities we never knew we had – 

They’ve been there all along, lying dormant and waiting for us to activate them.

People who are just starting out usually won’t feel it while they’re still learning the postures and transitions.  There’s an unavoidable tension in the uncertainty of where one’s hands and feet go, an unfamiliarity with the stances, a mild discomfort with the not-yet-conditioned muscles.  There's no getting around it, but it diminishes with time and practice.  Most people, however, find that after a session they feel refreshed and a bit invigorated, like we do after a brief, brisk walk on a pleasant day.  Taking stock of how we feel and move after class is important as well, especially in the beginning.  That feeling is real, and we should not ignore it in anticipation of some future magical, transcendent sensation.  

 

No matter how much you practice, "The Quickening" is not a part of tai chi. 
Sorry.

“Relaxation” is better experienced than described, but it’s a feeling we’re all familiar with.  By being conscious of this feeling with other activities, when it arrives for us in our tai chi practice, we’ll know it when it finally shows up.

 

 

Qigong, Tai Chi and Therapy – Similarities and Differences

 

Some time ago, my friend Annette Evans, author of the “On Her Own”blog and website, referred to activities like going to the doctor, undertaking therapy and taking time for oneself as “radical self-care” and “the ultimate form of self-defense, defending yourself against your most intimate potential enemy: the demons in your own mind and the gremlins in your own body.”  It’s a good description and I completely agree with it. 

One of the more common narratives I’ve heard from new students as to why they decide to attend a tai chi or qigong class is because they feel crummy and run-down, and they realized that the situation is not going to get better unless they start doing something about it.  It’s only just now that I realize what a big leap this may be for some people, and that I should appreciate the statement more than merely accept it.  Whatever my own attitude toward their decisions, I’m glad students show up and grateful that they’re letting me share the arts and all their potential with them.

Since I’ve never asked them, I can’t know what expectations my students bring into class with them.  I refer to what we know about things like physical therapy, workouts, competitive sports, dance lessons, other martial arts and so on, and how tai chi and qigong compare and contrast with them.  Like the former, tai chi and qigong are physical activities that require us to learn new skills and pay closer attention to our bodies.  I make a big deal in class about paying attention to our bodies and what they tell us, but the truth is every physical activity gives us feedback we should be paying attention to if we want to get any good at them.  And good trainers will (or ought to) make a point of directing their students’ attention to it.

The principal difference, in my mind, between tai chi/qigong and all the other activities I listed is in the nature of their goals.  Speaking generally, physical therapy, workouts, competitive sports and martial arts tend to have definable goals and – often – timelines by which these goals are anticipated to be met.  The goals of physical therapy are determined by a caregiver and the timeline depends either on the opinion of the physical therapist or an insurance company.  Sports have competitions; the goal is to win (or place the best one can), and the timeline is determined by the date of the competition.  Martial arts such as karate or jiujitsu have belts or “kyu/dan” rankings, where each level is gained either by the successful demonstration of certain tasks or, in the case of high-ranking masters, longevity and seniority.  Workouts are less fixed to time, but as a rule a goal is set (“Lose X pounds”/”Reach X% body fat”/“Deadlift X kg”/“Run 3 miles in X time” etc.) and reset or maintained as each goal is achieved.

The goals of tai chi and qigong are not so strictly defined.  There are steps to mastery in tai chi, for example, and they typically follow in order (memorizing the postures/transitions, understanding the energy/mass transfer, interacting with others, adapting the form itself to the individual); but while “mastery” is the goal, there are no belts and there is no timeline.  There is a generalized admonition to practice frequently & diligently, and a generalized goal of being a bit better today than you were yesterday.  But the nature of the growth or improvement is not specified, nor can it be – it’s up to each player to discover and learn in their own way and at their own pace.

Qigong is closest to physical therapy in that both are concerned with improvement and healing.  But physical therapy tends to have a defined goal and deadline.  And once you reach this goal (or the number of visits your insurance will pay for), you’re “done.”  Patients are encouraged to continue healthy activities after therapy, but it’s been my experience that those who actually do so are rare, and those who go over-and-above what they did in therapy are unicorns.  Qigong, by contrast, has no timeline.  This is an advantage and a disadvantage at the same time.  The advantage is that no expectation of measured performance is placed on the qigong player, no shame or sense of failure if a goal is not met by a certain time, and no incentive to push oneself farther or harder than is prudent – in other words, there’s no pressure. 

The disadvantage is that there’s no pressure.  Some people respond best to having a spelled-out goal or a requirement in front of them, and a deadline by which it must be met.  Since tai chi and qigong are so open-ended, it takes a great deal of self-direction, self-discipline and self-dedication to persevere, particularly when other pressures are jockeying for attention (“everything is ASAP”).  The hope is that the player will discover the benefits of both activities, early enough in their progress that continuing and persevering is more desirable than turning away and busying about with all the stuff that got us all crummy-and-run-down feeling (the stuff we need the “radical self-care” to recover from) in the first place.  But each person is different and I as a teacher can’t make that decision for the student.