This is a cool collaborative 3D art project, with each artist starting with one of a handful of bare bones tai chi motion capture datasets and crafting the character, environment, action, and more. Of the 3600ish submissions 100 of them are presented tied together in this supercut:
Really fun to see the variety and unusual takes on the same idea/theme!
In life, when something (usually unexpected) pops up, there’s two ways we can proceed: we can react, or we can respond.
They may sound the same, but they are different. A reaction is an automatic impulse that usually is aimed directly back at the incoming force. It, at best, resets the situation. At worse, our automatic flailing further mires us or even might make things worse.
To respond, however, is to take what’s coming in and move it where we want it. We listen, we engage, we reflect, we direct, and we bring it to a place of resolution. In responding we have both agency and flexibility.
Perhaps the best way I got to experience this difference – and thus learn to distinguish them for myself – was through Sifu, especially through our push hands exercises. With an incoming force, to react is to resist and push back. Again, at best this might stop the incoming force, resetting the situation and allowing things to start anew. More often than that, however, reacting causes us to stiffen or to overreach, leaving us spent, off balance, and open for an exploit. And against someone with good sensitivity (ie, someone who is trained in responding), our reactive energy can even be used against us.
But when we learn to respond, an incoming force is not a crisis. It is just an incoming force. We can feel it, sense it, know its direction, know its intent, recognize what could be done, and then guide it to a place of safety – or beyond, harnessing it for our advantage.
No surprise, so too it goes in our lives. With mindfulness and practice* we gain access to the beauty of responding. A world of equanimity opens up, and with it the ability to create outcomes that empower and enliven ourselves, those around us, and the community at large.
* Especially in dealing with and doing the work to remove our “buttons” and worries and concerns and etc that have us freak out or get defensive, things that very much almost force us to react forcibly…
In the last few years we got to train under Sifu an amusing scene would often play itself out. One of us would ask him a question – usually about how we were trying to embody one of the concepts or apply one of the fundamentals – and he would respond with: “Well….. yes/no.”
It happened often enough it became a running joke among us.
BUT! Within that humour lies some fundamental truth(s). (No surprise, of course, given that it was Sifu…)
Take just about anything that’s deep and related and foundational, and as you explore it or use it or apply it or see it arise around you, very little is exclusive or binary. Gradients exist everywhere. And elements that seem like opposites don’t always act in opposition to each other. They may instead be differing sides of the same coin that work best when both are brought to bear in appropriate amounts.
Putting it a slightly different way, yes/no is the principal behind Yin and Yang and its notion of dualism where even seemingly contrasting energies not only are interconnected but they often contain (and, again, work best when they do engage) a little bit of the other in it. In addition, there is a flow, with energies shifting and waxing and waning in differing amounts to respond to what’s appropriate in the moment. When there is an unbalance, that’s when things fall apart.*
Which is something that we tested and experienced time and time again in our tai chi training! Apply a particular concept or tension at 100%, and we would collapse. But shift it a bit, even dialing it a little back by 10%, and then we would be strong.** At our core, 60/40 was often the sweet spot, though at times 70/30 was a better split. And we could be 90% at the point of application while maintaining balance within our core at 60/40, doubling the yin and yang to not only between differing concepts, but also between our active extremities and our rooted and originating core.
And while it manifests itself quite viscerally in the physical testing of our tai chi training, the concept of yes/no holds sway far beyond into all aspects of our individual lives to that of our families and communities and beyond.
Best of all, for me at least, I’m lucky that whenever I notice I’m beginning to stray from the middle path and set myself to wonder about it, I get to be guided back with Sifu’s voice echoing in my head with a delightful and amused “Well… yes/no.”
* To which, this yes/no idea also connects quite well to another of my favourite fundamental concepts, that of the Middle Path (from within the Buddhist tradition).
** Which is related to the concept of “Straight but not Straight” or as I called it “Shaolin Straight”.
One of the things that we learn* in our kung fu training is this:
Not everything that feels powerful actually is.
Just because we put in a lot of effort, or engage a lot of tension, or become super fierce, or stoke the fires in our belly… and just because it feels so much like we should be able to resist a mountain and even be able to split it in two… despite all that… when actually test the move we collapse like a house of cards, with nary an ounce of power there.
And then we get angry! And we double down on it! AAAAARRRRGH! Which only ever serves to make it even worse. **
Fortunately, we also (eventually) learn to not force the point*** and to let it go, delve deeper, and adjust our form such that, remarkably and suddenly, it not only works but it works without almost any effort at all.
Like so many things in kung fu, so too does this apply with our ways of being and in the way we live our lives:
Not every emotion or attitude that, again, feels strong is actually strong.
As we interact with the many areas of our lives, we have so many ingrained and automatic responses and views and ways of being, and we often go forth thinking that they are strong, that they are necessary, that this is the way, and that anger and harshness and hostility and posturing and fierceness and downright hostility to the world and everything around it is the way to make our way and, more importantly, to get what we want. We think they make us strong. And wow does it ever feel strong! And right!
And yet, it isn’t. And we aren’t. All that acerbic-ness ends up being unproductive. We expend a lot of effort, and we may move the ball a smidge, but it takes a supreme toll on ourselves and others, and the results rarely stick.
Like with kung fu, we can let it be for a moment,**** set it aside, and bring to it a new level of mindfulness. Within that clearing we can adjust and create a new context, choosing other ways of being that will bring forth what we want with velocity and without effort.
And that there is true power.
* And re-learn and re-discover over and over and over and over again…
** Which, like the above, we do it again and again even though we know it never works…
*** Also fortunately we learn to laugh at our stubborn silliness….
**** And laugh!
***** One corollary to all this is that when we see someone who is all fire and aggression and sees the world through metaphors of attack and destruction and always seems upset by everything, it’s the same thing: It is not strength, they are not powerful people, and they are not paragons to laud. They are all bluster and performance, with little to show for it, no peace of mind, and continually having a lousy experience of life to boot.
While our group classes and gatherings have been completely kaiboshed during these unusual times, I’ve continued to Kung Fu it up in my backyard (including weapons and all). It has been a pleasantly productive time, with growth and new avenues opening to explore and with a wonderful handful of delicious insights.
But there’s an interesting thing about insights:
You never know when they will show up.
You can’t plan for them. You can’t predict them. And you can’t force them. All you can do is go out, practice, practice, and practice some more.
And, of course, that means to practice with intent. Be the force that is pulling for it. Create the conditions for it to show up. Lay the foundation and do the digging and look inside and be mindful and keep looking for what’s missing, what’s next, make the adjustment… and then put it into practice, practice, and practice some more.
Until, without any preamble, there it is. Something new arises! An insight, an epiphany, a shift, a transformation. It might be accompanied with an “Ohhhh,” or a “That’s interesting, what’s that?” or maybe it’s so grand the skies part and the angels sing. Whether it’s low key or a glorious emergence, it’s nevertheless unmistakable.
And it’s yours forever, to move forward into the world with that new understanding, new vision, and new ability, and to enjoy all that comes and flows freely from it. All the while, being ready to lay the groundwork and to continue practicing, practicing, and practicing some more towards the next one.
This is the veracity of Kung Fu, as it is the veracity of any art or skill or ability, including the realms of philosophical transformation and even that of societal shifts.
It is also a counter to resignation and capitulation, taking solace in that uncertainty. It rarely looks like somethings progressing until it moves. And then it does. And it’s glorious and totally worth it for the great days ahead.
There was a funny thing that kept happening. We* would ask Sifu a question about some move in the Tai Chi form, usually a move somewhere near the end of the form, and he would say, “Well, go back to your Wu Ji.”
Now, Wu Ji is the first move in the form. It’s not even really a move – you stand in it. Translated literally, it means something like “Empty” or “Nothing” stance, though the more proper meaning is “Harmonious” stance, with the idea of bringing your body and body tension together in evenness and harmony, like a circle. It’s the starting position.
Which is why we would usually protest. “No Sifu, I meant this move here…” and we would demonstrate. “I know,” he would reply, “But go to Wu Ji.”
Despite our frustration, it does (Of course it does! He was Sifu!) make sense. If you don’t have your Wu Ji, you can’t “have” anything – your moves are all deficient** in some way. We are thinking and asking to tweak something on this one particular move when really a) the problem doesn’t start there b) we apparently don’t even fully grasp the depth of the problem c) tweaking that move won’t really fix the issue and d) if we can adjust our Wu Ji, then we won’t need to fix the problem because the problem goes away. Moreover, it doesn’t just go away, it e) creates a whole bunch of positive outcomes everywhere, in every single move we do.
It is a great way to express the concept of returning to the primordial. Whether martial arts moves or societal systems, whether cultural or our own personal views and realities, or our own identities and who we see ourselves and others to be, it’s hard to poke and prod something so deep and at the end of a long chain and have it be all that impactful. At best we can struggle and strain and maybe keep it (or our Tai Chi structure) from collapsing. But the issues remain, and often compound on each other. But when we get something fundamental and come from first principles, from the primordial, and adjust our Wu Ji so that we begin from a place of proper connection and intent, then massive shifts are possible. Everything sings, compounds harmoniously, and we come to those places of strength with ease, naturally.
All wrapped up in a simple small phrase. Thank you Sifu.
* While it would happen to all of us it seemed to happen to Steve the most… so much so that it has become our affectionate running joke now (and a way for us to remember and honour Sifu)
** Not bad, or wrong, but just missing something. Something to discover, get, incorporate, and grow.
One of the activities the Black Rock Kwoon often hosted was a push hands* meetup organized by the Dread Pirate Lee. It was a great time to meet fellow practitioners and to get to push against a wide variety of people from all sorts of backgrounds, lineages, and experience levels.
One year, mid-way through, I began to develop a sense of something. Taking it on as an inquiry for the rest of the meetup, I began to formulate a principle/theory I quickly coined as the Tai Chi Push Hands Skill Differential Exponential Experience Factor (or TCPHSDEEF for short**):
If I have 1 level of skill, and you have 1 level of skill, to me it will feel like you have 1 level of skill.
If I have 1 level of skill, and you have 1.1 level of skill, to me it will feel like you have 1.25 level of skill.
If I have 1 level of skill, and you have 1.5 level of skill, to me it will feel like you have 3 level of skill.
If I have 1 level of skill, and you have 3 level of skill, to me it will feel like you are a god.
As the skill differential grows, the one with the greater skill gains the multi-whammy ability to be more relaxed, have less openings, sense the other’s movements and openings with greater clarity, and has the techniques to be able to engage those openings, AND those techniques will have greater subtlety, compounding the lesser sensitivity on the other side to respond before flump! You’re off balance.
The upshot of it was this: when I pushed against those at higher skill levels than me, it almost always felt like I was light years behind (both physically in the movements/responses but also metaphorically), being tossed this way and that. On the other side of the skill coin, however, it mattered little what my partner would send my way, even if I was unfamiliar with the technique. I could remain centered and able to redirect with seeming ease. I felt very much in control.
While the idea of the compounding nature of skill, and the abilities that it grants us, was important enough, it was the experience, the feeling, that came with that really struck me (and stuck with me).
Especially as this, as they so often do, ranges far beyond just implications for the martial arts.
No matter what skill we may aim to develop, whether it be tennis or skiing, drawing or cooking, working or playing, listening, giving, caring, or even in the realm of profound skills such as being peaceful, generous, passionate, expressed, loving… for any of those skills it means that the high level of ability is actually closer than we might think.
For one, that compounding nature works in our favour. But more importantly, it further means that things that may seem out of reach are not really that out of reach. We need not accuse ourselves of lacking talent, or fall into “I can never…”, or relegate ourselves to the dustbins along the margins.
It is nigh-well inevitable that we compare ourselves with others and their skill level(s), but any vast gulf that seems to scream at us that we (still) suck is illusionary and, in actuality, an overly dramatic scream.
We may see someone, interact with someone, be with someone, and come away with the feeling that they so own that skill that it must be ingrained, and I must have an equally ingrained difficulty with it. And yet that feeling is just the Skill Differential Exponential Experience Factor (SDEEF for short…?) at play.
Thus, we can let that feeling be the feeling, and continue to play. For that is what great push hands is, play. You play, you teach, you learn, and ultimately grow, enjoying the moment now and enjoying the fruits and fulfillment that comes with the ever-deepening skill.
* Push Hands is a practice from Tai Chi to develop the basic concepts of sensitivity, following, emptying, redirecting, and effortless pushing, beginning with simple drills where one partner pushes while the other receives and empties, followed by a switch in roles, continually back and forth.
** Well, OK, not really for short…
Well… continuing to explore that crazy amazing insight, I’ve hit that point where now nothing seems to work anymore, where all the amazing feelings and results from just last week now I cannot reproduce one iota and everything falls apart at the lightest push.
When you deepen your understanding and dive into a new or deeper concept, the masters have noted, it will feel as though you are beginning all over.
So, intellectually I know this is on the path, but dang if it still ain’t a bit demoralizing!
And I’ve already got the next practice scheduled to keep on playing.
I’ve just had one of those Niels Bohr-type moments in kung fu, and I’m a) resisting the potential insight really hard and b) finding my mind blown. Cool, weird, frustrating, exciting, confusing, and illuminating, all at the same time! It seems so unlikely… yet somehow logical… and I certainly cannot argue the results when I test the movement.
One of the reasons I love the art(s) so much!
I will never forget the first time I learned that Sifu knew my name.
I had only been at the school for several months. I hadn’t really interacted with Sifu at all – I knew who he was to be sure, and I saluted him as he passed, but to that point all my class time was with his bevy of instructors. As it was, several instructors could not make it that evening, so Sifu was gathered with those that were there, working to ensure everyone was taken care of. “Well, Oliver is learning Tan Tuy right now…” Inwardly, my head whipped around. I was, shall we say, rather high strung back then… “He knows my name… how could he know my name? Is that a good thing? What’s going on? Is this bad???“
It wasn’t. Not in the slightest.
In the years since that night, I came to know Sifu as a teacher, as a guide, and as a friend. If I were to use one word to describe Sifu, it would be generous. One of the most generous human beings I have ever met, in all senses of the word. Generous with his time. Generous with his knowledge. Generous with his assistance. Generous with his patience. And generous with his understanding. He put up with me when I was not at my best, helped me out in numerous ways over the years, explained things over and over, and led trips for us to China.
But above all, he loved to teach and was always ready to give willing of his time to share what he knew. Once, on one of those trips to China, while we the tour participants were practicing with the local master I looked over to see Sifu chatting with a stranger. Not five minutes later, the stranger was in a stance and Sifu was proffering explanations and suggestions. He was that eager. Kung fu was his passion in life, and he expressed it fully.
Of course, there are many words that can be used to describe Sifu. Rigorous: Sifu never rested on his laurels with “this is how things are, this is what I remember, this is how this art is done,” he was always testing, exploring, relearning, and deepening his understanding of every art he learned. Resourceful: Sifu managed to make a living in the Bay Area through his love of the martial arts, without having to compromise the principles of the art. Renaissance Man: Sifu was skilled way beyond just the martial arts, teaching himself to be a weaponsmith, a tui na and herbalist healer, author, video producer, carpenter, businessman, real estate agent, and father. Peaceful: Sifu lived his life with equanimity and faced things as they were. Devilishly witty: Sifu could break out an astute little twist or cutting yet loving phrase or instruction at unexpected moments. Humble: Sifu didn’t like attention or speeches, he just wanted to practice and grow. Industrious, fastidious, inventive, curious… I could go on.
Sifu was a genuine martial artist, interested in the art side of things as much as the martial. He studied diligently and delved deep into the heart of several styles to discover their deepest roots and concepts. He wouldn’t recite answers from memory: ask him a question, and it he would generate it from first principles. Ask him in a year, and his answer may shift as he grew his understanding. He always knew exactly what to give you that would improve your form; never more, never less. And it was all delivered without attitude. He never sought the limelight, he never gated his teachings, he never compared himself to others. He was at where he was at, always walking the path.
Through his school, through his store, through his videos, through his books, and through his disciples and instructors and through their students in turn, Sifu touched the lives of thousands. I count myself extremely lucky to have – pretty much by accident – found my way to his school eighteen years ago and gotten the chance to know him. He has been a major part of my entire adult life. I will cherish all the lessons he taught me, both in the martial arts and in how to be a great human being. I will strive to honour those lessons and his memory, practicing with equal passion and sharing that passion with equal generosity. I will carry on his legacy, in whatever ways I can.
Grandmaster Wing Lam passed away this morning. The world has lost a treasure. I will miss him dearly, as will we all.
Thank you Sifu, for everything.
-Salute-
Lynx Thoughts 