A martial art practice can be the physical expression of philosophy. To practice movement is to review principle.
Taiji means yin and yang together. This was articulated in the Yijing:
Change has its ultimate limits (Taiji).
That generates the Two Ideas (yin and yang).
The two ideas generate the Four Images (the four possible combinations of yin and yang lines).
The Four images generate the Eight Trigrams.
I turned to the Yijing in my teen years. I discovered a copy of the Wilhelm Reich version in the basement of City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco. I bought my first yarrow stalks at The Mystic Eye, an esoteric supply shop on Broadway Street, a few blocks away from City Lights. The store was redolent with patchouli oil and it was run by a skinny, long-haired hippie. Both places were in walking distance of where I lived. In other words: spirituality was local. That isn’t necessarily the case anymore.
Why did I turn to this ancient book of divination? It was because I was uncertain. Most of my questions were about the right path in life—and, of course, about girls. I grew dependent on it. About ten years later, I made myself put the book away. I decided it was better to internalize the philosophy—even at the cost of life-altering blunders—than to be unable to make decisions without it. Certainly, there is one inarguable error when approaching this great book: asking the same question repeatedly. That’s like getting on your scale three times in a row, hoping for a lower number. There was a lot of wishful thinking in my interpretations. Far better for me to learn from experience.
I tried to apply the Yijing’s philosophy. I still think that the Yijing’s wisdom is immeasurably more important than it being a “fortune-telling manual.”
Taijiquan became an important way for me to physically explore the Yijing’s philosophy. That sidesteps all the wishful thinking, the deluded idea that I could gain an advantage over others through this mystical book, and to engage in what the Daodejing calls “wordless teaching.” In Taijiquan, one hand is generally yang, and the other is yin. When I change postures, and as I go forward and back, I distinguish between putting more weight on one leg than the other, rise or sink, practice pushing hands, and push and pull, I am enacting how yin and yang relate to each other. In other words, I am the model, the laboratory, and the test-subject for this philosophy.
Daoism has no body-mind “problem.” On the contrary, it assumes a body-mind unity. Daoism asserts no dominion over nature. Instead, it holds the natural to be the proper state for a person’s life.
Daoism doesn’t see death as bad, either. I don’t know what I was before birth. I don’t know what will happen to me after death. Perhaps it really is all illusory: I am a part of Dao, and I will still be a part of it whether I am alive or dead. There is no other reality aside from Dao.
So I practice to remind myself of unity. If I feel discombobulated, Daoism and Taijiquan helps dispel my confused thoughts and remind me that I am always in Dao.