“This is our most brilliant cultural heritage.”
The retired principal stepped out of his taiji pose and fixed his stern gaze on us. “The quintessence of Chinese culture, unique to us.”
We had been strolling about Xujiahui Park when the martial artist caught our attention. It was a late morning in August, one of those days smeared with a layer of humid heat. The benches stretched on, littered with people in the middle of different motions of fanning themselves. He was there at the farthest end of the late-summer portrait, torso slightly bent, balanced motionlessly between his legs. In his right hand was a long sword almost glimmering with sunlight.
Xujiahui Park, around where we met him
We walked up and asked if the blade was sharpened, and he broke into hearty laughter. “Not here!” His eyes crinkled slightly, and something like pride found its way into his voice. “But traditionally yes, certainly. Back when taiji swords were used for battle, for self-defense, they were certainly sharpened. But we’re just here for the exercise now, having entered old age and all that.” He chuckled again, and we turned, startled, to greet the “they” he was referring to.
The group of players were sitting on a nearby bench, laughing and exclaiming over small talk. They all seemed to notice us the instant we shifted our eyes over; I felt myself blush slightly.
“He makes it look like he’s so professional,” they teased, seamlessly, grinning at us. “But he’s actually the least skilled among us!” They broke into another round of laughter, and we knew we were invited to join in. It was as if we had all known each other forever.
“Well, the slow needs to start early.” He answers with no sign of sheepishness, only solemnity. “Plus, we’ve all practiced here for years, every single day, in snow and under 39 degrees Celsius.”
With the same solemn composure, he told us about starting martial arts in the very park, years and years ago, training under a renowned, dignified master.
“Taiji, it isn’t like math, or physics, or any kind of science. You can learn those things from books. You can learn them even if no one teaches you. But taiji needs to be taught, to be passed down orally between people, taught hand-by-hand. Taiji is mysterious.”
“It is,” all the players echoed, and we allowed the mysteriousness to ensue. When we asked how they all came to find interest in the sport, the answer was “Well–everyone’s story with taiji is unique to themselves.”
“Fate?” We prodded.
“Definitely! Fate there most surely is.”
I found myself on the verge of stuttering out another question–a more logical one, perhaps, a more observable and quantifiable story with taiji, but I stopped myself.
They, too, left the magic there.
We stood there for another half hour. They talked to us about architecture, about life in northern Europe, about self-defense against being deceived as young ladies newly entering society, and we listened. We talked about everything outside of martial arts. I watched as the magnolia trees cast tesselations of shade against the ground, swimming, shifting, morphing.
A landmark building next to where we stood. They told us all about its history.
“Taiji turned us into completely new versions of ourselves. We became entirely new people.”
We thanked them goodbye.
“Try taiji someday!”
“We will.”