Newsletter #32

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手挥琵琶: Playing the Lute

Shǒu Huī Pípa (手挥琵琶), usually translated as "Play the Pipa" or "Strum the Lute," is one of the quieter postures in Yang-style Taijiquan. Its name comes from the position of the hands, which resembles holding and playing the traditional Chinese pipa, a pear-shaped stringed instrument.

The posture typically appears following Brush Knee and Twist Step. As the weight settles back, the front foot becomes light, usually touching with the heel, while the body remains upright and relaxed. The hands rise in front of the torso with one farther forward and the other nearer the body. Although the finished position may appear static, the important training occurs during the transition into it.

Play the Pipa teaches sensitivity to changes in weight and balance. Instead of withdrawing abruptly, the practitioner shifts smoothly onto the rear leg while maintaining an integrated connection through the feet, legs, waist, and hands. The front leg empties without collapsing the posture or causing the upper body to lean backward. This clear distinction between substantial and insubstantial is a fundamental Taijiquan skill.

In martial arts, the movement is often demonstrated as receiving and controlling an opponent's arm. The two hands can make contact at different points, such as the wrist and elbow, allowing the practitioner to redirect, control, or apply joint pressure. As with many Taijiquan postures, however, these examples should be viewed as possibilities rather than a single prescribed application.

For health-oriented practice, Play the Pipa provides a useful lesson in balance, coordination, and controlled weight transfer. Its small movements require careful attention. The challenge is not simply to reproduce the familiar shape, but to arrive there without unnecessary muscular tension.

Shǒu Huī Pípa reminds us that some of Taijiquan's most valuable training can be found in movements that, from the outside, appear to be doing very little.

Rumors Stop With the Wise

流言止於智者 (Liúyán zhǐ yú zhìzhě). Long before social media, ancient Chinese thinkers understood something about the way rumors travel. An expression associated with the Confucian philosopher Xunzi (荀子) states: 流丸止於甌臾，流言止於智者 "A rolling ball stops in a hollow; a rumor stops with the wise."

The image is wonderfully simple. A ball continues rolling until something stops it. A rumor behaves much the same way. It passes from one person to another, gaining momentum through repetition. The wise person becomes the hollow where its journey ends.

The saying does not suggest that wisdom means knowing immediately whether every claim is true or false. Instead, it places responsibility on the person receiving the information. We can pause before repeating something, consider its source, look for evidence, and recognize when our own beliefs make us especially willing to accept a story.

That last part may be the most difficult. We naturally scrutinize claims we disagree with more carefully than those that confirm what we already think. Wisdom requires applying the same standards to both.

Modern technology has made this ancient observation remarkably relevant. A rumor that once traveled through a village can now reach millions of people within hours. Social media makes passing it along almost effortless. A single click can turn each of us from a recipient into another link in the chain.

Xunzi's advice does not require us to withdraw from conversation or distrust everything we encounter. It simply asks us to create a little space between hearing and repeating. We may not be able to prevent rumors, exaggerations, and misinformation from beginning. But each time one reaches us, we have a choice about whether it travels any further.

The Horse and the Battlefield

Chapter 46 of the Dàodéjīng uses a surprisingly simple image to describe the condition of a society... the horse.

When the Dào (the way) prevails in the world, Laozi tells us, horses are returned to the fields. When the Dao is absent, warhorses are bred near the borders. For an ancient agricultural society, the contrast would have been immediately understood. A horse could provide the strength needed to plow fields, transport goods, and support everyday life. The same powerful animal could instead be trained and directed toward warfare.

The horse itself has not changed. What has changed is how its strength is being used.

This makes the passage more than an ancient observation about war. It becomes a lesson about priorities. When a society is healthy, its strongest energies can be used to feed, heal, build, teach, and sustain. When fear, ambition, or conflict dominate, those same resources may be redirected toward competition and destruction.

Laozi then turns the lesson inward. The remainder of the chapter warns about desire, dissatisfaction, and the inability to recognize when we have enough. Conflict between nations and conflict within ourselves may appear very different, but both can grow from the same tendency to continually want more.

That makes the horse an interesting metaphor for our own lives. We all possess limited resources: time, attention, energy, knowledge, and physical strength. None of these is inherently good or bad. What matters is where we direct them.

We can spend our energy cultivating something useful, or fighting battles that accomplish very little. We can use our attention to appreciate what we have, or continually focus on what we lack.

Yin and Yang: More Than Balance

The familiar black-and-white Tàijítú (太極圖), commonly called the yin-yang symbol, is often described as representing balance. That is not wrong, but it tells only part of the story. Yin and Yang are better understood as a way of describing relationships and how those relationships continually change.

Something is not simply Yin or Yang by itself. It is Yin or Yang in relation to something else. Night is Yin compared with day, while winter is Yin compared with summer. Rest is relatively Yin and activity is relatively Yang. Coolness, stillness, inward movement, and contraction are generally associated with Yin; warmth, movement, outward expression, and expansion with Yang.

These qualities are not necessarily opposites engaged in conflict. They depend upon one another. Without darkness, brightness has little meaning. Activity eventually requires rest, while rest prepares us for renewed activity.

The symbol itself illustrates this beautifully. Yin and Yang do not meet along a straight dividing line. They curve into one another, suggesting movement and transformation. Within the dark area is a point of light, and within the light is a point of darkness. Neither condition is absolute. As one reaches an extreme, the possibility of the other is already present.

Balance therefore remains important, but it should not be imagined as two sides permanently held at fifty percent. Natural balance is dynamic. Summer and winter are not equally warm, nor should they be. Day becomes night, activity gives way to rest, and inhalation is followed by exhalation.

This idea has practical importance in Taijiquan, Qigong, and in Chinese medicine. We continually respond to changing conditions rather than trying to maintain one ideal state.

Perhaps the yin-yang symbol is best understood not as a picture of perfect balance, but as a picture of relationship, change, and the continuing search for harmony.

Qi journal Updates

We've been hard at work preparing the Autumn 2026 issue of Qi Journal. Our plan is to have it ready for distribution in early September, but we haven't received a firm schedule from our printer yet. Here is a list of articles and a thumbnail of the cover photo. Subscription options are available on our website at: www.qi-journal.com/subscriptions.

·         Features in this issue include: "What 57 Years of Practice Reveals: Silk Reeling & Joint Health" by Dr. Bob Bacher, D.C.; "The Ancient Lingbao Daoist's Magical Talisman Staff" by Prof. Jerry Alan Johnson, Ph.D., D.T.C.M.; "Neijia: Taijiquan, Baguazhang, Xingyiquan, Yiquan & Others" by Luo Shiwen; and "Guiding & Stretching: The Mawangdui Daoyin Paintings and Their Legacy" by Daniel Ming, Ph.D.

·         Departments include: "Science, Skepticism, and the Space Between" by Susan Lee; "The Chrysanthemum: Flower of Autumn and Endurance" by Steven Luo; "Training the Taiji Sword: Intention, Precision, and the Living Blade" by Dr. David Dawson; "Why is Prevention so Hard?" by Su Chaio, B.A.; "When Taiji Could Push You Up Into a Tree" by Steven Luo; "Sanzi Jing: Three Characters at a Time" by Qi Journal's staff; and "What Religion Do You Follow?" by Seth Cameron

Qigong in the Summer Heat

Summer invites us outdoors, but when temperatures climb, our normal Qigong routine may need to change. One of the principles underlying traditional Chinese health practices is adapting to our surroundings rather than insisting that the body follow the same schedule regardless of conditions.

In Chinese seasonal thought, summer represents the height of yáng (陽). Warmth, activity, and outward expansion are already abundant. On very hot days, adding strenuous exercise or prolonged practice can create unnecessary stress. Qigong offers another approach: continue moving, but adjust the practice to what the body and environment are telling us.

Early morning and evening are often better times to practice during hot weather. A shady location can make a surprising difference. Stances can be somewhat higher, movements comfortable and unhurried, and sessions shorter when necessary. Breathing should remain natural rather than deliberately deep or forceful. The purpose is not to prove that we can tolerate the heat.

Sweating is a normal response to warm weather and physical activity, but excessive sweating is not a sign of better qigong. Traditional Chinese health practices have long regarded excessive loss of fluids as something to avoid. Modern physiology gives us another reason to be cautious, since heat and dehydration place additional demands on the body.

Perhaps the most useful summer practice is simply learning to listen. If movements that normally feel easy become tiring, if breathing becomes labored, or if we begin to feel lightheaded or unusually weak, the appropriate response is to stop, cool down, and rehydrate. Qigong practice should improve our awareness of these signals, not teach us to ignore them.

Sometimes nourishing life (yangsheng) means completing our usual routine. On another day, it may mean practicing for ten minutes beneath a shady tree.

The form does not always need to change. The wisdom is knowing when to change.

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