Newsletter #30

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Brush Knee Twist Step: A Small Movement with Large Lessons

In Taijiquan, some of the most repeated movements are also the easiest to overlook. Brush Knee Twist Step, Lǒu Xī Ǎo Bù (搂膝拗步), appears simple: one hand brushes downward past the knee while the other pushes forward as the body steps. Yet this familiar posture contains much of Taijiquan's martial, structural, and philosophical training.

The brushing hand is not a casual wiping motion. The word lǒu suggests gathering, embracing, or sweeping aside. In application, it may clear a low strike, redirect a kick, or protect the centerline of the body. The hand that passes the knee should remain alive and connected, not limp. It protects space while helping the body turn away from direct force.

The "twist step" is equally important. In Ǎo Bù, the pushing hand and stepping foot are on opposite sides. This contrary relationship connects the body diagonally through the waist and hips. Instead of using the arm alone, the practitioner learns to move from the feet, direct through the waist, and express through the hands. The result is not a push placed on top of a step, but one integrated action.

Brush Knee Twist Step also teaches yin and yang in motion. One hand receives and brushes aside while the other issues forward. One side gathers while the other expands. The body does not meet force head-on, but turns, redirects, and advances at an angle.

For beginners, the movement trains coordination, balance, and knee alignment. For experienced practitioners, it becomes a study of timing, rooted stepping, and unified power. Each repetition reminds us that Taijiquan is not made of isolated gestures. It is whole-body movement, where defense, footwork, and response become one continuous expression.

Zhuangzi and the Freedom of Not Being Useful

In the Zhuāngzǐ (莊子), there is a recurring theme that sounds almost upside down to modern ears: the value of being useless. In one famous example, a large old tree is dismissed by carpenters because its wood is twisted, knotted, and unsuitable for lumber. It cannot become beams, furniture, or tools. By ordinary standards, it has failed.

Yet precisely because it is useless, the tree survives.

Zhuangzi's point is not that we should avoid responsibility or contribute nothing to the world. His teaching is sharper than that. He asks whether our usual standards of value are too narrow. If something cannot be turned into profit, status, productivity, or public approval, do we assume it has no worth? If a person does not fit the expectations of society, do we assume they are defective?

The crooked tree gives shade. It shelters life. It stands because no one has found a way to exploit it.

This is one of Zhuangzi's great reversals. What appears useless may be free. What cannot be easily used by others may be protected from being consumed by them. The person who steps outside constant striving may preserve something that busyness destroys.

For readers of Daoism, this is not an argument for laziness. It is an argument for a wider understanding of life. Not every hour must be measured by output. Not every talent must be marketed. Not every quiet, eccentric, or inward part of ourselves needs to justify its existence.

In a world that often asks, "What are you good for?" Zhuangzi offers a different question: What remains alive in you when you stop trying to be useful?

Spring Gives Birth, Summer Brings Growth

The old saying 春生夏長，秋收冬藏 (Chūn shēng, xià zhǎng, qiū shōu, dōng cáng) expresses one of the simplest and most useful ideas in Chinese seasonal thought: spring gives birth, summer brings growth, autumn gathers the harvest, and winter stores what has been preserved.

At first glance, it sounds like an agricultural observation. Seeds sprout in spring. Plants grow vigorously in summer. Crops are gathered in autumn. In winter, the land rests. But in Chinese medicine and yǎngshēng (養生), or nourishing life, the same rhythm applies to the human body and spirit.

Summer is the season of expansion. The days are longer, the light is stronger, and activity naturally moves outward. People socialize more, work in gardens, travel, walk, swim, practice outdoors, and feel the pull of warmth and movement. In this sense, summer is not merely hot weather. It is the season when life reaches upward and outward.

But growth does not mean exhaustion. A plant grows best when it has enough water, light, and rootedness. People are not so different. Summer invites activity, but also requires moderation. Too much heat, overwork, emotional agitation, or irregular rest can scatter the very energy the season encourages.

For practitioners of taijiquan (t'ai chi), qigong, and yangsheng, this saying reminds us to live with the season rather than against it. Morning practice may feel better than midday exertion. Lighter foods, adequate fluids, shade, rest, and calm breathing help balance summer's outward movement.

"Spring gives birth, summer brings growth" is not just about nature outside us. It is also about timing. There is a season to begin, a season to expand, a season to gather, and a season to conserve. Wisdom lies in knowing which season we are in.

Qi Journal Updates

Our Summer 2026 Qi Journal has been released and mailed to all our subscribers and we have been getting many good reports from those who like the content. It is our 142nd consecutive issue since 1991. A brief "Table of Contents" is available at our website at https://www.qi-journal.com/3550. Print and digital subscriptions are available for purchase on our website store at https://qi-journal.com/subscriptions

Our Facebook page at Facebook and Instagram continue on a steady growth path this year. When more people follow us on social media, more become interested in Taijiquan, Qigong, Yangsheng, Daoism, Acupuncture, etc. which benefits everyone in our community. We continue to work on a new website design that includes all the existing content plus new content in a easier to read format.

How qigong became "Qigong"

For most of Chinese history, people did not practice something called qìgōng (氣功). They breathed, stretched, stood, swayed, visualized, chanted, healed, prayed, trained, and cultivated life. The name came later. The movement came first.

The deep roots of qigong reach into early ritual, healing, and self-cultivation practices. Long before modern terminology, Chinese traditions included dance-like movements associated with shamans and ritual specialists, breathing exercises such as tǔnà (吐納), guiding and stretching practices known as dǎoyǐn (導引), meditative stillness, martial training, and Daoist methods of nourishing life, or yǎngshēng (養生). These were not always separated into neat categories. A practice could be religious, medical, martial, and personal all at once.

Over time, many of these methods became connected with the idea that body, breath, and mind influence health. Slow movement could loosen the joints. Regulated breathing could calm agitation. Standing postures could strengthen the legs and settle the spirit. Attention could be trained inward rather than scattered outward.

The modern word "Qìgōng" began to take shape in the twentieth century and became officially recognized in China during the 1950s. Liu Guizhen helped present older self-cultivation methods as a practical health therapy, suitable for clinics, rehabilitation, and public instruction. This new name gathered many older streams under one useful umbrella.

That history matters. Qigong was not invented in the 1950s, but it was renamed, reorganized, and explained in modern terms. Beneath the modern category remains something much older: the human discovery that breath, posture, attention, and gentle movement can change how we feel, how we recover, and how we inhabit the body.

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