Here follows the tale of how I worked with the sense of unreality as I began my journey into teaching Tai Chi in my fifty first year, and how – over time - it became real as real can be. I would love to hear how you went from one way of making a living to another, and what you took from one role into the other. How did you problem-solve, and where did you go for support? Get in touch via the channels at the bottom to continue the conversation.
Around a year and a half ago, in a funny little room in the main library of the University of Edinburgh, I submitted the final assessment of my undergraduate studies in Social Anthropology. ‘Enter’. And that was that. I sat there blinking. Five years of study, over. The ground took on a wobbly quality and I started to feel increasingly hot.
What happened next was instinctive. I got up, moved to the middle of the room, and began moving through the Shuang Yang Tai Chi form that I had been learning for over a decade. I practiced it too quickly, without attending to pacing or my breathing. Imperfect and real. I felt the benefit immediately – any sense of growing panic had subsided. As I moved, sinking my weight, and shifting it between my stepping feet, an awareness and connection to the ground returned. Even from the library's third floor, I felt connected with the earth and returned to a fuller version of myself. It was an exceptional feeling. It shone a spotlight on the power of mindful physical and mental practice to support us when aspects of our lives fall out of whack. It felt like a friend who had my back, was always in my pocket, and who challenged me, reflected my mental state, and caught me when I needed catching.
This was not the first time my practice had kicked in when I needed it. My studies had coincided with the first few years of perimenopause, and I had wrestled with several stints of extremely low mood. Good family and friends and a whole lot of talking therapy helped with sources of historical emotional pain which had bubbled up acutely as my hormones changed at pace. I found increasingly that Tai Chi soothed my nervous system and provided an opportunity for personal expression, both extremely important for processing huge change. I played with training the form at speed, or as slow as I could make myself move, as though I was underwater. Sometimes I trained several times a week, other times there would be long gaps filled with malaise.
Learning Shuang Yang requires patience – the 66 moves in the form are performed sequentially and take several years to learn. Without attending classes or committing to an at-home practice, the shapes and angles of Kung Fu and Tai Chi begin to fade from muscle memory, like a watercolour hung on a sunny wall. As with all skills that take effort to attain, practicing them is what keeps them alive and integrated with body and mind.
As well as being consumed by my studies, there was also part-time work and family life to attend to. This meant there were long stints when I could not attend in-class training. But I kept practicing and stayed in touch with my instructor, Kami Newton. Occasionally he asked if I had ever considered teaching a class; he said he was diversifying his work and planned to move out of Edinburgh and offered to put me in touch with some of his students from other classes. My confidence had been low, but once the seed was planted, I got to wondering…
Over time the wondering got louder - was I able to break down each movement into comprehensible nuggets and explain them clearly and from lots of different angles? Would anyone want to learn from a new teacher? Could I make a living? Would I be able to honour an art form that had survived over 400 years?
They were big questions to wrestle with at a time already full of not-knowing. But my studies and experiences at the University had changed me. I had left school with not much in the way of academic achievement under my belt over three decades ago. At 40 years old, while enrolled in evening classes at the University of Edinburgh, I was assessed by an Educational Psychologist and learned I am dyslexic. Initially a blow to the system, it ultimately was incredibly helpful information that explained much. This new knowledge of how I learn helped me develop my strengths. In my academic studies this was important to know, and when it came to conceptualising teaching Tai Chi, I found the silver lining to how dyslexia and my own personal history affects me - a heightened capacity to notice and attend to details of how bodies move.
Both complex and simple, White Crane Tai Chi is a fighting style said to be inspired by the movements of the large bird, with attention to detail and embedded principles of a sturdy stance, a flexible waist, and swift hands. During this year of teaching, trying to communicate these aspects to students has shown me much about the beautiful simplicity that underpins the movements. Just like the style, efficiency is key. Finding the correct words to convey the movements involves coming at the explanations from different angles, breaking it down, down, and down again. Complexity and simplicity sit together as best friends.
My instructor became more like my mentor, and we worked together to plan my first classes and workshop. During this year I have been pressed to develop way beyond my comfort zone. Learning to stand at the front of a class, to take up space, to expand my voice and be heard. I have learned to navigate the bumpy road of administration. With help from my partner Stan, I have made posters, flyers, and a logo is now on the way. I have had to own my mistakes and confront my ego in class, when I have forgotten the name of a move, or don’t have an oven-ready answer when asked about the application of a movement. All these things show me how to improve and grow.
Training in Tai Chi can provide a way of grounding into the body and letting the thinking mind become quiet. In accompaniment to teaching this year, I have been reading the work of Peter Levine which talks to regulating the nervous system through movement. I have been continuing my own personal development, working in movement therapy with Susan Scarth, putting these principles into action. I am also dipping in to Patrick McKeown’s research, which discusses in detail the healing capacity of correctional breathing. As I move ahead with this journey, I love the capacity for change, process, and growth.
Challenges in the role have included a sense of isolation. As a sole trader, I have no colleagues, which has been tricky for a person with an eager curiosity of others and a need for meaningful social interactions. But I find these in different ways… I have met fantastic people in community centres, church halls, schools, charities, social enterprises, and community groups. My students are a wellspring of inspiration and joy, offering me opportunities to challenge myself, to hold boundaries, to have fun.
I feel exceedingly grateful and know that the encouragement I have experienced scaffolds everything I do – without this support and that of family and friends, this journey wouldn’t have happened. We need one another, and that is not a weakness but a strength. Moving forward, I am continuing my training as a therapist and will embark on PG Diploma learning in a few weeks. I intend to continue to practice as a Tai Chi teacher and begin to offer therapeutic listening and collaboration as another string to my bow. This year has been an exciting journey, and it feels like just the beginning. On we go.
With warm wishes,
Char
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An inspiring and informative piece, Char!
The journey is never an easy one but it's always worth it. A lot of what you wrote resonated with me, movement is so powerful, either physical or mental if you don't move through the chaos then nothing ever changes. Thanks for being an inspiring influence in my life, your students are a lucky bunch to learn from the master of good vibes!
Evocative thoughts and ideas that have been beautifully and powerfully articulated. Awesome, CharChar. xxxX 😘