by Ruth
More than two decades ago, I signed up for tai chi classes to improve my health—and, to be honest, to look mysterious in the park at dawn. I did it for a long while until my knees staged a rebellion. When every bend sounded like a bowl of Rice Krispies, I bowed out, limped home, and told myself I was better suited to exercises performed while sitting.
Later, friends informed me that, when practiced correctly, tai chi shouldn’t hurt knees. That stung. It’s like being told the cake I baked wouldn’t have collapsed if I hadn’t put it in the washing machine. I didn’t continue, but tai chi never quite left me alone. Its slow grace and quiet power kept tiptoeing into my imagination and then into my writing. A tai chi kung fu master appears in several of my books, including Fire Between Two Skies (coming January 2026; special $2.99 pre-order at https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0G2YZZ8LG; view the video at https://youtu.be/SBEv-s1n9LQ).
Tai chi borrows from Taoism’s idea of softness overcoming hardness. If two forces—yin and yang—push each other with equal force, neither moves. The trick is not to meet force head-on. You step aside, borrow the momentum, and set it down somewhere more convenient. While many people now practice tai chi for health and mindfulness, its roots are firmly martial. Many masters could dismantle an attack the way you might flick lint from a sweater.
A key element in tai chi is about“Qi” (pronounced as “chee”). If the word makes you raise a skeptical eyebrow, think of Qi as a blend of breath, attention, and how your body organizes itself. Understanding and working with Qi is integral to the practice and philosophy of tai chi to promote health, longevity, and the overall well-being of an individual.
Regarding my knees, I eventually learned that it’s all about alignment. Sit back into the hips. Keep the knees tracking over the toes. Move from the center instead of collapsing forward. “Sink the Qi, not the kneecaps,” a friend told me. If I’d heard that earlier, I might not have quit. These days I do “micro–tai chi”: shifting weight while waiting for the kettle, softening the ribs in traffic, remembering to feel the floor under my feet when a plot goes feral.
Maybe I’ll return to class, humbled and better aligned. If you see me in the park moving like a glacier with opinions, I’m either doing tai chi or trying to remember what I should cook for dinner.
Until then, I as a tai chi master will only appear in my books.
