Relax 'n Renew TaiChi

01/09/2026

Tai Chi is a low-impact practice that supports:

Better balance
Improved flexibility
Gentle strength
Relaxation and wellbeing
Perfect for people looking for a healthy, enjoyable pastime in a friendly setting.

No experience needed.
All fitness levels welcome.

We can’t promise a six-pack in 28 days — but we can promise a gentler way to move, breathe, and feel better.

New beginners class on Tuesday's 2.30pm. Oradour-Fanais
Message me for more details.

26/08/2026

A comprehensive study, recently published in the British Journal of Sports Medicine, found that Tai Chi can help improve bone strength, reduce knee pain and stiffness, and support better movement, balance, sleep, and overall wellbeing.

It may be especially helpful for:

People with arthritis
Women going through or after menopause
Anyone dealing with ongoing pain or stiffness

The good news? You don’t need to do extreme workouts to see benefits.

Best results were seen when people practiced:

3 or more times a week
About 150 minutes per week
For at least 6 months

Even shorter sessions may still help with early pain relief, so every little bit counts.

Tai Chi is a safe, low-impact way to support your body as you age — one slow, steady step at a time

25/08/2026

Michi

I’ve been asked why do I use 道 on my tai chi page.

The short answer is that it just feels right.

In Japanese, this character can be read as michi or dō; in Chinese, it is read as dào. In both languages, it can mean path or way. One of my instructors, Ronnie Colwell, started calling me Michi as a nickname — a little play on my surname, Streets.

But there’s more to it than that.

道 carries a deeper meaning in both Chinese and Japanese traditions. In Chinese philosophy, Dao refers to the natural flow of the universe — the pattern behind how things arise, change, and return. It is about moving with life rather than forcing against it, with balance, humility, and awareness.

In Japanese traditions influenced by Buddhism, Shinto, and Zen, dō often means a lifelong practice or discipline. It is not something you simply complete. It is a way of living, learning, and refining yourself over time. In that sense, the “way” is never finished — it is something you keep walking, and something that keeps shaping you as you go.

For me, that makes 道 a fitting logo for my tai chi page: simple on the surface, but full of meaning underneath.

13/07/2026

One of the quiet joys of Tai Chi is that it keeps growing with you. As your practice becomes more familiar, it can be helpful to gently test yourself from time to time.

This does not mean pushing hard or trying to prove anything. It means exploring your balance, focus, and structure in slightly more demanding conditions — like practicing your form on rough ground, on a slight slope, or in a place with more distractions.

When everything is smooth and comfortable, it is easy to feel stable. But real skill shows up
when conditions change a little.

In a sense, the ground becomes a teacher. A slightly tricky surface can show you where you are leaning, rushing, or relying too much on habit.

The key is gentle testing
The goal is not to make the practice difficult for its own sake. The goal is to stay relaxed and present while adapting to a new challenge.

By occasionally stepping outside your comfort zone, you learn that balance is not something fixed — it is something alive. Each small test helps you refine your awareness and build confidence.

Practice gently. Test wisely. Grow steadily.

09/07/2026

Zhan Zhuang teaches that real strength does not always look dramatic. Sometimes it is quiet. Sometimes it is still. Sometimes it appears as the ability to remain centered while the body learns, adjusts, and grows.

That is the beauty of internal strength: it is not about becoming hard. It is about becoming whole.

Stand still. Breathe naturally. Build strength from the inside out.

01/06/2026

Your Journey on the River

Over the past two posts, we've been following the same river.

We discovered that the 108-form is not 108 separate things — it is one continuous movement, a river with 108 bends. We explored the four principles that keep it flowing: sung (deep structural release), rooting, yi leading qi, and breath as the rhythm underneath everything.

Now we arrive at the final and perhaps most important question: what is this form actually for? And more personally — how do you find your way into that flowing quality in your own practice?

To answer the first question, we need to talk about the two paths.

The Civil Path — The Form as Moving Meditation

Let's start here, because for most players — especially those of us who came to tai chi through curiosity rather than combat — this is the path that first opens the door.

One of the most remarkable things about the Yang long form is what quietly happens to your mind during those 20-plus minutes of continuous movement.

Because the form is long, and because continuity is the whole point, you cannot approach it like a checklist. You cannot tick off posture 47, breathe a sigh of relief, and brace yourself for posture 48. The form demands — and rewards — a quality of sustained, gentle, flowing attention that mirrors the physical movement itself.

When you're truly inside the form, something shifts. The boundary between you and the movement becomes less defined. You're no longer doing 108 postures. The form is, in some sense, moving through you. This isn't mysticism — or at least, it doesn't need to be. It's the natural result of having practiced long enough that the sequence is no longer a conscious intellectual effort, and the mind is free to simply be present within it.

This is what makes the long form so genuinely valuable for our lives right now. There's often a great deal of mental noise at this stage — responsibilities, health considerations, the accumulated weight of decades of doing and planning. The long form offers something rare: an extended window of time where the mind is given just enough to do (follow the movement, stay present, feel the body) that it cannot drift into worry or stress. It is, in the truest sense, a moving rest.

And the body benefits too — not as an afterthought, but as a living expression of the same principles. The continuous weight shifting builds balance and proprioception, which matters enormously for long-term mobility. The circular, low-impact movements nourish the joints without strain. The practice of moving as one integrated unit — waist, legs, and arms connected — gradually carries over into everything: how you rise from a chair, how you walk, how you reach for something on a high shelf. Players often notice that daily life simply starts to feel more easeful.

The Martial Path — The Form as Shadow Boxing

Now here is where the form reveals its hidden architecture.

The Yang long form is not abstract choreography. At its core, it is a sophisticated shadow boxing exercise — a solo training method for practicing the martial principles of tai chi against an imagined opponent. Every posture carries a practical application: to receive incoming force, to redirect, to unbalance, to issue energy at precisely the right moment.

When a player understands this, the form changes completely. You're no longer moving your hands through space. You're training the body to integrate waist rotation, weight shifting, and jìn (勁 — whole-body connected force) into a seamless, coordinated sequence. The form becomes the place where principle stops being a concept and becomes a felt reality — in the muscles, the tendons, the bones.

This is precisely why the martial path enriches even players who have no interest in combat. Understanding why a posture is shaped the way it is — the structural logic inside Ward Off, the two-directional force of Single Whip, the rooted release of Push — changes how you inhabit those shapes. The civil practice becomes deeper, more intentional, more alive.

The two paths, ultimately, illuminate each other. You don't have to choose between them. You carry both lenses and use them as the practice calls.

Practical Guidance: Finding Your Flow

If you're a beginner or intermediate player, the gap between where you are now and that effortless, flowing form can feel significant. Here is some honest and — I hope — encouraging perspective.

The stops are not failures. When you pause between postures, when you lose the thread and have to think, when you wobble mid-transition — these are not signs you're doing it wrong. They are signs you're learning. Awareness of the gaps is itself a form of progress.

Be patient with the timeline. The Yang long form is not a quick win. It is a lifelong companion. My own experience shows that the form continues to reveal new depths after decades of practice. Don't measure yourself by how many postures you know. Measure yourself by the quality of attention you bring to the one you're practicing right now.

Focus on principles, not poses. Spend less time chasing the perfect shape and more time feeling the core principles — sung, rooting, yi leading the movement. When the principles are present, the postures naturally settle into their right expression. The form is what we use to cultivate ourselves; learning the sequence is just the beginning.

Practice the transitions, not just the postures. This is where most players find their biggest gains. The flow doesn't live in the postures — it lives in the between. When learning something new, always practice the movement before it and the movement after it. Find the connection. That connection is everything.

Slow down even more. This feels counterintuitive — surely slower means more pauses? In practice, it's the opposite. Moving more slowly forces you to maintain the thread of continuous intention. Speed can paper over gaps. Slowness makes them visible — and workable.

108 Becomes 1

As these things deepen — principles embodied, transitions smoothed, breath synchronised — something remarkable begins to happen. The river stops feeling like 108 bends and starts feeling like water.

When that flow is truly present, 108 becomes 1. Not by erasing the individual postures, but by weaving them together so completely that the weaving itself becomes the point.

That is what you're moving toward, every time you step into your practice. Not 108 things to get right, but one long, unbroken opportunity to be fully present — in your body, in your breath, in this moment.

Whether you're still learning the names of the postures or refining a form you've practiced for years, the invitation is always the same: soften, connect, and let the movement flow. The river will meet you exactly where you are.

12/05/2026

Post 2: "The Four Engines of Flow"
Last post we explored a paradox: the Yang long form has 108 distinct postures, yet when performed with skill, it looks like one continuous movement — a river flowing through 108 bends.

Several of you commented asking the same essential question: "But HOW? How do I stop breaking the flow? How do I make the transitions smooth?"

That's exactly what we're diving into today.

The seamless flow you see in experienced players isn't magic or decades of mysterious training. It's the result of four specific, learnable principles working together. Think of them as the four engines that power continuous movement.

Let's break them down...
The principles that make continuity possible:

This beautiful, uninterrupted flow doesn't just happen by itself. It is powered by a set of core principles that form the engine of Tai Chi. When these principles are in place, the flow state becomes a natural outcome.

"1. Song (鬆) — relaxation without collapse"

The Chinese word song is often translated as "relaxation," but that translation undersells it. song is an active, intelligent relaxation — the kind that releases unnecessary tension while maintaining structural integrity.

Tension in one part of the body acts like a knot in a garden hose — it stops the flow. When you can achieve genuine song throughout the body, movement begins to travel through you like a wave through water. One posture genuinely flows into the next because there's nothing blocking the transition.
"2. Rooting and the Dantian (丹田)"

All movement in Tai Chi begins from the ground up. We first cultivate a sense of "rooting," a connection to ground. This provides unshakable stability. From this, we initiate all movement from our body's energetic center, the Dantian, located in our pelvic girdle.

Think of it like a stone dropped into a still pond. The ripple starts at the center and expands outward. In the same way, a turn in Tai Chi doesn't start with the arms or shoulders; it starts with a subtle rotation of the Dantian. This impulse ripples through the waist, to the shoulders, down the arms, and finally expresses itself in the hands. Because every movement has the same origin, they are all intrinsically connected, part of the same single, unified action.

In Yang style Tai Chi, the waist — or more precisely, the kua (胯, the hip-crease/inguinal area) and the lower Dantian — is understood to be the commander of movement. The arms do not move independently; they are moved by the waist. The feet follow the waist's direction. The head floats above the waist's rotation.

When the waist moves continuously — never stopping, never jerking, but rotating and shifting in smooth arcs — the body follows it in continuous expression. The postures become waypoints on the waist's unbroken journey. Good rooting means you're never falling from one posture to the next. You're flowing. And flowing weight shifts are invisible in the finished form — which is why a player appears to glide rather than step.

"3. Yi (意) leading Qi (氣) leading body"

Traditional Tai Chi theory holds that the Yi (intention or mind) moves first, and the body follows. There is a fundamental principle: "The Yi leads the Qi, the Qi leads the body" (意領氣，氣領形). Before the physical body has begun to shift, the practitioner's attention has already arrived at the next posture.

Without this mindful intention, movements become mechanical and disconnected. It's the difference between a puppet being je**ed by strings and a master calligrapher whose brush flows with conscious purpose. The Yi is the mental glue that holds the 108 postures together.

"4. The breath as connective tissue"

The breath in Tai Chi is not rigidly choreographed to specific postures — at least, not at the beginner level. What matters more is that the breath flows continuously, and that it supports rather than fights the movement. When you hold your breath — as many students do when concentrating — you create internal pressure that manifests as tightness, and that tightness disrupts flow.

As you develop in the form, you'll naturally find that the breath and movement begin to synchronize. In the Yang style tradition, we inhale as we gather or draw inward — collecting energy, yielding, condensing. We exhale as we expand or release — expressing energy outward, pushing, issuing force. Think of it like drawing a bow: you inhale as you pull the string back (gathering), and exhale as you release the arrow (issuing).

The silk thread and swimming in air: images of continuity:

To truly understand the flowing nature of the form, it helps to work with powerful mental images that shape how we move.

The silk-reeling thread, Imagine drawing silk from a cocoon. To draw out a single, miles-long thread of silk, you must pull with a perfectly constant, gentle, and spiraling force. If you yank, pause, or pull too hard, the delicate thread will snap.

In our practice, this "silk thread" is the invisible line of connection that runs through the entire form. The energy, initiated from our center, spirals out through the body and into each movement. The end of one posture is not a stop; it is merely a change of direction for the thread, which immediately begins to spool into the next posture. When we perform each posture we don't just stop and hold the pose. We arrive at the posture with the feeling that the silk thread has reached its furthest point and is now, without breaking, beginning to coil back on itself to initiate the next movement.

Swimming in air. A classic description of a Tai Chi is that we appear to be "swimming in air." Imagine moving through a dense, viscous medium like water or honey. You wouldn't be able to make jerky, sudden movements. Every action would be slow, deliberate, and connected. Your hand couldn't move without your body feeling the gentle resistance. This is the quality we seek. The air becomes our partner, a tangible substance we can feel and interact with. This mindset immediately smooths out the rough edges between movements, forcing them to blend into one another.

Ultimately, the real Tai Chi is found in the transitions. The in-between bits. Beginners focus on the destination postures — what the hands and feet are doing? Intermediate students begin to discover the art in the journey between the postures. How do you shift your weight from one posture to another? How does the energy of a downward push transform into the upward energy of a lift? This is where the practice shifts from a physical exercise to a profound moving meditation.

These four principles — song, rooting from the Dantian, Yi leading Qi, and synchronized breath — are not just theoretical concepts. They're practical tools that transform how your body moves.

But here's what might surprise you: these principles aren't just about making pretty forms.

The Yang long form is not abstract choreography or mere meditation in motion. It's something far more practical and powerful. It's sophisticated shadow boxing — a training method that lets you embody the martial principles of Tai Chi without a partner.

And here's the really good news: Those principles remain profoundly valuable even if you have zero interest in martial applications.

In Part 3, we'll explore what the form actually does for you — as shadow boxing practice, as moving meditation, and as a practical tool for navigating daily life.

05/05/2026

The River, Not the Bends: Understanding the 108 Form

There's a moment that every Tai Chi student eventually experiences. You're watching a seasoned player move through the Yang long form and something strikes you as almost paradoxical. The form contains 108 distinct postures. You've been told this. You may even have a list of them. And yet, what you're watching doesn't look like 108 separate things. It looks like one thing. One long, slow, unbroken river of movement, as if the body has simply decided to become water.

This is not an illusion. It is, in fact, the entire point.
The sacred number and the complete journey:

Before we dive into the movement itself, let's understand the number 108, because it carries profound weight in Eastern philosophy — and that weight is not accidental.

108 is considered sacred in both Hindu and Buddhist traditions. There are 108 beads on a Buddhist mala, representing a complete spiritual journey. The number carries connotations of wholeness, completeness, and cosmic order.

Whether or not Yang Luchan or his descendants chose 108 deliberately for its symbolic resonance, or whether the number emerged organically from the structure of the form and was then recognized as auspicious, the result is the same: a form that feels complete. Not arbitrary, not padded, not cut short. Complete.

In the Yang long form as traditionally taught, the 108 postures include many repetitions — movements like “Brush Knee” and “Grasp the Bird's Tail” appear multiple times. This repetition is intentional. It gives you the opportunity to practice the same principle.

However, it's crucial to understand that this number is not set in stone. If you study with different schools, you may find the form counted as 103, 75, or another variation. This isn't because one is "right" and the others are "wrong." It's simply a different way of grouping the movements.

From postures to flow: what "108 postures" actually means:

Here's where beginners sometimes tie themselves in knots, so let's untangle this gently. When we say the Yang long form has 108 postures, we don't mean 108 statues. A posture in Tai Chi is not a frozen pose that you strike and hold, like a bodybuilder flexing for the judges. Rather, a posture (式, shì) is a momentary expression — a shape the body passes through on its way from one place to another. Think of it less like a photograph and more like a frame in a film. Each frame is distinct, but when the film runs at speed, you don't see frames. You see movement.

The traditional way of teaching the form by necessity involves stopping at key postures. As we undertake the learning phase, we start with placing the dots. The individual postures. Then we learn how to connect those dots. But the goal, always, is eventually to put it all together so that the segmentation disappears.

Once we learn the choreography, what remains is a continuous thread of intention moving through the body, expressing itself outward through the limbs, and then gathering back in, again and again, for the full 20 or so minutes that a well-paced long form takes to complete.

Imagine standing by a great, winding river. You might notice 108 distinct bends, each with its own unique character — a gentle curve, a sharp turn, a widening into a calm pool. But would you ever say the river is made of 108 separate, disconnected pools? Of course not. The essence of the river is the water, the constant, uninterrupted flow that connects every bend into one magnificent, living entity.

So how, exactly, does one move through 108 postures without stopping? What are the underlying principles that make this seamless flow not just possible, but natural?

That's what we'll explore in Part 2 of this series. I'll break down the four core principles that create continuous movement — the "engines" that power the flow. From song (relaxation without collapse) to the role of breath, these aren't abstract concepts. They're practical tools you can feel in your body.

Meanwhile, I'm curious:

When you practice the form, where do you notice yourself stopping or breaking the flow? What posture-to-posture transition challenges you most? Drop a comment below — your question might be exactly what we address in the next post.

08/04/2026