From 2005 Tai Chi Magazine’s tribute to Madame Gao Fu
(edited)
Each time I stood in front of Madame Gao Fu for a lesson, any Tai Chi poise I thought I might have had, vanished. “Stop,” she would say, after just a fraction of movement, and proceed to correct the most subtle of finger shapes before allowing me to continue.
I wondered if I would ever make it through the form at all. Even after the two years it took to learn the basic 24 movements our lessons in form correction often stopped at the first movement and stayed there for the duration of my hour with her. There were times I was extremely frustrated, and she knew it. “Do you want to learn quickly and on the surface?” “Or do you want to learn slowly and understand?” she said politely.
The truth is I wanted to learn quickly. I had been seduced by the swift explosive movements of Chen style and I yearned for my body to illustrate that knowledge. The deeper meaning of the “energies” took back seat to my desire for flash! Yet behind this elegant grandma with her deep ocean eyes and silky soft skin was a strong taskmaster – I wasn’t going anywhere near flash – I was going to stand there and harmonize the internal with the external.
It is said that Chen Style Taijiquan is both the original Taijiquan and the most difficult to learn. Circles and spirals, expansion and contraction, rise and sink are difficult concepts to grasp mentally, much less embody. Perhaps I was not the only student of this art who thought, “Why bother!” And the truth is that if Madame Gao was not such a compelling force of nature I might have quit.
I contemplated the many other available approaches to learning Tai Chi, especially those that would yield me copious numbers of showy forms. Yet even in the midst of those thoughts I did not want to miss my lessons with Gao Fu. And for years at 7:30 am I did show up, raise and lower my arms, and hear her say, “stop.”
“I don’t understand,” I finally said one day, midpoint in another excruciating lesson of stopping. I was holding back tears when she stepped closer to me and placed my hands on the middle of her belly. She then laid her own gentle hand on top of mine. We stood there still for a moment, waiting for me to calm down.
Madame Gao began to turn her dantien. At first there was no physical movement, there was simply the feeling of my hand following a path down into the earth. As I felt the sinking, I felt my own body relax and settle. Soon, I was aware of a vast deep well, a sensation until now, unknown to me. From this place a subtle, clear vibration began to emerge as though as conductor in the orchestra pit had just raised his stick and signaled the musicians to tune their instruments. The hum of the musicians faded, then a silence and a settling.
I waited. I felt the beginnings of a new rhythm. I recognized a few notes as harmonics evolved. There was a rising. “Is this peng?” I wondered. And then a settling. “Song?” I mused, “Or is that shu?” Then “kai’ as the space within her expanded and opened and “he” as the space closed back to an inaudible center. Within a moment, a grander melody began to take shape. It included more notes that I could recognize, yet at the core, the theme was constant. Then an unexpected symphonic crescendo of alternating circles and sinuous spirals released mightily from her body. As she continued dynamically weaving measure into measure of powerful muscle, skin, energy and blood, my senses breathed in her complex score.
Many lessons followed over the next several years. I doubt I ever mastered them as well as my teacher would have hoped for me, but somehow I did learn several more forms. Along the way I lost my desire to express them in flamboyant ways, preferring instead to go deeper within and listen.
Even now, in the days of practicing without Madame Gao, I can hear her stay, “stop.” My frustration still shows up at times but rather than wanting to quit or learn differently, I remember laughing with Gao Fu after we heard an obvious clash of notes in my form while trying to achieve perfect pitch.
As with me, every person who had the great fortune of experiencing Madame Gao Fu’s treasure trove of skill and big-hearted personality tells a tale of touching her. The experience of feeling the lessons within her body, along with her sweet, joyful spirit might be what kept us practicing. Madame Gao Fu left us all with scores of lessons to follow for as long as we have the patience. As for me, I hope someday I might make just one movement infused with the perfect musical score I felt that day. In the meantime, it’s the scales.