Learning the Dao

In Tai Chi class, I'm learning how to wield the Chinese broadsword (Dao). It looks like a sabre, a single-edged curved sword. It can be used to hack, slash, and stab at your enemies.

I'm not a violent person, but I think every guy is fascinated with swords in some regard. It starts at a young age and for some of us, it never leaves our essence. It just lies there dormant until the opportunity arises.

The first time I picked it up, a wooden one, I had the familiar sensation that I'd held one before. It felt heavier than it looked. There's a popular saying that goes:

“One hundred years to master Dao, one thousand years to master Jian.”

The Jian is a double-edged straight sword. I probably won’t touch that in this lifetime. It's a gentleman's weapon requiring precision to wield. There's no margin for error.

The Dao on the other hand is a weapon for a brute. You swing that thing wildly, the weight of it carrying its momentum as it rips into flesh. The margin of error can be high. The ceiling is glass.

I've reached an intermediate stage in my Tai Chi journey. Over a thousand hours in a little over two years. I've gone hard the last nine months, 20 hours a week on average, a pace that doesn't feel sustainable but makes me feel very alive. I'm at the stage where I've learned enough to realise I know nothing. I'm looking at a mountain and its peak is hidden in the clouds.

The reason I must learn the Dao now is because it is an extension of me. A physical object in my hand, the point of the sword is my intention. It will teach me to project my intention further than my hands. It must travel further than the room I practise in, through the wall, through buildings, across the world, into a different dimension.

As I pick up a wooden sword mounted on the wall every class, I feel the heavy responsibility of every action I've ever taken. I'm not ten years old anymore swinging around a plastic sword. I choose what I spend my time on, I choose how I react to things that happen to me in this life. Mistakes are only mistakes if continuously repeated.

I grip the handle loosely like I was taught by my teachers. I look at it with intent. Intention isn't just something done in Tai Chi. Intention is everywhere.

The movements feel unnatural in the sword form. It feels weird holding something while doing Tai Chi. All the Tai Chi principles are still there though. It's still just Tai Chi. It's all Tai Chi.

I ask one of my teachers what this move does and he tells me it's to cut the artery in their thigh. Every move is to kill. I wince as I think about this. Brutal. Class ends. Thoughts start...

I was talking to an old friend about BJJ. He recently got into it again after a long break. I've been thinking about getting back into it too. It's been two years since my last lesson. He told me I was good. I don't think I was that good but I loved doing it. I could move well but I was always too playful. I never had the instinct to "get it" or to "smash". I knew I needed it to elevate my skill but I never had the "killer instinct".

I was no brute. "I'm a lover, not a fighter" I would joke with my classmates. They looked at me with amusement or disgust. I just didn't want to hurt anyone. In turn I was hurt a lot with this mentality. I remember what one guy told me:

"It's like hitting your sister. You don't want to hurt your sister but if she pisses you off, sometimes you want to give her a thump on the arm to release your frustration."

I never did learn how to thump my sister. I don't think I ever will.

I'm in my bedroom now. I'm practising the sword form. I don't have a sword at home so I use an umbrella. I grip it loosely, the handle between my index and middle finger, and I go through the motions. My steps uncertain, my right shoulder tenser than it should be, my movements almost certainly wrong, but I can't let that deter me. Doing it perfectly is impossible. I aim for less wrong. I aim for better, day in day out, as I wield my umbrella in the privacy of my bedroom.

Written 20th June 2025