The mist on Wudang Mountain carries no ego. It simply covers the peaks and lets the sun reveal them when the time is right. Over the years I have practiced many systems, each with its own clarity and strength. Yet the Taiji that unfolded for me in the traditional Sanfeng Pai classroom felt like returning to the source—not because it stands above others, but because it remained whole, untouched by the need to please crowds or sell quick results.
I do not say this to claim ownership or superiority. The Dao does not belong to any one person or lineage. Every sincere path carries real transmission when taught with integrity. Practitioners find genuine benefit in them: better health, calmer mind, functional skill. I respect that deeply.
The Unity of Form, Application, and Internal Work
In many places today Taiji splits into pieces. One class for gentle health movements, another (often hidden) for fighting applications, a third for vague energy talk. In the traditional Sanfeng Pai training I received under Masters Yuan Xiu Gang and Chen Shiyu at Yuxu Gong, no such division existed. The 13 steps taught the root principles—ward off, roll back, press, push—in their simplest, most honest expression. From there the form grew naturally: 28 steps, then longer sequences. Each layer added depth without changing the essence.
Martial application appeared early and stayed integrated. We practiced push hands that revealed structure, timing, and rooting under real pressure—not polite touching. Weapons followed the same principles: sword moved with the same silk-reeling spirals as empty hand. Standing practice (zhan zhuang) lasted long enough—twenty minutes minimum—for the body to settle, qi to circulate, and awareness to sharpen. Nothing felt added on; everything belonged together.
This wholeness feels uncommon now. Commercial needs often shorten forms, soften intent, separate health from combat. I understand why—it makes the art reachable for more people. Yet when the pieces separate, something essential gets quieter.
Hardship as the Real Teacher
Yuxu Gong was not hidden away in some remote corner. Tourists walked through the courtyards every day—groups taking photos, guides speaking loudly, people in bright clothes wandering past the training area. The place buzzed with visitors. Yet inside our classroom the atmosphere stayed different. We trained beside young Chinese students in the lineage program—the real one that takes years, not the adapted version set up for short-term foreigners. Corrections came direct: if posture failed or movement lacked connection, the master adjusted physically. Effort mattered more than comfort. That environment shaped a different seriousness.
People who lived through hardship—Cultural Revolution, scarcity, survival—approached practice with raw commitment. The body learned faster because it had no choice. Tourists passed by, snapped pictures, and moved on. We stayed. Modern training often prioritizes ease and quick progress. Both have value, but the old way built something enduring: patience, resilience, depth that reveals itself only after consistent time and honest repetition.
I do not romanticize pain. I simply note what I saw: real gongfu—skill through time and effort—grows strongest when the practitioner meets resistance without escape, even when the world outside the training hall keeps moving at its own pace.
Why Start with Taiji 28 Steps – and Why 13 Steps Feels Harder at First
Many ask about the progression on wudang.academy. The curriculum begins with Taiji 28 steps for most people. It introduces the full vocabulary of movements in a balanced way: all eight gates and five steps appear, principles connect smoothly, and the sequence flows without overwhelming repetition or complexity. Beginners grasp the rhythm, build coordination, and feel the internal connections more naturally. The form sits in a sweet spot—long enough to embody the essence, short enough to memorize without years of struggle.
Taiji 13 steps comes next, often after someone has solid experience with 28. At first glance it looks shorter and simpler—only thirteen distinct postures. Yet it demands more. The movements pack denser intent: tighter turns, clearer expressions of opposites, less room to hide mistakes. Every transition exposes posture, alignment, and relaxation. Many find it harder because it strips away extra motions and forces precision. What feels basic on paper becomes a mirror for deeper flaws once the body knows the principles from 28. Layers missed in the longer form suddenly appear.
This order works because it mirrors how the body learns. First expand the map with 28, then refine it sharply with 13. Skip straight to 13 without foundation, and frustration builds. Build through 28 first, and 13 becomes revelation—deeper roots, clearer power, stronger internal awareness.
Principles Over Mystification
Wudang Taiji never relied on secrets or magic words. Silk-reeling explained spiral power through body mechanics. Rooting came from aligned structure and relaxed weight. Breath coordinated with movement to calm the nervous system and build tangible internal connection. Applications worked because of leverage, timing, angles—not mysterious qi blasts.
I teach the same way on wudang.academy. Start with 28 steps to grasp the foundation broadly. Move to 13 steps to sharpen it. Show applications alongside form so intent stays clear. Explain through science when it helps—neuromuscular patterns, fascia lines—while honoring the Daoist view of harmony between opposites
No one needs to believe in legends to benefit. Practice sincerely, and the principles prove themselves.
A Quiet Stream in a Changing River
Many beautiful rivers flow from the same mountain source. The classic family styles each carry authentic roots and offer real value when the teaching stays honest. Practitioners deepen in health, calm, and skill through dedicated work in any of them.
Yet something quiet and rare survives in the old Sanfeng way I carry. Even at Yuxu Gong, surrounded by daily crowds of tourists, the lineage class held its own rhythm. Few carry this full transmission anymore: the complete progression, the integrated martial and internal work, the demand for real effort over performance.
My task remains humble. Pass it forward clearly. Offer it to anyone ready to walk slowly and consistently. On the platform the curriculum follows exactly what I learned: 28 steps first for accessible depth, then 13 steps to uncover what lies beneath.
If this resonates—if you seek a path where health, skill, and quiet insight grow together without division—the door stays open. Not as the only way, but as one that has stayed true.
The mountain teaches best in silence. I speak only to point toward the practice itself. Step onto the path. Let time and sincere effort show what is real.