My Tai Chi master always said, “Tai Chi is about going with the flow, not forcing control.” It’s like sowing seeds when the spring breeze blows, or grabbing an umbrella when summer rain falls—you don’t fight the seasons; you move with their momentum. Later, I realized this applies to life too: stay calm in spring, keep cool in summer, let go of worries in autumn, and find peace in winter. Life, just like the circular movements of Tai Chi, will roll along steadily.

🌱 Spring Equinox · Starting Stance: Patience Planted in Soil

On the Spring Equinox, I dug out last year’s flower seeds. As I squatted on the balcony to plant them, the key points of the Tai Chi “Starting Stance” popped into my head: knees slightly bent, back relaxed, and energy flowing slowly from the soles of my feet up to my fingertips. I used to bury seeds deep in the soil, thinking that would help them grow strong, but they never sprouted. Now, I follow my master’s advice of “gentle touch”—pinching the seeds between my fingers, placing them lightly on the soil, then sprinkling a thin layer of dirt over them, like tucking the seeds under a soft quilt.

I’ve slowed down when watering too—holding the spout close to the soil, letting the water trickle out like a thin thread, careful not to disturb the seeds. My master said, “The Starting Stance is like spring rain—soft yet powerful, not a heavy downpour.” Every morning those days, I’d check the soil. When there was no sign of life, I’d just squat down and loosen the dirt a little, instead of digging up the soil to peek like I used to. On the seventh morning, I spotted two tiny yellow sprouts pushing through the earth. That’s when I understood: going with the timing is more important than forcing effort—seeds have their own pace, just like life has its own rhythm.

🌿 Summer Solstice · Cloud Hands: Coolness in Lotus Breeze

The afternoons around Summer Solstice are sweltering. The office AC hums nonstop, but my mind just can’t settle down. I remembered the days my master took us to practice Cloud Hands by the lotus pond. He said, “Tai Chi in summer should be ‘spreading’—like water droplets on a lotus leaf; if you gather them too quickly, they’ll roll away.”

I walked down to the small park nearby. The lotus flowers by the lake were in full bloom. Following my master’s example, I slowly traced a semicircle with my left hand, then caught the movement with my right—my gestures as gentle as lotus leaves swaying in the wind. Sunlight filtered through the leaves onto my hands, warm but not burning. My breath deepened with each movement: inhaling the scent of lotus flowers, exhaling the coolness of the lake water. Within minutes, the sweat on my forehead began to dry—not the chilly kind from AC, but a comfortable refreshment that seeped out from my bones. Turns out, the annoyance of summer isn’t just the heat; it’s my own hurried pace. Cloud Hands need slowness, life needs ease—even the hottest days have cool breezes.

🍂 Autumn Equinox · Wild Horse Splits Mane: Gaining and Letting Go in Rice Fields

I went back to my grandparents’ village for the Autumn Equinox to help with the rice harvest. Grandpa’s way of cutting rice was exactly like the “Wild Horse Splits Mane” move: left leg forward, right hand holding the sickle, a gentle lift to the upper left, and the rice ears would fall neatly into his arms. He said you can’t use brute force to cut rice—you have to follow the direction the stalks grow. Wherever the stalks bend, that’s where the sickle goes. Otherwise, you’ll cut your hand and waste the rice.

I tried cutting a few clumps myself. At first, I kept my back stiff as a board, and my waist ached after just a few cuts. Grandpa said, “Your waist should be like a rice stalk—flexible but unbreakable.” I relaxed my lower back, letting the strength flow with the swing of my arm, and it immediately felt easier. Sitting on the ridge at dusk, watching sacks of rice pile up like small hills, Grandpa fanned himself with his straw hat and said, “A good harvest isn’t just luck from the sky. It’s knowing when to bend and when to push.” Just like the Wild Horse Splits Mane move—it’s not about swinging your arms hard; it’s about stability when gathering and precision when extending. Autumn’s harvest always comes from spring’s patience and summer’s sweat, all by going with the flow.

❄️ Winter Solstice · Closing Stance: Warmth and Peace on a Snowy Night

It snowed heavily on the Winter Solstice. Wrapped in a quilt by the window, I suddenly thought of the Closing Stance: hands folded gently over the lower abdomen, breath sinking slowly, as light as snowflakes falling to the ground. I used to curl up on the sofa scrolling through my phone in winter, getting colder and more anxious the longer I scrolled. Now, I’ll brew a pot of hot tea and sit at the desk to practice calligraphy. The arc of my wrist as I write matches the circular motion of the Closing Stance perfectly.

My master said, “Tai Chi in winter is about ‘gathering energy’, not ‘idling’.” I dug out last year’s thick clothes to organize. Folding them, I followed the essence of the Closing Stance—slow and gentle movements, resulting in neatly folded clothes with sharp edges but no stiffness. When the snow stopped, I went out to clear the snow in the yard. Instead of shoveling hard, I pushed the snow with the broom, following the direction it had piled up, and heaped it at the base of tree roots as “winter fertilizer”. Back inside, my hands were bright red from the cold, but a sip of hot tea sent warmth sliding from my throat to my stomach. That’s when I understood winter’s purpose—it’s not about hiding from the cold, but gathering strength in quiet. Just like the Closing Stance isn’t an end; it’s preparation for a better Starting Stance in spring.

Tai Chi has never been about fighting the seasons; it’s about cultivating oneself alongside them. Learn patience in spring, composure in summer, choice in autumn, and accumulation in winter. As my master put it: “Tai Chi is a reflection of life. If you live steadily, you’ll practice Tai Chi well.”

When the last snowfall of the year came, I checked the flowers on my balcony again. Their leaves had fallen, but their roots were firm and strong. When the Spring Equinox comes next year, new sprouts will grow again. Just like this year’s journey: the anticipation of sowing, the joy of blooming, the warmth of harvesting, and the peace of snowy nights—every step was worth taking.

Snow is still falling outside the window. I hold a cup of hot tea and perform the Closing Stance, my breath matching the slow rhythm of the snowflakes. Turns out, the best kind of life is moving with the seasons, flowing with Tai Chi—neither rushed nor slow, just steady and serene.