by Aspen Audley

(photo c/o Michigan Tech University)

I WAS SMACK DAB in the center of my tai chi group, trying my best to follow along with my classmates, when he—Mr. Tai Chi Know-It-All—approached.

It was only my third lesson, but I’d already fallen in love with this beautiful dance-like form of martial arts. Its slow, graceful movements soothed me, and I was intrigued at how every motion, no matter how elegant, had its roots in self-defense. It was all about harmony: for every right turn, there was a left; for every pull, there was a push. The steps and poses somehow felt intuitive to me, as though my body had been designed for them. In such a short time, I’d already come to view tai chi as not just healthy for my body, but also fundamental to my well-being.

I’d signed up because I’d been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, and my balance wasn’t great. My neurologist recommended the class, as its many turns and occasional one-legged stances would help to improve my sense of equilibrium and build up the strength and agility necessary to prevent falls. I staggered and lurched and flapped my arms, but I refused to give up.

The park was enchanting that day, with its statuesque trees bending over us, its quiet river flowing down the little green hill, waterfowl plodding from picnic table to picnic table. It was early morning, so the air was crisp and the sky rosy hued. An herbal freshness surrounded me, and I drew in deep breaths of it as I moved, closing my eyes, letting my body relax.

Then Mr. Tai Chi Know-It-All came up. He was, as far as I could tell, just another student. But he apparently thought pretty highly of himself because, without so much as an introduction, he began critiquing me. He told me I was pointing my foot in the wrong direction, holding my elbows too high, turning my waist too far, not bending my knees enough. As he spoke, he began showing me the “proper” way to do things, making sure to point out the differences between his technique and mine. He spoke authoritatively and stood so close that I could smell the minty residue of his mouthwash. My mind became rocky and stiff, and, though I tried, I found myself unable to speak. Finally, he finished, said something I could not process, something about the dantian and qigong, and walked away. I was left standing alone, shaking, confused, cold.

Shortly thereafter, our teacher announced that it was time to break into small groups to practice what she’d taught. She pulled out a piece of paper from her pocket and began reading off names, randomly dividing us into groups of six, each with a group leader. I got my assignment and walked over to the designated practice spot.

I was rehearsing in my mind the steps I’d learned when who should stride up but none other than Mr. Tai Chi Know-It-All himself. He informed us that he would be our group leader—not just for the day, but for the entire twelve-week class. Apparently, he’d been taking tai chi for a while, and the teacher had asked him to take on this role. I watched as he smiled big and acted nice in front of everyone, then I bolted to the back of the group, doing my best to get outside of his line of sight.

Unfortunately, my efforts were in vain. After watching us from afar, he began walking among us, stopping at each individual to inspect their technique up close. Eventually, he got to me. “Okay, show me Part the Wild Horse’s Mane,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back.

I stared at him for a few seconds, hoping to convince him telepathically that I shouldn’t have to do this, I was just a beginner. He looked back at me in a way I did not understand, in a way that seemed out of place in a tai chi class—raised eyebrows, darting eyes, a curious, closed-lip smile. I waited for clarification, but he said nothing.

So, I began to move. I started out nicely, my arms holding a big, invisible ball, right hand on top, left on the bottom, just like the teacher had told us. But then, the problems started. I stepped to the right instead of the left—and then vice versa. My hands got confused. I forgot to bend my knees. And worst of all, I lost my balance while turning and had to take a huge recovery step and flail my arms about to avoid falling.

After I’d finished, I looked at Mr. Tai Chi Know-It-All with trepidation. His face had changed, and now was one of pity, bewilderment—even alarm. I broke into a sweat.

Without warning, he walked up and grabbed my wrists.

“I’ll show you,” he said.

Before I could protest, he was moving my arms through each part of the movement. Together, we held the ball with the left hand, then separated the hands to the left, then we held the ball with the right hand and separated the hands to the right. As we were doing this, he was talking to me, but I couldn’t comprehend any of what he said. It was as if I were a marionette doll whose puppeteer spoke gibberish.

He finally let go of me and asked if I had any questions. I assured him that I did not and then lied and said that I appreciated his help. He smiled, bent his head to the side, and said, “You’re very welcome.” I waited for him to walk away, but he just stood there, saying nothing, looking at me steadily—until the teacher called his name.

The next several classes, I did my best to avoid Mr. Tai Chi Know-It-All. It wasn’t easy, considering that he was my small group leader, but I discovered that if I stood in a strategic location, farthest from where he started his inspections, he sometimes ran out of time before he got to me. I also found a good spot during the whole class practice sessions—about halfway back and to the right, where I could still watch and imitate my more experienced classmates, but stay out of his view.

One day, however, someone took my usual spot. Looking around, I tried to find another one, but they were all within easy viewing distance of Mr. Tai Chi Know-It-All. After some thought, I chose to stand behind him and just to the left, which seemed to me to be the least problematic of the remaining places. I crossed my fingers that I would not make any mistakes while he was looking my way.

The teacher started the music, and we began. First, Commencing Position: I slowly picked up my left foot, placed it on the ground with the utmost lightness, then used my right foot to push half of my weight onto it. Next, I raised my arms up in front of my body to the level of my shoulders, then pressed them down while bending my knees. This was easy—I felt good so far. Then came Parting the Wild Horse’s Mane. I’d practiced this one obsessively since my embarrassing small group experience, so I finally felt as though I could do it well. And I did. I held the ball with the correct hand, turned the right direction, and separated my hands at the proper angle. I was feeling so proud of myself when I happened to glance over at Mr. Tai Chi Know-It-All.

He was moving slower than I was, and more continuously, gliding from one movement to the next with seamless fluidity. His posture was perfect: straight back, relaxed shoulders, relaxed elbows, bent knees. Before each turn, he made small sophisticated-looking counterturns, and followed them with majestic sweeps of his arms. He took giant side steps and sunk nearly to the ground while performing Snake Crawls through the Grass, then hoisted himself back up with what had to have been tremendous strength. His kicks were high and well-controlled, and, during Rooster Stands on One Leg, he was as stable as a stone pillar. Throughout, his face was pure reverence.

It was then that my eyes were opened, and Mr. Tai Chi Know-It-All metamorphosed into the illustrious Mr. Tai Chi.

From that point on, I did my best to position myself such that I could watch him during our big group practices. There was no way I could have my eye on him the whole time because of our constant turns, but I found that if I stood in that spot I’d discovered—behind him and just to the left—I had a pretty good view of him throughout all of the twenty-four movements.

I learned much about tai chi by observing him in secret. Just by his example, I mastered coordinating my arms and legs during Brush Knee and Push, transitioning smoothly between Single Whip and Cloud Hands, and bracing myself during the kicks by bending my knees. I was still awkward, and my balance remained an issue, but I was getting better.

One morning, a few weeks after I’d started shadowing him, I arrived to class late and discovered that another student had taken my usual spot. Fortunately, there was still space directly behind Mr. Tai Chi. I grabbed it and figured all was not lost.

I was wrong. I discovered right away that, because of our orientation, watching him would have required that I crane my neck and lean way over to the side, putting me at risk for falling. Still, I needed someone to follow. I scanned around, considering my prospects. Cora was good, but she was too far away. There was Mark, but he still hadn’t mastered the basic Bow Stance, so I doubted he would be of much help. I considered Bob, but bless his heart, he was just as wobbly as I was. Eventually, I settled on Eric.

I trained my eyes on him, patterning my movements after his. I stepped the same way he did, waved my arms like his, replicated his pace. All was fine at first. But the next thing I knew, we went directly from Brush Knee and Push to Repulse the Monkey, completely skipping over Playing the Lute. And, looking around, I noticed that we were going faster than everybody else. When the teacher called for everyone to slow down, I cringed because I knew she was talking about us. I tried to recover, but by then, I was so discombobulated that I forgot most of the steps—and stumbled through the rest.

I made sure never to be late again.

After working on High Pat on the Horse and the right kick, our small group moved on to Strike the Ears with Both Fists. I was standing in the first row, as I’d started doing, and Mr. Tai Chi was in front of me, discussing the finer points of the movement.

I was reflecting on what he’d said when he suddenly stepped forward. This brought him to within inches of me, so close that, as before, I could smell the mint on his breath. He then took his hands, made them into fists, and in a sweeping motion, brought them up to my ears. With his arms encircling my head, and his face before mine, I had no choice but to look directly at him.

And when I did, something inside me shifted. I noticed for the first time how deep brown—and kind—his eyes were. My heart rate accelerated. I began blushing. He was speaking—I heard him say something about dropping your elbows and holding chopsticks—but his words were jumbled and muted. Everything around me blurred. Only he stayed in focus.

And in that moment, just as the brittle, crackly autumn leaves fluttering around us transformed into cloud-soft snowflakes, he became a magical person to me. It hardly seemed possible to have changed my mind so suddenly, to feel something that hadn’t been there before. But the attraction was undeniable. Everything about him was now bewitching: the way his hair spiked up in the back, the way he wore neon yellow socks with black pants, the deferential way he said “tai chi.”

With a thrill, I began to wonder about what he was doing when we weren’t in class. Could we be listening to the same song on the radio? Might I bump into him when running errands? I pretended to need his help in our small group and after class, asking him how to do movements I’d already mastered. Wanting to make him proud, I went from practicing once a day to twice. I even changed my eating habits. Mr. Tai Chi was too wonderful to eat unhealthy foods, I was sure, so I gave up the chocolates I loved to be more like him.

One day, I found the courage to tell him that I hoped to be as good as he was someday. A bashful look flashed across his face. Then, in a moment that left me breathless and weak-kneed, he reached out and lightly touched my forearms. The experience lasted mere seconds, but it was long enough for me to feel the warmth from his fingertips seep through my skin.

Shortly thereafter, we concluded the fall classes and embarked on a new, twelve-week winter- spring session. On the first day of class, I noticed some new faces, including that of a woman about my age. Her name was Marie, and I learned in the big group introduction circle that she was brand new to tai chi.

She was petite, with long, glossy hair; big, round eyes; and heart-shaped lips. Her fingernails were manicured, with pale pink polish that shone as she moved her hands. She was wearing perfume—the expensive kind—and stylish clothing that showed off her trim figure. She walked like a princess, floating through the air, her head held high, her shoulders drawn back, her stomach pulled in.

As before, the teacher divided us into small groups, but this time, she took me out of Mr. Tai Chi’s group and put Marie there in my place. As I shuffled over to my new practice spot, I followed her with my eyes as she walked up to him, and they began talking. Though I couldn’t hear what they were saying, the big smiles on their faces and the way their eyes sparkled made it clear that they were having a grand time—much too much of a grand time. My face burned.

I began scrutinizing everything they did. Time and again, I saw her make a beeline for him between practice sessions, her face full of excitement. They’d talk throughout the entire break—which was more than he and I had ever done—apparently oblivious to all the activity around them. In the small group, he devoted what seemed to be excessive time with her, and they began practicing one-on-one after class. Once, I stayed late to ask him for some pointers, but, as I was gathering my things, she reached him first. I stood there alone, watching them far longer than one would consider polite, but he never once acknowledged me. I began studying his face and body in a way I hadn’t before: How long did he maintain eye contact with her? Were his arms crossed or open? Did he mirror her motions?

One day, during the small group practice, they were standing exceptionally close, blending into each other, smiling, laughing, and then, with a look of tenderness on his face, he reached out and placed his hand on her back.

I tried to avoid Marie, but this became difficult as she took to standing next to me during the big class practices. The day we were going over White Crane Spreads His Wings—my favorite movement—she made several attempts at conversation, talking right over the teacher. Clenching my jaw, I stared straight ahead and gave her one-word answers, hoping she’d leave me alone. She’d stop for a minute or two but then begin again. I managed to ignore her—until she brought up Mr. Tai Chi.

“He’s fantastic, don’t you think?” she whispered, peering at him.

I looked at her for several seconds without saying anything. Then, in a sharp voice, I replied, “Yes, yes, he is.”

“We’ve been working together for a while now, and he’s helped me so much. He’s so nice, so patient. I don’t know how I would learn all of this without him.”

I closed my eyes and exhaled deeply.

“I wonder how long he’s been—”

I turned my head and snapped at her. “Marie, I’m trying to listen to the teacher. Can we talk about this later?”

Her eyes flew open, and she jumped backward. “Oh, okay. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.”

I jerked my head forward again, leaving her staring at my profile. Breathing fast and sweating everywhere, I then took two big steps to the right and fixed my eyes on the back of Mr. Tai Chi’s head.

Marie and I did not have any more interactions going forward.

Near the end of the spring session, our teacher began preparing us for a performance at the city’s annual Asian Festival. I’d never been in a tai chi performance before and was excited. We worked extra hard and, by the designated weekend, we were ready.

The park was bursting with people and activities: traditional dancers in lavish costumes; vendors with their silks, origami kits, and kites; children clutching their karate trophies. As we walked by the bonsai tree gallery, rich aromas from the surrounding teriyaki beef and chicken barbecue food trucks swirled around us. Butterflies were everywhere—thousands of them—flitting about us like an iridescent welcoming committee.

Once we reached the tai chi stage, we stood on the sidelines and watched the fan and sword demonstrations. I kept one eye on the performance and the other on Mr. Tai Chi, paying close attention to his reactions to the loud snapping of the fans and the sword performers’ ballet-like step sequences. I tried to be discreet, but, at one point, he looked my way and caught me staring at him. The heat rushed to my face, and I became lightheaded.

In no time, it was our turn. We formed a straight line and walked single-file onto the stage. It was large and richly decorated, with vibrant, red and green, sharp-toothed fabric dragons, opulent Korean hanbok, dainty Japanese paper parasols, and bright red Chinese lanterns. It was a warm day, but the overhead canvas provided shade, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the change in lighting. The audience was quiet, their eyes directed at us. Out of nervous habit, I grabbed my left wrist with my right hand and squeezed as hard as I could. Trying to relax, I looked around at my classmates.

We were all dressed alike, in loose, white, silky uniforms that felt cool against my skin. We stood in perfect rows, our spines straight, our shoulders relaxed, our faces tranquil. Mr. Tai Chi was in the front, as usual, and I was in my favorite spot, behind him and to the left.

The music started, and we began moving in unison, flowing through the exquisite choreography with practiced serenity. As I pivoted, lunged, and whirled my arms, I kept my eyes anchored on Mr. Tai Chi, making sure I didn’t go too fast or forget any detail. Marie was there, too, of course, but I made a point not to look at her.

Soon enough, it was time for the right kick. I took a deep breath and stepped forward with my left foot, heel down first. Next, I shifted my weight forward, brought my right foot in, and carefully lifted my right knee. Then, with a rotation of the right hip and a slow extension at the right knee, I’d done it. I’d managed the kick without stumbling.

The left kick, the Snake Crawls through the Grass movements, and the first Rooster Stands on One Leg also went smoothly. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was almost finished with the one-legged stances.

But everything changed once we got to the second Rooster Stands on One Leg. The moment I brought my left leg up, my right leg started to shake, and my body began to sway. To maintain my balance, I was forced to set my left foot down, which led to my tumbling into Fair Lady Works the Shuttles too early. I think I could have recovered at that point, but my left foot rolled outward, and then my torso pitched to the left. And when that happened, I lost what little balance I had left and went straight to the ground. It happened so fast, I didn’t have time to brace myself with my arms. I landed with a thud on the side of my face.

My head and ankle exploded with pain. Through tears, I saw my classmates staring down at me with shocked faces, their bodies frozen. I wanted to melt into the floor, scamper away, evaporate—anything to be out from under their gaping eyes. But I couldn’t move.

Then I saw him—Mr. Tai Chi—pushing his way through the crowd to get to me. He looked panicked.

In a frantic voice, he asked me if I was okay. I told him I wasn’t, that in fact I didn’t know if I could walk. The next thing I knew, he bent down, and I was in his arms.

He carried me off stage and over to a quiet spot in the park, where he gently set me down on the grass. Sitting there, with my legs bent and my arms around my knees, I watched as his shocked expression eased into one of calm concern. He told me he was going to call for medical help, which he did, and then he sat down next to me.

“You should go back to the performance now,” I said. “Everyone will be disappointed if you’re not there. I’ll be fine once the medical people arrive.”

“No, I’m not going to leave you.” His voice was warm but determined.

I was quiet for a few seconds, trying to decide what to say, and then I got brave. “Thank you so much. It makes me feel good to have you here. I think you have a positive effect on me.”

He looked down and smiled. I took this chance to study his profile: the delicate curl of his eyelashes, the rounded contours of his nose and lips, the angulation of his jaw. After a pause, he said, “You know, I’ve really missed working with you one-on-one.”

I got very still and held my breath.

Still looking down, he continued, “I’ve been wanting to, but I was asked to help Marie. Do you know Marie?”

I let out my breath and said, “Yes, I know her.”

“Well, she has early-onset Parkinson’s disease. Moving is getting hard for her, so she needs a lot of help with things like tai chi.”

My stomach twisted into a tight knot. I stammered, “Oh, that’s awful. I’m so sorry to hear it.” I quickly thought back over my interactions with her and winced.

“Yes,” he replied. “I know. But still. I miss spending time with you.”

Hearing him say this, I wanted to look at him, to let him see, make him know, for sure, how his words affected me—but I couldn’t do it. I found the nearest tree and focused on it, listening to the sound of my irregular breathing. I miss spending time with you. That’s not something you say casually, is it? How did he say it? With what tone of voice? With what facial expression? Was I reading too much into it? He may have meant nothing by it. Really nothing. People say these sorts of things. But what if that’s not true? What if he really did mean something by it? I dashed through these thoughts and questions while trying to compose myself.

Finally, I felt calm enough to turn my head back, just enough so I could see him in my peripheral vision. He was looking directly at me.

I took a deep breath and met his gaze.

And then our eyes locked, we did not look away, we did not blink, and I knew, for certain, from those eyes, from the tilt of his head, from the curve of his mouth, that there was a secret understanding, a promise, a future. There was much to say, but for now, we sat in silence, relishing the gentle sun on our skin, the sweet quacking of the ducks, and the mesmerizing, romantic notes of the tai chi music.

Aspen Audley is an emerging writer who lives in Texas. Her hobbies include tai chi, taking walks, and reading.