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[Martial Arts] Sword Dance Under the Bright MoonAuthor: Jeffi Chao Hui Wu Time: July 10, 2025, Thursday, 3:56 PM ········································ [Martial Arts] Sword Dance Under the Bright Moon
I love practicing swordplay around five in the morning, practicing my self-created sword techniques. Around the fifteenth of each month, there comes a special moment—when the full moon has not yet waned, and the rising sun has not yet appeared, the entire world seems frozen between two time frames. On one side is the tranquility of the unfinished night, and on the other is the hope of dawn about to break. At this moment, no one disturbs me, there are no sounds of vehicles, no birdsong, and even the wind seems reluctant to intrude; only that bright full moon hangs high in the sky, illuminating me as I stand alone on the grass.
The temperature by the sea is about six to nine degrees Celsius. I wear a summer quick-dry T-shirt and thin long pants, which is the time when most people would wear jackets or fleece pants. For most, it is a time that requires jackets and warm pants; but I have long been accustomed to waking my body through practice, using the natural energy of the world to circulate my internal qi. Especially in the horse stance, I usually start to feel warm after standing for five minutes, and after ten minutes, my whole body is evenly sweating. This is not the sudden sweat caused by intense exercise, but rather a natural flow of heat that seeps from my pores as my internal energy promotes the circulation of blood and qi, like a warm and living mist enveloping my entire body.
In this state, I begin to practice swordplay, with my qi flowing throughout the entire process, and my movements almost without pause. Sweat evenly seeps from my back, arms, and chest, and a clear bead of sweat even flows down my forehead along the center of my brows. This state of evenly sweating does not bring fatigue; instead, it makes my mind clearer and my thoughts more tranquil.
Whenever I stand on the open grass, facing the full moon that has not yet set, a sense of indescribable calm rises within me. Between heaven and earth, there is a blue-gray chill, neither night nor day. This is the true "practice color"—not restless, not agitated, neither bright nor dark, where qi is most easily generated and the mind is most easily settled. At this moment, I do not rush to begin my movements; instead, I stand still for a few breaths, feeling the crisp airflow of the world before it awakens, flowing between my fingertips and the soles of my feet.
Once my breath is steady, I slowly raise my hand to initiate the movement, the sword rising under the moonlight. At that moment, it is not I who am dancing the sword, but the universe using my body to write a poem of the sword. The movements are natural, slow, and silent; I do not pursue so-called "standard movements," but instead follow the feeling of qi and the will of my body, moving naturally. "Initiate," "White Snake Spits Its Tongue," "Green Dragon Emerges from Water," "Swallow Flies Through the Forest"… each posture is a trajectory I draw in the air, sometimes unconsciously repeating a posture dozens of times, immersed in that state where qi, intention, and form are in harmony.
As my breath gradually stabilizes, I gently raise my hand, the sword rising under the moonlight. In that instant, I feel as if I am no longer myself, but a flowing light, a shadow traversing the gaps of time and space. The movements are neither fast nor slow; each Tai Chi sword posture unfolds like ripples in the air. I enjoy starting from "Initiate," slowly transitioning to "White Snake Spits Its Tongue," "Swallow Flies Through the Forest," and "Green Dragon Emerges from Water," following the feeling of qi in my body. Sometimes I practice only two or three postures, repeating them hundreds of times; other times, I complete an entire set, not for completeness, but for the process.
Under the moonlight, although the sword does not emit light, every thrust, stab, cut, and lift leaves a trace in the air. I can feel their presence; even if invisible, they truly exist in my bodily sensations and consciousness. When you reach a certain level, you no longer distinguish between "sword" and "self," no longer deliberately remember the sequence of movements, but instead, your whole being flows freely, moving with the qi. Just like water flowing through the cracks of stones, it will naturally find its way without forced guidance.
The most wonderful part is the interaction between the moonlight and the sword light. Although the sword does not shine, under the moonlight, every horizontal cut, wrist turn, and pull back seems to leave an invisible trace in the air. This trace is not a flashy technique visible to outsiders, but a natural flow line guided by qi and intention. It seems ethereal, yet it truly exists. It is not in the eyes, but in the heart—that is a "sword intention" connecting me with the universe and with myself.
In such moments, even if the wind stirs the grass, it does not disturb me. The sound of waves crashing against the shore comes from afar, providing me with a rhythmic echo. Sometimes, when I push out a posture, it feels as if it is not the sword moving out, but my entire consciousness flowing through the sword tip, penetrating a resonance point between heaven and earth. In that instant, person, sword, qi, and light all merge into one, with no distinction remaining.
Some ask me: Is it cold? I say, not at all. It is not because I am resisting the low temperature, but because my body has already tuned in with the universe. Cold only exists in those whose muscles and bones are stiff, and whose qi and blood are stagnant; while I practice swordplay under the moonlight, I often feel warm all over after just a few minutes, even breaking a slight sweat on my back. It is not due to intensity, but because of the flow of qi.
I never think of the words "cultivation" while practicing swordplay. That is too utilitarian a term. I practice swordplay simply by following the sensations of my body to perform the most natural movements. The moonlight is the best mirror, reflecting whether you are impatient, whether you are superficial, whether your movements and breath are in sync. Practicing during the day, the light is too strong, making your eyes and mind easily restless; while under the moonlight, you can only rely on feeling, on relaxation, and on breath to guide your movements. At the first sign of discord, you immediately know where the mistake lies.
One day, I remember particularly clearly. It was the fifteenth day of the lunar month, the full moon was just right, and I practiced slowly on the grass, starting from "Wind Sweeps the Cold Plum" and ending with "Phoenix Nods Its Head," taking nearly forty-five minutes. After finishing, I stood still, suddenly feeling the world fall into complete silence, even my heartbeat resonating with the distant sound of the waves. That state cannot be taught by any teacher—it can only come from the accumulation of long-term practice in resonance with nature. The moon became my origin, the gentle breeze became my opponent, and the earth became my support.
Practicing swordplay under the moonlight, there is no applause, no onlookers, no records. Just me, my sword, and this still awakening world. It was then that I truly understood what it means to "keep the sword close, and the heart close to the way." The sword is merely a medium; I am not dancing the sword, but using the sword to write a poem, a poem for this still-sleeping world, a poem for the self that has yet to be polluted.
Sword dance under the bright moon is the gentlest dialogue I have with the world, and it is my secret practice that belongs solely to the morning between heaven and earth.
Practicing under the sword is not for the sake of immortality, nor for showing off skills, but to converse with myself and resonate with the universe. Many people pursue the "form" of sword practice; I focus more on the "intention" and "qi" of swordplay. Only in these undisturbed, unpolluted moments under the bright moon, when the heart is calm, is it easiest to touch that layer of the invisible yet truly existing soul of the sword.
Over the years, I have long ceased to be obsessed with the progress or achievements of my practice; instead, I treat each "sword dance under the bright moon" as a cleansing of body and consciousness. It is the most natural meditation, a wordless healing, an unspoken tacit understanding between man and the universe.
Perhaps to others, I am just a solitary figure in the morning; but I know that in that moment, I am a part of the entire universe—neither more nor less, neither disturbing nor lingering. Source: https://www.australianwinner.com/AuWinner/viewtopic.php?t=696797 |
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