When I start working with a new student, our practice begins long before we step onto the training floor. I observe. The way they express their ideas. The way they walk and carry themselves. The way they deal with waiting for class to begin. The way they react when something doesn’t go according to plan.

One of the things that makes my teaching very specific, very Kat-like, is that I pay attention to as many details as I can. For me, Chinese martial arts aren’t only about kicking as high as possible, performing impressive rotations, landing in perfect postures, or executing self-defense techniques efficiently. They are about self-mastery.

They are about striving to become a little better than we were yesterday.

I often describe this as striving for “near-perfection” in every aspect possible. I know that phrase may rub some people the wrong way, and I use it intentionally. What I actually mean by it—and how it applies even to inner styles such as Taijiquan and Qigong—is something I’ll explore in a future article.

One of the things I notice almost immediately is that many people misunderstand what it means to be relaxed. They arrive at class carrying tension they aren’t even aware of. Their shoulders are lifted, their jaws are tight, their breathing is shallow. It often feels as though their bodies have spent the entire day bracing themselves, simply trying to make it to bedtime.

That is one of the reasons why 松 (song) is among the first principles we discuss.

Most beginners use far more tension than they realize. The shoulders creep upward, the hips tighten, the jaw clenches, and the chest becomes rigid. Every bit of unnecessary tension acts like a roadblock. It interferes with movement and prevents force from travelling efficiently through the body.

The process of developing song is largely the process of finding those roadblocks and letting them go. As tension decreases, movement becomes smoother, balance improves, and the body begins to function as a connected whole rather than a collection of separate parts.

Song is not something you achieve once and keep forever. The deeper you go into Taijiquan, the more layers of unnecessary tension you discover. After more than twenty-five years of training Chinese martial arts, I still catch myself holding tension in places I didn’t even know could be tense.

Song isn’t a destination.

It’s a process.