A Beetle Never Quits!  Quitting is easy, but perseverance requires practicing Ren (tolerance), De (virtue), and Yong (bravery). 

By Erlene Chiang, DAOM, Dip OM, LAc

I am the second child of Masters YC Chiang and Hui Liu, born in 1964 in Taipei, Taiwan. I have three siblings—Edith (my older sister), Sam (my younger brother), and Suzan (my younger sister). I am married to Wenbin and we have two children Charlene and Laura.

Growing up in Master YC Chiang and Hui Liu's home was a blessing. My parents cherished having company and would host gatherings with their friends at least twice a month, year-round. They would prepare their favorite Chinese dishes for their guests, and of course, my parents would call upon my siblings and me to help in the kitchen. Master YC Chiang and Hui Liu were highly skilled at cooking northern Chinese cuisine, and during the many hours we spent in the kitchen alongside them, we learned their secret recipes and committed them to heart. My parents were generous, wise, and kind to their friends and even their friends' friends. Despite their lighthearted social natures and their fondness for hosting, they emphasized balanced lifestyles and possessed a strong sense of discipline and commitment to their work.

My siblings and I each began martial arts training at five years old under our father's instruction. Like all martial arts students, we began our training by learning the basic warm-up exercises, such as chin-to-toe, side stretches, kicks, and the Ten-line Tantui Gongfu set. As a young, healthy child with endless energy and excellent flexibility, I found stretching easy. At five years old, chin-to-toe felt like any other warm-up stretch, simple and not particularly challenging or unusual.

In 1972, when I was eight years old, my father was hired by Master Kuo Lien-Ying to teach Taiji in San Francisco. My father immigrated to the United States, and my mother, siblings, and I remained in Taiwan. Although he was away, my siblings and I remained committed to our Gongfu practice. We began to study under Master Li Mao-Ching, revered as the best and strictest Gongfu master in Taiwan.

When school was in session, my siblings and I practiced with Master Li during the weekend. But during the summer, from age 8 to 12, I walked with my siblings daily to Xin Gong Yuan, meaning "Modern Public Park," in Taipei to study with Master Li. Under the blazing summer sun, the air thick with subtropical humidity, we practiced without a break for three hours under his careful watch. We practiced Ma Bu (meaning “horse stance” in Chinese, a Gongfu standing meditation requiring one to hold a low stance where the knees are bent at 90 degrees with the feet parallel, slightly wider than shoulder-width apart) and Deng Shan Bu (meaning "hiking stance"). Edith, my older sister, and I were required to practice Ma Bu for 30 minutes without a break because we were girls, while my younger brother, Sam, was required to stand for 45 minutes to one hour without a break. Master Li sometimes placed a long staff across our thighs to ensure our stance was low enough. If the staff rolled off our legs onto the ground, Master Li knew we were not practicing our Ma Bu correctly. But Master Li did not need to use the staff—he possessed eyes behind his head and was always aware if one was lazy and not trying their best in practice.

As a child, I did not know the importance of staying hydrated when exercising in the summer heat. Darkness crept into my peripheral vision many times during practice, and stars flashed before my eyes. I would begin to lose consciousness and teeter on the edge of fainting. But during these occasions, a reassuring voice inside my head said, "Stand straight and don't fall. Just hold on for one more minute. Just one more minute." Though initially a whisper, practice after practice, this voice became loud and powerful. In defiance of the immense physical strain, I remained conscious. As a child executing Ma Bu under the hot Taiwanese summer sun, I learned to practice Ren—tolerance and endurance. Each minute felt too long to bear, but the persevering voice always urged, "Just a little longer, and this will pass." And the time did pass—minute by minute, hour by hour, and day by day as I spent my childhood summers practicing Ren in Xin Gong Yuan.

Our practice with Master Li ended when I was 12 when our family immigrated to the United States to be reunited with my father. When our family arrived in California, Master Henry Look, who we referred to as Uncle Look, said we needed American names. To make our American names easier for my parents to pronounce, Uncle Look named us based on our birth order:
Edith, as "e" means "one" in Chinese.

Erlene, as "er" means "two."

Sam, as "san" means "three."

Suzan, as "su" means "four."
 

We embraced our new identities as we made a new home in El Cerrito, California.  But starting a new life in the United States was challenging. I did not speak or understand a single word of English. When I began 7th grade in America, my father often came to school to speak to the principal and counselor to help translate for me and discuss the curriculum with the school administrator. I will never forget the sight of my father striding through the front doors of my junior high school with his short, flat army haircut, neatly dressed in a black silk mandarin collar jacket, loose black martial arts pants, and black cotton martial arts shoes with white soles. He stood out among the other parents, but despite the eyes that followed him down the hallways, he walked purposefully with his head up and back straight. His steps were so light and swift that he appeared to glide across the floor, and he radiated an energy that captured your attention.

As a new immigrant and one of only three Asian students at my junior high, I felt isolated and lonely. However, after several visits from my father, students began to whisper about the “man in black.” Rumor said he was a Karate black belt, so nobody should mess with me. Suddenly, curious students began to stop me in the hallways to ask if the "man in black” was my father. I was proud to be able to smile and nod that he was.

Immigrating did not interrupt our Gongfu practice. My father's first priority for our home was paving a large cement courtyard in the backyard as a dedicated space to practice martial arts. Each Saturday and Sunday at 8:00 am, I would join my siblings in the courtyard to begin standard warm-up exercises. After warming up, we practiced our martial arts sets for two hours.

Some days it felt like practice lasted an eternity. Each of us practiced our own sets while my father did yard work, glancing at us from time to time out of the corner of his eye. When we thought he was not watching or was out of sight, we sometimes tried to sneak in a short break, but somehow, just like Master Li, my father had eyes at the back of his head and would always catch us and remind us to practice diligently.

At the end of each practice, he reviewed my sets. If I demonstrated perfectly, he would smile and approve with a simple "good." My heart always burst with joy upon hearing his contentment, and spirits would lift as I relaxed my muscles and quieted my inner voice of perseverance. I demonstrated my Gongfu and weapons sets thousands of times, and each time, I still felt the same joy upon seeing his smile of approval.

When I was 16, my father started teaching Edith, Sam, and myself Guang Ping Yang Taiji. Taiji seemed easier because the set was less physically demanding than Gongfu and weapons sets. On the weekends, under my father’s careful watch and detailed guidance, I quickly committed the Guang Ping Yang Taiji set to heart.

I liked Taiji and its deliberate, paced movements. As I practiced the set, I felt the sensation of energy moving through my body. The more I practiced, the stronger my connection to this feeling. I later learned that being able to perceive this sensation meant I had a gift for understanding Yin and Yang. This gift would later benefit me in my practice of Traditional Chinese Medicine.

At 18 years old, I began practicing Wild Goose Qigong (Dayan Qigong). Each week, my parents and I would practice together at the old studio in its location in Albany, California, and study Wild Goose Qigong from a woman from Beijing who claimed to be Grandmaster Yang Mei-Jun's student. 

I am incredibly fortunate to have been able to study under some of the best Qigong, Taiji, and Gongfu instructors because of my parents. Yet even though I trained intensively from a young age and heard my father's stories of when his training enabled him to save himself from conflicts and saved himself and his school-brothers during communist war and Japanese war, he always taught me to use my brain before using my fists. "If you must use your fists," he would say, “you have only one chance. You must knock down your enemy in one move.” He trained me to utilize Guang Ping Yang Taiji and Gongfu in the fighting world if I ever encountered danger, but he firmly instilled in me never to take advantage of others or show off. He ensured that I understood De, the value of virtue and morality, and Wu De, the martial arts code of honor upholding virtue and morality.

In addition to being my first martial arts teacher, my father was also my first acupuncture teacher. Whenever I'm asked when I started practicing acupuncture, I respond, "Eight years old." At this age, instead of playing dress up with my only doll, I played doctor. Like a doctor, I first conducted an intake consultation about her symptoms, then inserted push pins at different parts on the dolls as if I were giving her a treatment. After treatment, I asked her (the doll) if she felt better, and if not, I proceeded with a follow-up consultation. I played doctor for over one and half years until the doll was completely cured (or destroyed by too many push pins). Then I went on to play something else. We had no toys because we couldn’t afford them, the doll was the only toy I had until I turned 14 years old. This was indeed the start of my acupuncture career.

I started working at my father's clinic at 16 years old as his part-time receptionist after school and on weekends. I cherished the opportunity to observe him practice acupuncture and develop herbal prescriptions. When I asked about his decision-making strategies in selecting or developing treatments, he shared that one must "be confident and be bold but be cautious simultaneously.” He embodied the practice of Yong, bravery. Over the years of working as his part-time receptionist and shadowing his practice, he never failed to remind me to practice Yong Qi (qi of being courageous) and mindfulness when helping patients. “Trust your knowledge and experience," he said, "but remember the health and safety of your patients always comes first.”

 I started assisting in managing Wen Wu School and the Acupuncture clinic in 2001, when my parents announced their half retirement. Learning to manage a business was challenging. Learning to manage a business and staff was even more difficult. Yet it was Ren, De, and Yong Qi, which enabled me to push through the frustration, the stress, and the tiredness to ensure my parents’ work could be shared with the world. Just like a beetle that can carry objects 100 times its body weight, Ren, De, and Yong Qi gave me the strength to carry the responsibility of continuing my parents’ legacy. Quitting is easy, but persevering is difficult.

Practice Yong Qi by believing in yourself.

Practice De by treating others the way you want to be treated. 
Practice Ren by following your goals, despite facing obstacles. 
These core values have carried me in my journey—I hope they will guide you on yours.

Thank you for this privilege to share my story and my parents’ teachings. With all my heart, I wish you success in your practice. When in doubt, practice Yong Qi, Ren, and De!