The Humility of Inheriting a Practice

In Honor of Richard...

A few months ago, the owner of a local studio reached out. 

She explained that a Tai Chi teacher named Richard had become ill and had been unable to teach for several weeks. He had told her it was time for someone else to continue the class, and one of my clients had recommended me.

I had heard of Richard before, though we had never met. We live in a fairly small town, and there are only a handful of people teaching authentic Tai Chi—not necessarily masters or experts, but people sincerely trying to preserve both the art and the philosophy that gives it life.

Richard had been teaching in our community for more than twenty years.

When I began teaching his class, I expected it to be temporary. I planned to stay only until he was well enough to return. But as the weeks passed, it became clear that wasn’t going to happen.

His wife attended several of my classes and  told Richard about me. Together, they gave me their blessing to continue what he had started. Honored and humbled, I agreed. 

Over the past few months, I’ve fallen in love with this group.

They’re eager to learn the forms, but even more than that, they’re hungry to understand what lies beneath the movements. They ask thoughtful questions about philosophy, intention, energy, and presence. In many ways, they’ve helped me grow as a teacher. 

Then, a couple of weeks ago, one of the students approached me after class.

She said she and a few others really missed a particular Qigong form Richard had taught them.

They loved my classes. They loved learning with me.

But they missed Richard, too.

If I’m honest, my first reaction wasn’t very graceful.

I immediately thought about everything else I was already trying to teach. The forms I was learning. My upcoming trip to China. The things I hoped to bring back for them.

Adding one more form felt overwhelming.

For someone who talks a lot about flowing like water, I built a dam almost instantly.

Then something shifted.

I was out on my morning walk and found myself thinking about their request again. As I reflected, I realized the form wasn’t especially complicated. In fact, much of it naturally complemented the warm-ups and movements we were already practicing.

The resistance I’d felt wasn’t really about the form.

It was about me.

Somewhere along the way, I had begun thinking of it as my class; I had become focused on my own agenda.

But this wasn’t something I had built from the ground up.

Richard had spent more than 5 years cultivating this particular group of students. He had introduced them to Tai Chi and Qi Gong, guided them through countless classes, and created a community that welcomed me with open arms.

I wasn’t replacing his work; I was being invited to continue it.

Teaching often feels like leading from the front, but sometimes it means honoring the path someone else has already walked.

Sometimes the greatest respect we can show isn’t by starting something new.

It’s by preserving something good.

So, we’ll learn Richard’s Qigong form.

Not because I have to.

Because it’s part of this class’s story.

And now, it’s part of mine too.

~ Rhiannon