By Kimine Mayuzumi
“Qi is soft like water — it can only be led, not pushed.” (Yang, 2018, p.481)
This quote reminds me that true power lies in softness. In both Tai Chi and writing, I’ve discovered that the gentlest energy often leads to the most powerful results.
In this reflection, I explore how Tai Chi principles – particularly yurumi, or softness – might offer a different way of approaching (academic) writing. Perhaps by bringing a sense of flow and release into the writing process, we may find greater ease, focus, or even joy.
What is yurumi?
Lately, one word has guided my reflection: yurumi (緩み).
In Japanese, yurumi translates roughly to “looseness,” “release,” or “softness.” It comes from the Chinese word sung (鬆), a foundational concept in both Qigong and Tai Chi. At its core, yurumi is about releasing unnecessary tension and force — a deliberate yet effortless looseness that allows us to meet external pressure not by resisting, but by embracing, absorbing, and redirecting it (Takami, 2015).
In fact, the Dao De Jing advocates for refraining from force and cultivating softness. In the Qigong interpretation, Yang (2018) explains that when the mind is filled with elements of the hard, like ego, anxiety, tension, and agitation, the qi gets stagnant — as a result, one can lose balance.
Whereas, yurumi brings a state of relaxation, ease, and softness that allows qi and blood to flow freely, nurturing clarity and wise decision-making.
As Yang (2018) writes, “Using softness to conquer the hard is the key principle of taijiquan (Tai Chi) practice. This is the reason that practicing taijiquan is so beneficial for one’s health — it enables the qi to circulate smoothly in the body” (p. 471).
Applying Tai Chi principles to academic writing
One of the most important lessons I’ve learned in Tai Chi is that every movement begins and ends with yurumi. It flows through everything.
As we move in Tai Chi, this state of yurumi touches the heart (心 xin), guides us to visualize (意 yi) the optimal movement, and allows the invisible energy (気 qi) to flow seamlessly. This process becomes focused action (力 li), expressed gracefully through the body (see Chugoku Taikyoku Bunkagakuin, Taikyokuken Nakamura Genko).
Over time, I began to notice how these principles also apply in writing.
Writing can feel difficult when the mind becomes filled with self-doubt, imposter feelings, anxiety, guilt, or shame — all of which create tension that can make us feel stuck.
Yet, I began to wonder what might happen if we approached writing with the same gentle flow I practice in Tai Chi — from yurumi (softness) to 心 xin (heart), 意 yi (intention), 気 qi (energy), and 力 li (action).
Imagine beginning your writing with yurumi — softening your body and mind before you start. From that ease that arises in your heart (心 xin), you visualize (意 yi) your optimal writing experience — a goal, an intention, or even a joyful scene of writing. As that vision takes shape, energy (気 qi) naturally flows through you, transforming into focused, embodied action (力 li). At that point, words may begin to appear on the page with ease, grace, and confidence.
This is the mindset I try to bring into my own writing — and the atmosphere I hope to cultivate in our Writing Circle, the virtual writing space I lead. My wish is that participants can experience this sense of flow and lightness by the end of each session, in whatever way feels authentic to them.
This reflection also deepens my appreciation for the five-minute guided meditation that begins each Writing Circle session. It serves as a simple, gentle way to invite yurumi — setting a tone of openness and flow, allowing writing to unfold with both focus and ease.
Remembering yurumi in childhood writing
Even before I understood the concept of yurumi, I had glimpses of it in my childhood writing experience.
When I was in fifth grade, I had to write an essay about my father. The assignment was due the next day, and I sat alone in our quiet living room, staring at the blank page. Nothing came. Frustration and pressure mounted.
Finally, I decided to step away. Outside, my grandmother, uncle, and mother were working in the nearby rice field, bundling straw after the harvest. I joined them, enjoying the rhythm of movement, the warmth of the autumn sun, and the laughter around me. By the end of the day, I felt alive, accomplished, and calm.
Returning to my desk, something had shifted. Words flowed easily, ideas emerged naturally, and I completed the essay quickly — later earning an award.
Looking back, I realize that what I experienced that day was a kind of yurumi: the gentle release that comes from letting go of forceful effort and opening to flow. By stepping away from the tension of trying, I made space for something softer and more alive to arise. Yurumi was already present, even in a child’s playful engagement with the world.
Forward and backward flow
In Tai Chi, movement often flows from the heart (心) to intention (意), to qi (気), and finally to action (力). Beginners, however, are often encouraged to experience this sequence in reverse: starting with focused action (li) by learning choreography of forms, which then awakens qi, clarifies intention (yi), and ultimately softens the heart (xin) (See Chugoku Taikyoku Bunkagakuin, Taikyokuken Nakamura Genko).
A similar pattern can emerge in writing. When unsure what to say, simply showing up — whether typing a few words, organizing references, or rearranging sentences — can initiate flow. One of my Writing Circle members aptly described this magic as BICHOK: Bum In Chair, Hands On Keyboard. She shared this BICHOK effect during our co-writing session. She had a foggy brain at the beginning, and by the end, made good progress with a new scene for her novel.
The key, whether moving forward or backward, is to maintain yurumi — staying soft, open, and patient as the process unfolds. By releasing tension and meeting the work with gentle awareness, creativity emerges more naturally, and the act of writing becomes less a struggle and more an engagement with possibility.
Ending with yurumi
Ending a writing session with yurumi means pausing to honor what has emerged, rather than pushing for more. It’s a gentle breath before moving on — a moment to acknowledge our being once again.
A short reflection or guided meditation after writing can help you return to this softness, letting the mind and body settle into ease.
In this way, beginning and ending with yurumi frames the writing process as a cycle of flow — softening into effort, channeling energy, and allowing creativity to unfold naturally.
I invite you to experiment:
Begin your writing with yurumi.
End with yurumi.
Let softness guide the space in between, and notice how ease transforms your engagement with the page.
Even a small shift — a mindful breath, a gentle pause — can open possibilities once blocked by tension. Yurumi isn’t a technique to master; it’s an invitation to meet your writing with openness, patience, and curiosity.
Image Credit: Kento Higashimura