Why squeeze goats (in Wing Chun)?

I love Wing Chun. It’s simple, subtle, and effective. It combines sensitivity and somatic “listening” with speed and external power. It requires a searching intelligence, quick reactions, and the facility to switch instantaneously between states of tension and relaxation. Its mechanics are fascinating, especially when you start exploring the internal techniques of Chu Shong Tin’s, which seem to have a lot in common with the internal Jins of Taijiquan.

But one thing about Wing Chun that I’ve found kind of baffling is why we use Yee Gee Kim Yeung Ma for Siu Nim Tao, with its peculiarly pigeon-toed foot positioning. The stance is explicitly just for first form practice; we use a parallel stance for the other forms, and for Chi Sau – so why use it at all?

I’ve heard a few half-convincing reasons:

“It stabilises the hips…” Yeah, maybe.

“It helps with grounding…” Er, does it?

“It helps to develop intention by focusing the line of the feet towards a point…” Um, okay.

“It helps broaden the lower back and lengthen the spine…” But do you really need to rotate the legs to encourage posterior tilt?

“It strengthens the legs…” Doesn’t any “sitting” stance do this?

“It symbolises the potential to move into a turning stance…” That one actually makes the most sense to me.

“It trains the legs in an extreme position in order to develop certain power lines through the body…” Yes, I like that one, too, as it conforms with the way a lot of hand techniques are trained.

Oh, and even: “It conforms with the philosophy of triangles in Wing Chun…” Should I start wearing a tricorn hat then, too?!

And this stance does seem to cause a lot of problems. I’ve spent far more hours than is good for me in a skiing snow plough, as well as teaching many thousands of beginners to plough, so I have a pretty good feel for how to take strain off the knees by keeping them in line with the hip and ankle joints, and also for the importance of staying soft and pliant in the inguinal crease.

But looking at other Wing Chun beginners, and even some long-term practitioners, I see an awful lot of knees collapsed inwards at eye-watering angles, or people shifting their pelvis forwards and leaning back to compensate, putting undue and ill-advised compression into the lumbar spine. So why stick people in this bizarre (but admittedly brilliantly named) Goat Squeezing Stance, with so much room for error? 🐐

I was watching Marcus Brinkman’s latest video (https://youtu.be/Ted7XAr3SWA), in which he shows how to develop Baguazhang’s piercing palm from a walking motion, eventually generating power through medial rotation of the leg on the piercing side, connecting hands and feet through turning of the hips and waist. And it made me wonder, is this what’s really codified in Kim Yeung Ma?

Wing Chun uses Juen Ma to add turning power to punches (as well as to change angles and get out of the way of incoming strikes). But in terms of a basic Ma Bu parallel stance, square on to your partner, does the medial rotation of the legs in Kim Yeung Ma actually suggest that you should use this rotation to generate power for square punches, just as Marcus demonstrates for piercing palm? In Kim Yeung Ma the heels are grounded, of course, but that doesn’t mean rotation on the strike isn’t implied. It would seem to make sense biomechanically, but I haven’t heard it advocated anywhere else, nor seen it used in practice.

I’m only a relative beginner at Wing Chun, so I could be way off the mark here. I could be compromising some fundamental principle of the art – for one thing the waist turn means the shoulders will no longer be square to the opponent. I suppose that would compromise the effectiveness of follow-ups or traps with the other hand.

But the external similarities between Tan Sau and Piercing Palm are hard to ignore. And if it adds power and connective integrity through the body from the ground, doesn’t it make sense to incorporate that medial twist of the leg? Is that what the Goat Squeezing Stance is really hinting at? (Or is it just a bonus goat-herding technique buried in the Wing Chun system?)

Just an idea…

💡
🤔

The Great Unlearning (of how to live)

Allergic to stress?

A friend of mine reacts badly to gluten and stays away from products that contain it. He used to live in London where he had a more stressful job, longer working hours, shorter sleeping hours, a higher intake of alcohol and marijuana, and a difficult relationship with his girlfriend. If he ate anything with gluten in it, his body went on to red alert. He’d experience intense discomfort in his torso and feel physically ill.

But since moving back to the north of England, he has settled into a less pressured existence. He has an enjoyable job, gets more exercise and better-quality sleep, is happily single, and has pretty much stopped drinking and taking recreational drugs, at least with any kind of regularity. Now, he can eat a sandwich made with wholewheat bread and experience only the mildest of symptoms. The reaction is still there, but it has been dialled right down.

It has been widely reported that allergies are on the rise. Allergies that only a few years ago were rare or unheard of are now becoming widespread. More and more children are growing up coping with allergies, some of which can be quite debilitating. Some are even potentially lethal histamine responses. But nobody really seems to know why this is the case. Air pollutants are often blamed. Or pesticides and chemicals used in food processing.

These could well be true. But I’d suggest, at least judging by my friend’s experiences, that stress is a huge factor. When we are locked in a sympathetic nervous response, producing excessive amounts of cortisol over prolonged periods, our bodies’ inflamed state is much more sensitive to allergens.

So many people are living as my friend used to do. Under pressure from work and family commitments, they are pushing their bodies and brains further and further. They are sacrificing essential things like sufficient quality sleep and rest, a good diet, slow and mindful eating behaviours, country walks and hobbies, time to play and to slow down for a while, all for the sake of the next deadline, the next sale, the promised pay rise, fear of redundancy, of being late, of missing out, of falling behind. They push themselves harder and harder until finally there is a collapse. Their health fails them. They suffer a heart attack, or a nervous breakdown. And then, if it’s not already too late, they begin to make changes.

Perhaps this hypersensitivity to allergens is a kind of warning signal our bodies our giving us. The body is saying, “Hold on, I’m getting really inflamed here. I’m exhausted. Haven’t you noticed?” But too many people don’t notice. They’re too busy to notice. Too focused on external pressures to look inside and see what’s going on.

Can’t sleep? Take some sleeping pills and fall unconscious instead. Can’t wake up? Pump yourself full of caffeine and nicotine. Can’t wait for the guy in front of you to pull away from the traffic lights? Fly into a boiling and impotent rage at your steering wheel. No time to eat? Grab some ultra-processed fast food and guzzle it while you type. Type faster. Take fewer breaks. Squeeze more and more out of yourself until you’re a neurotic, zombified husk.

Won’t somebody please think of the children?

Why are allergies becoming more prevalent in children, then? They don’t work twelve-hour shifts. They don’t have to cope with pressure and deadlines. Except, increasingly, they do. From primary school they are tested and graded. Play is sanitised and increasingly proscribed. They are infected by our obsession with safety. They are swamped with information, overloaded with the burden of knowing.

And when they’re not being pushed at school, they’re often mesmerised by flickering blue screens at home, where even more information floods unchecked into their prefrontal cortex. They struggle to find their own identities in a vapid, glamorous, shimmering, false world of global social networks and unprecedented disconnection. Their growing, restless bodies move less and less, and their anxieties and disruptive behaviours spiral out of control. We have more clinical depression now amongst children than ever before, and it’s getting worse.

Not only that, but children are sensitive creatures, and they are bound to soak up and reflect the stresses of the adults around them. Stress is like a contagion, and it’s so entrenched now in our frantic society that it has become normalised. It’s what we expect and accept. The trouble is, our bodies don’t accept it. They can’t. When we are always “On”, our bodies go haywire. And so we see record numbers of people, both old and young, with chronic anxiety, sleeping and eating disorders, anger and addiction issues, irritable bowel syndrome, asthma, ulcers, migraines, problems with blood pressure and immunity, hormonal imbalances, cancers… and allergies.

It’s not that allergies are on the rise. Stress is on the rise. And not the healthy kind of stress that pushes us to act and excel, and then switches off for us to recuperate and gather ourselves; but the unhealthy kind of stress that is chronic, habitual, and excessive. When we live continuously in this inflamed, sympathetic state of “fight or flight”, our ability to deal with aggravating factors such as allergens is suppressed. Allergies may well be exacerbated by pesticides and greenhouse gases, but I would suggest that our inability to deal with allergens is exacerbated by stress. In a state of enervation, our immune systems panic at the slightest disruption. The result? A mysterious epidemic of gluten intolerance.

Solutions in stillness

So what can be done? I would suggest that rather than raging at “the system”, at our bosses, or fossil fuel magnates, big business, big pharma, food corporations, banks, governments, social media, news stations, or any of the other “evils” that perpetuate this stressful status quo, we should look instead to ourselves. Those things are only symptoms of the world we create for ourselves. And the world we create comes from within us. Our experience is not “out there”. The more time we spend ruminating on the injustice of it all, the angrier we are going to get. Those cortisol levels are just gonna keep on climbing. The only thing you really have control over, it may horrify you to know, is yourself. Your own responses. Disengage automatic and shift to manual.

Slow.

Down.

Make time. Switch off the TV, switch off 24-hour breaking news, switch off social media, switch off the endless parade of podcasts and box sets, and just slow down. Go to bed earlier. Eat carefully. Eat healthily. Exercise, but gently and moderately, without some pointless external goal of beating a certain time, or lifting a certain weight, or losing so many kilograms, or burning so many calories. Just enjoy it. Pay attention to what’s going on inside.

Observe the quality of your breathing, the tone of your voice, the way you move.

Slow down.

Wake up from this state of self-induced hypnosis. When was the last time you did nothing? I mean, literally nothing. No distractions. Just you, by yourself, in a dark room. Sitting. Being. Listening. You can make time for it. It’s not a waste of time. It’s the most productive thing you’ll do all day.

Give it twenty minutes at first. Just sit. Don’t try to do anything. Don’t slow your breathing. Don’t acquire a certain posture. Don’t try to stop thinking. All of that will come with practice. For now, just sit. Do nothing and pay attention. If your mind wanders, gently draw it back to listening, to feeling the body breathe. It’s intensely pleasurable, if you just let go and allow it. Give yourself space. Give yourself time. Just twenty minutes, and your whole body will unwind. It will enter a parasympathetic state. You’ll digest your food better. You’ll breathe better and deeper. You’ll be able to sleep. You’ll have more energy. Your mind will relax.

With practice, you will become more patient, kinder, more content and comfortable in your own skin. You will react to things more consciously, more wisely. You’ll become more aware, more focused, less scattered and under-pressure. Instead of feeling drawn and tired, you will feel spacious and present. Everything will slow down, and you will have more time. All this from just sitting and doing nothing.

It takes practice, of course. And it’s a practice that can go really deep. It can really change things. But anybody can do it. There are no barriers, except for your own excuses, your own reluctance, your own doubt and forgetfulness. My suggestion is, don’t think of it as “Meditation”. Don’t make it a chore. Don’t add it to your To Do list. Look forward to it. Make room for it. Just sit for a minute. Allow that minute to roll into two, three… before you know it half an hour will have passed, and you will feel wonderful. Centred. Rejuvenated. Forget those anti-ageing creams… forget Botox… external concerns will fade away.

But if meditation seems too intense, or too “out there”, there are alternatives. Brisk, mindful walking, with a soft gaze and your attention on your steps. Try not to waste any energy as sound. Make light, silent footfalls. Feel your body moving and breathing. Enjoy it. If a thought comes along, step away from it mentally and watch it drift away.

Or, when it’s time for a meal, prepare one yourself. Enjoy the scents and textures. Anticipate. Then, when you sit down to it, turn off any distractions. Focus only on your food. Be ponderous and sensuous. Luxuriate in it, like you’re in one of those phoney chocolate advertisements. Eat one morsel at a time. Chew thoroughly – experience all the flavours, and notice how they change as you masticate. Only select the next morsel once you’ve swallowed down the first. Don’t hurry. And if you catch yourself hurrying, poke fun at yourself and slow down again. Don’t take things too seriously. No crime has been committed here; you’re just eating your dinner.

When you finish, sit a while. Allow your body to digest. Feel the food inside your digestive tract. What? No reflux today? How strange… Sit a little longer. Read for a while. Now go for a little walk… Hold on there! Slow down! Think reggae, not techno. Adagio, not presto. You’re still digesting; we’re just encouraging a little movement to help things along. You see, it’s all about the quality of how you do things. It ain’t wotcha do, it’s the way that you do it: that’s what gets results.

A treatment such as therapeutic massage or acupuncture could also be a great way to slow down. Talking to an acupuncturist in a therapeutic relationship, lying on a table and being touched in a reassuring and relaxing way, allowing the needles to gently steer your body into healing itself… just lying there and resting your mind, feeling the weight of gravity upon your body, feeling the breath move in and out of your torso, will help to bring you out of your chronically wired, hyper-vigilant state. That’s guaranteed.

Moving solutions

Personally, I get a huge amount of pleasure and benefit from practising tai chi. Over and over, the same, slow, precise, flowing movements. Remaining observant and curious amidst the repetition. “What else is here? What else?” Going deeper, layer after layer. Never saying, “Okay, that’s it. That’s as far as it goes. I know it all now.” There’s always another layer to uncover. Only when we stop holding on to what we think we know, and embrace what we don’t know, can we truly start to live. Only then can we be present, spontaneous, and respond to what is really here, rather than what we think is here.

But if tai chi sounds too dull, there are other ways, too. Yoga, or Qigong, or martial arts like Aikido, Wing Chun, Baguazhang, or Xingyiquan, all place great emphasis on internal awareness. Integrating mind and body. Listening. Exploring. Feeling. Being mindful of our limits.

Many of the professional athletes we admire actually end up sacrificing their health because they’ve pushed their bodies too hard. They end up with chronic injuries, or simply depleted. Chinese health practices value quality of movement (fluidity, connectedness, grace and balance) over quantity (how much, how far, how fast, how strong). The point of exercise is to nourish the body, not to exhaust it. If we end up breathless, beetroot-faced, and dripping with sweat, we’ve probably gone too far.

Warming the body to the point of just beginning to sweat is about right. Push yourself a little, by all means, but don’t do it all the time. I love going barefoot running over moorlands and on woodland trails, but I don’t do it every day, and I take it easier in the winter months. Cardiovascular exercise is an important facet of a comprehensive exercise plan, but we shouldn’t over-exert ourselves.

Nor should we focus too much on one aspect. Chinese methods include standing practice (known as Ding Shi or Zhan Zhuang), where we stretch, relax, focus the mind, raise the skeleton, sink the soft tissues, and find and develop internal connections through static postures; and loosening practices (known as Fan Song Gong), where we allow the body to soften and swing, move from our centre and release muscular tension. In Qigong we keep the mind still while the body moves gently, smoothly and fluidly; in Dao Yin we move more forcefully to purge and cleanse the body.

There are lots of other options beyond the punishing slog of treadmills, spin bikes, free weights and machines. Pick something you can look forward to. Find a realistic level of commitment. Make it sustainable, and make it fun. Be creative and diverse. Don’t “train” or “work out”; just move and enjoy moving. Inquire into sensations, get a sense for your internal structures – your bones, muscles, sinews and organs – and for the spaces around and between those structures.

Try stretching and foam rolling; using acupressure or massage balls; using Swiss balls, balance boards, and skipping ropes; try asanas, inversions, and resistance work using body weight; or finding new and unusual ways of moving the body – animal mimicry, spontaneous movement, dance… anything! We just need to get things flowing. Think babbling brook, not stagnant pond.

Placing more value on organising the body around the core, and improving suppleness and joint mobility, seems eminently sensible, rather than just trying to run further and faster, or lift heavier and heavier weights. In our bodies, in our minds, in our lives, we need to find centre.

Most of the people I know who are regular long-term gym-goers have some kind of chronic or recurring injury. Generally, this is due to bad form, over-enthusiasm, peer pressure, or over-exertion. Also, because they’re plugged into their headphones they’re not really listening to their bodies, and they have purely external goals such as stopwatch times or rep counts. Internal practices like yoga, tai chi and qi gong emphasise actively listening to the body, and with this kind of inner awareness you’re much less likely to strain something. What’s more, when your mind is immersed in your body’s activity, when you’re actually present, your efforts are more fruitful. Your awareness and intention are essential parts of it, and these are much-neglected factors in the modern, mechanistic approach to exercise.

I don’t think you can really put a value on how much is too much exercise – that depends entirely on your age, weight, diet, constitution, gender. It fluctuates according to your state of mind, your general level of activity, the climate, the seasons, the time of day. What matters is to refrain from draining the body’s resources, and to have an appropriate balance between activity and rest. Yin and Yang, brother…

Give it a rest

Rest is vital. We underrate it in modern society, or rather, we pay it lip service and then get on with the really important stuff. We have a mechanistic approach to sleep. We allocate a minimum number of hours to be “wasted” on instructive dreams and deep rest, and dispel this annoyingly unproductive state with a shrill, insistent torture-alarm in the morning.

Then we dither and delay.

Then we rush around like lunatics, enacting the same mindless, unvarying routines each morning, so we can go exhaust ourselves with tasks and meetings and chatter at work, and then collapse in front of flickering screens and tubs and buckets of greasy and sugary foods in the evening. We wonder why we’re tired. “All I did last night was sit and watch my latest box set and then drift into a mindless scrolling trance on my phone.” Active, active, active. Doing, doing, doing. Always looking out, never in. Never stop. Always go.

And then we collapse.

Everything caves in. Blue lights flash. If only we’d listened. If only we’d slowed down.

We may well have an allergy crisis in modern society. But it’s only a symptom; a symptom of stress. But even stress isn’t the root cause. There has been a Great Unlearning in the modern age. We’ve arrogantly dismissed the old wives’ tales, the folk wisdom, the elders and shamans, the witch doctors and scholar sages. We’ve supplanted it all with productivity targets, profit margins, packed schedules, full diaries, fussin’ an’ fightin’. We live in a permanent state of distraction. We’re terrified of silence. Strangers to ourselves.

We’ve forgotten how to live. We fight against nature instead of flowing with it. We enforce artificial patterns on our lives. Timetables. Rotas. Alarm clocks. Shifts. We illuminate the night. We eat or exercise before bed. We view our bodies and minds as machines or tools. Things to be used and exploited. We search endlessly for efficiency, for maximum output. We cover our failings and inadequacies with pills and quick fixes. We become increasingly unconscious. Increasingly serious. Increasingly knowing.

Where does all this get us? Our technologies are like superpowers. Our understanding of nature, chemistry and cosmos is supreme. We’re subatomic. We’re supersonic. Our medicines are like miracles. We’re connected like never before. But we’re disconnected from our own selves. We’ve never been more miserable, bored, and ill. Never been more inflamed, frantic, and neurotic. Most of us don’t realise until it’s too late. This is the insidious reality we’ve created. We’ve lost our way. Forgotten the point. Divorced from meaning. We’ve defined ourselves silly and forgotten who we are. What this is.

We’ve polluted our world, but don’t worry – we’re too clever by far. We have a cunning plan. We know exactly how to solve this conundrum, and can foresee all possible consequences. Interference is the best policy. Here’s the graph to prove it. Just don’t look back.

We think we know best. We cram everything in and suffocate ourselves, as though it’s all so incredibly important. And we leave out the things that actually are important: good eating habits, sleep, rest, exercise. Peace. Ease. Satisfaction. It’s so simple and obvious, yet it’s so easy to ignore. And then we suffer. We create our own problems, and then struggle to resolve them. We make things complicated. We need more. We need to try harder. Push harder.

No. We need less. We need to release our iron grip. We need to wake up, take notice, and respond appropriately. Our bodies know best. Let’s just listen to them. Let’s just relax a little. Let’s make time for ourselves. Let’s just slow down, and let go. Bring everything to stillness. And then listen. Really listen. Stop doing. Stop knowing. Slow down. And let go.

Let.

Go.

Playing our parts: Can Dungeons & Dragons make you a better healthcare worker?

We are all actors. We all have to change the way we behave according to our current circumstances. Whether we’re playing the role of a mother, or son, or friend, or stranger, we know instinctively how to adjust our behaviour to accommodate for the other person. Things get less intuitive with regards to our jobs. Generally we know how to be the boss or the employee. And certainly, some people fit their occupations perfectly – they’re “made for the role”. But for most, we have to learn how to play our part.

When we are children, we spend a lot of time role playing. In many of our games of imagination we are assuming the identity of someone else; a hero, a villain, a monster, an alien…

This is how we learn to empathise, and also how to be malleable, to be less fixed in our characters. Think about starting a new job. You feel nervous and awkward. Why? New people, a new environment, new challenges, yes. But it’s more than that. You have to change. You have to actually become somebody else, at least while you’re at work. You have to actually inhabit your role.

I’m embarking on a whole new career at the moment. For many years I worked as a ski instructor. That was the part I played, and I was very comfortable with it. But now I’m back at college, doing a degree in traditional Chinese acupuncture, and will shortly be embarking on a new journey as a healthcare professional.

Many of the skills will be transferable. I’m used to quickly establishing a trusting relationship with new people. I’m used to adjusting my language to communicate with people from many different backgrounds. I’m used to reading people’s body language, and analysing their posture and gait. I’m used to being welcoming and reassuring. But even so, I will have to adjust in many ways. I’ll have to talk to people about often quite intimate problems. Physical issues. Emotional issues. I’m not used to that.

As part of our training, we do simulated consultations with professional actors. These are incredibly useful, as they serve as the equivalent of those games of imagination we used to play as children. We can try out our new roles in a safe environment. Even if it goes terribly wrong, nobody gets hurt. It is simply a useful learning exercise, an arena in which to test ourselves and see how we respond to a situation, and how others respond to us.

Next year I will have to lead treatments in our student clinic. I will have to conduct consultations with real, paying customers. Even then, there will be the support of colleagues and an experienced clinic supervisor. And having done these simulated consultations, we have been given that little steppingstone across the water. We don’t have to make a giant leap. We can test out our roles and know we’re not going to drown. It’s a really great way of smoothing out the learning curve and sliding into our new roles as easily as possible.

Despite this, I know many of my peers are terrified by this aspect of the course. It’s hard for them to try out a new character. It’s hard for them to play. They’ve forgotten how. I make no pretence at being able to take on my new role and act it out perfectly. I know I’m going to make mistakes. Probably lots of them. Yet I find myself looking forward to this challenge. I enjoy the simulated consultations, and while I’m sure I’ll be nervous doing it for real next year, I think I’ll enjoy that, too. It feels like a game.

Why such confidence? At first I couldn’t answer this. I’m not a naturally gregarious person. I’m introverted and quiet. But then I realised my secret weapon. It might sound ridiculous, but my biggest asset is the fact that every couple of weeks or so I spend several hours sat around with friends playing fantasy role-playing games. Yes, my secret weapon is Dungeons & Dragons!

Not everybody is aware of exactly what a role-playing game is. Essentially, it’s a game of cooperative storytelling. One player, the Game Master, presents the fictional setting, its inhabitants, and the situation or challenge, while the other players take the part of the heroes. When the outcome of any given action is uncertain, dice are rolled to determine what happens. Then the Game Master plays out the consequences, and the players respond to the newly configured situation. In essence, it is a regulated version of a child’s game of imagination.

In our game I am the Game Master, and as such I have to be able to improvise and play the part of many different characters in the fictional world. My skill levels fall far short of a professional actor’s, of course, but it’s a huge amount of fun inhabiting another person or creature – their voice, their body, their motivations, their personality, their idiosyncrasies. And because I do this regularly for pleasure, taking on the role of an acupuncturist doesn’t feel like such a massive jump. I mean, I was a conniving dragon last week, or a jealous god, a cruel demon, or a fearsome orc warlock, so a simple human acupuncturist isn’t such a departure!

This leads me to thinking, what else are role-playing games good for? What other skills do they help us to develop? The more I think about it, the more I realise they teach us an awful lot. Apart from allowing us to acquire and play out a new persona, by inhabiting an unfamiliar role we can develop our sense of empathy for others. We get to imagine what it might be like to be another person, and to look at life from their perspective. How are they like us? How are they different? What are they scared of? What do they want? And why are they the way they are? Where did they come from? What formed them? And how did their formation lead them here, now, to this treatment room? This is surely a crucial skill for real life, and will certainly be of huge value for me as a prospective healthcare worker.

What else? Well, role-playing games (RPGs) require us to improvise, to think on our feet and respond to whatever presents itself. Good improvisation requires good, active listening skills, and that’s another essential quality for a healthcare professional.

This is especially true of Chinese Medicine, where much diagnostic value is placed on looking at a person’s mannerisms, speech patterns, facial expressions, complexion, aura, and presence. Are they open or guarded? What are they not saying? What do they seek from their treatment, and does that align with what they really need? When we are really attentive, we see so much more.

Of course, to demonstrate that you are listening fully encourages the patient and makes them feel valued and cared for, too. This alone has a great amount of therapeutic benefit and is an important aspect of the treatment. You have to establish a connection. You can do this via the needle, or via massage, but most effectively and naturally you can do this via listening.

There are many other qualities that RPGs help to train in us. We can try our hand at leadership, or at problem-solving and spatial reasoning. We have to learn cooperation and teamwork, compromise and social etiquette. RPGs build social skills and confidence. We learn to think quickly under pressure, and we learn that there are consequences to our actions. They improve our linguistic and communication skills, our descriptive vocabulary, our mental arithmetic, and our ability to imagine things in detail.

We are given opportunity to try out different dialects and to experiment and find inventive solutions. We learn to win and lose gracefully, to accept our fate as determined by a die roll. We learn to follow rules, and we learn to bend them. We learn that one set of rules can never adequately describe reality; there are always going to be exceptions. And we learn to ditch the rules that no longer serve us; we learn that things change.

There are other, more peripheral benefits, too. RPGs can spark our interest in mythology, history, science, and nature. They encourage reading and storytelling, an appreciation of writing and drama, insight into human interactions. And they also provide access to other absorbing, creative and concentration-honing hobbies like painting and crafting miniatures and dioramas.

Unlike video games, RPGs do not have preset choices and outcomes. Anything you can think of, you can try it out and see what happens. I personally derive a huge amount of pleasure out of inventing histories, cultures, people, and places, then injecting some element of conflict or drama and seeing how things turn out. The results are invariably surprising. The players never do what you’re expecting. You very quickly develop a sense that life is not yours to control.

Perhaps that is one of the greatest benefits of role playing games: an acceptance of the spontaneity and unforeseeable nature of reality. Accepting this, and not being fearful that things are out of your control. When we can be comfortable with being spontaneous and improvising our way through life, without being too dependent on plans or being too set in our mindset, then our lives become much more fruitful and enjoyable. One of our greatest assets is our capacity to let go. Precious few of us know how to do so. Too many of us hold on far too tightly, and we suffer for it.

When we take part in a role playing game, or experiment with a new role in the real world, then we are letting go, if only temporarily, of our own fixed and self-limited selves. We are remembering how to play. And we are forced to be truly present with whatever is occurring right now – and that is a wonderful place to be. In fact, here and now is the only place to be.

This is going to hurt: Pain, Acupuncture, Meditation, and Qigong

We get many people coming to our student acupuncture clinic with chronic pain. Some are looking for a solution that avoids surgery, or reduces the need for painkillers; others have tried everything and acupuncture is their final, desperate recourse! (Charming!)

Chronic pain is a strange phenomenon. In many cases of musculoskeletal injury, the actual tissue has long repaired itself, but still the pain lingers, as though the brain is stuck in a habitual and unhelpful loop. There is no longer any need for pain signals to tell us to protect the area, yet still the nervous system persists.

Not only can our nervous response to pain be baffling, but so can our psycho-emotional response. People tend to mentally separate pain out from themselves. They take ownership of it (“My bad leg…”). They even, as with one patient we had recently, actually personify their pain and give it agency: “My bad back doesn’t like it when I move like this.”

Is this healthy? On one level, it is an instinctive coping mechanism. Like anything else for which we feel aversion, we naturally want to push it away, remove it from our experience. So this mental trick of objectifying pain is our mind’s way of reducing it. The trouble is, it just doesn’t work. In fact, by solidifying it as a definable “thing”, we’re probably making it worse. We’re probably embedding it deeper, entrenching it into our daily experience. This mental response could even be the very thing that is blocking our ability to heal.

I discovered a wonderful little book recently, called “Pain is Really Strange”, by Steve Haines, and illustrated by Sophie Standing. Laid out in comic strip format, it makes for a short but entertaining and enlightening read. The main thrust of it is that pain is not the simple, mechanical response to injury or dangerous stimuli that most of us imagine it to be. It’s much more complicated than that. And thoroughly subjective, too.

Haines gives various examples: there is one person who felt agony at the merest touch of a feather, and another individual who ran a race with a broken leg. Surgeries to remove nerve endings around painful cancers only result in the pain returning later, and more severely. I’ll refrain from summarising the whole text, but it suffices to say that pain is… er… well, it’s really, really strange.

But it is an entirely malleable phenomenon, and chronic pain can be reduced – even cured. Even understanding our pain better can help to reduce our experience of it.

Acupuncture can certainly work, too. In Chinese Medicine, pain is viewed as a stagnation of Qi and Blood. By needling appropriately, we can instruct the central nervous system to move energy in the relevant channel and shift the area of stagnation. Unblock the dammed river and get things flowing again.

In fact, in many cases, working to retrain the brain is a far better strategy than painkillers or surgery. Haines suggests a few techniques, including the visualisation of joyful and free movement, and also changing our linguistic relationship with pain.

Often, the problem is compounded by the language and metaphors we use. We talk about “combatting” pain, and view it as our enemy – something outside of ourselves. Perhaps this dissociative relationship is only further embedding our experience of pain? Perhaps it would be far better to feel and accept the sensations we experience, and refrain from labelling it as “pain”, or even something “bad”, at all?

This is easier said than done, of course, and I certainly don’t mean to belittle people’s experience of chronic pain, but there is much evidence in mindfulness research that the meditative technique of refraining from overlaying judgements on our direct experience is in fact an extremely healthy approach. As a way of dealing with chronic pain, which seems to be as much a habit of the mind as anything else, this attitude of detachment and acceptance, this method of direct perception without subsequent labelling, could be a crucial part of the healing process.

Then, of course, there’s the obvious response to a state of stagnancy… move! Literally, physically move. Move the body, move the blood, move the lymph, move the Qi. Move in small ways. Move in new ways. We all intuitively know that if we sit still for prolonged periods, our bodies get clunky; we get aches and twinges, we lose our flexibility and our connection to our physical selves. Muscles shorten. Joints stiffen. I have definitely seen a huge increase in suppleness and fluidity of movement since I started practising yoga, Qigong, Taijiquan, and Baguazhang. Better posture. Better connectedness. More relaxation. Less stiffness. Less pain.

By viscerally connecting, immersing, your mind into your body, yoking your breath, and switching off your headphones, you can reach unimagined levels of inner awareness.

Which brings me to the solution to pain that Haines seems to emphasise most: we should seek to increase our skills at proprioception and interoception. In simple words, we should learn to look inside. By increasing our awareness of our own bodies, we can reduce our experience of pain. The parallels here to Daoist meditation techniques are uncanny and undeniable. Neidan (internal alchemy) methods incorporate looking at and listening to the internal body with a great deal of sensitivity and detail, employing contrasting methods of both stillness and movement. Neidan teaches us to explore our thoughts and our breath, and to fully inhabit the physical body, by feeling the internal organs, paying attention to inner spaces and structures, feeling sensations, and becoming aware of inner processes, all with a mindset of calm, detached curiosity…

… It would appear that modern pain research may have just “discovered” the benefits of Daoist meditation and Qigong in the same way progenitors of western dry needling techniques “discovered” the efficacy of acupuncture!

Oh well, we may be a few thousand years behind the Chinese, but we get there in the end…!

Haines’ book is excellent, and I highly recommend it, but it is particularly interesting when viewed through the lens of traditional Chinese health practices. It turns out that our best recourses to reducing pain are a combination of Daoist meditation and mindful movement, such as Qigong, yoga, or martial arts. Or dance. Or swimming. Or running. Or walking. Anything, really, as long as it is done with our fullest attention and awareness.

What’s more, establishing a meditation and mindful movement practice won’t just help you to deal with pain; it will help you to relax and let go of all sorts of anxieties, ruminative thinking patterns, stuck and attritional emotions, self-doubt and negative thoughts, lack of confidence and motivation, emotional trauma, unhealthy cognitive loops, habitual responses, unconscious and automatic behaviours… the list goes on!

Haines reassures us that pain is plastic, and we can change it in a similar way to learning to write with our weak hand. It requires small steps, gentle persistence, and a creative approach to retraining our own minds. Pain is a subjective phenomenon, and as such it is within our capacity to change it. We all know experientially that if we tell ourselves something is going to hurt, then it probably will.

Internal Concepts

The underlying concepts of the Chinese internal arts can seem opaque, esoteric, or even just a little fuzzy, to anyone looking from a Western perspective. Not only must we penetrate the Chinese language, but also the Chinese cultural mindset and patterns of thinking. You only have to look at the holistic perspective of Chinese medicine, as opposed to the reductive approach of modern Western medicine, to see there is a fundamentally different way of conceiving reality.

Or is there? Arts such as Qigong, Taijiquan, Baguazhang, and Xingyiquan, can seem mysterious, soaked with poetic metaphors that cloak and obfuscate. These metaphors not only encode principles within the sets and martial forms, but also protect them from the prying eyes of the uninitiated. But the underlying concepts are far from incomprehensible. Rather, they are simple and logical, and follow a sequential development of skill. To be truly understood, however, they need to be integrated through practice.

What follows is a brief discussion of some key concepts that need to be grasped in order to make sense of what is meant by an “internal art”. As you will see, they move from the mundane to the sublime, and perhaps even the divine…

Frame

We align the body in a certain way in order to maximise its efficiency and optimise its structure. So, as a general rule, the spine is kept vertical in order to align with gravity and reduce muscular effort. Of course, this doesn’t mean the torso can never be inclined, particularly in transitional movements; every rule can be broken when the situation demands.

The shoulders sink and are aligned with the hips; the elbows sink and are aligned with the knees; and the hands and feet are coordinated and arrive simultaneously. These are known as the “six external harmonies”: shoulders-hips, elbows-knees, and hands-feet.

The chin is slightly tucked to protect the neck and align with the spine. The tongue connects with the palate, and the eyes are softened to encourage peripheral awareness. The chest is not stuck out; the legs are not locked. The arms and fingers are stretched but relaxed. The perineum is lifted and the inguinal joints of the hips softened.

All of this is practised in order to become a natural way of moving for the body. We do not adopt the posture; we acquire it and adapt it. It is not a fixed frame, but a centre from which we can depart and then return to, according to what is appropriate. (An optimal seated meditation posture is very similar in its basic principles, except that of course movement is replaced by a profound stillness.) Once this structural, skeletal frame is internalised, then we can move on to the next principle…

Chen

Sinking. Without allowing the frame to collapse, or losing any of the external qualities mentioned above, we allow the soft tissues of the body to relax and sink under the weight of gravity. Like a child that doesn’t want to be picked up off the floor, we become heavy and rooted to the ground – a dead weight.

This is achieved not by simply imagining ourselves to be heavy, but by standing for prolonged periods in certain postures, searching for and releasing muscular tension. Once a layer of tension is released, we search for deeper layers. We absorb our awareness thoroughly into our own bodies, looking inwardly rather than outwardly, and allowing that awareness to sink along with our physical flesh. Such static postures have various names in the Chinese arts, including Ding Shi and Zhan Zhuang. Baguazhang has its Bamuzhang (Eight Mother Palms), and Xingyiquan is widely known for Santishi (Three Pillar Posture). They all serve the purpose of quieting the mind, fortifying the will, reconnecting and realigning the body, and finding movement within stillness.

Dantian

With our awareness absorbed into our body in this way, sinking down away from the head, we allow our breath to deepen, too. Rather than breathing into our upper chest and shoulders, we begin to consciously breathe into the lower abdomen and lower back – for this reason it is sometimes known as “kidney breathing”. On the inhalation, there is a slight contraction; on the exhalation, a relaxation and sinking.

As our breathing stabilises low down in the body, we find ourselves in a relaxed, parasympathetic state, abiding calmly and silently, entirely focused on a point in the centre of the lower abdomen. Our breathing and awareness combine with our physical centre of mass. We have a sense of our consciousness residing within the whole body, rather than in the head. This encourages a very peaceful and restful state of mind, and body. Through mental and physical stillness we can begin to build Yin energy in a specific region of the lower abdomen, a process known as “filling the cauldron” of the Xia Dantian – the lower field of the elixir.

Through practising meditation, Qigong and martial forms, we can begin to learn how to harness the energy we build and direct it through the body for various purposes, whether that be for health, fighting, or spiritual development and internal alchemy (Nei Dan). This skill with internal energy is broadly known as Nei Gong.

Ting

Listening. From this centred, rooted, peaceful place, we can improve the quality of our awareness. Listening is a good translation, as opposed to observing, because it implies a passive and non-judgemental kind of awareness. As our thoughts become quieter, and our emotions more stable and less distracting, we learn to experience the world in a fuller and more refined way. We draw less of a distinction between inner and outer, between self and other, giving equal weigt to internal and external stimuli. We learn to watch with equanimity whatever goes on both interoceptively, within our own bodies, and that which is brought within us through our external senses.

Through physical practice, we improve our proprioception also, as we become more aware of our own bodies moving through space. We learn where our hand is, how our arm is moving, and how to follow and generate these movements naturally and efficiently. We become more balanced. We move with greater coordination and fluidity. We become sensitive to pressures upon our bodies, and we learn how to deflect, absorb and redirect incoming forces by moving and turning our centre. Ting is a fundamental quality of the internal arts, developed most effectively through exercises such as pushing hands practice in Taijiquan, or Chi Sau in Wing Chun.

None of this is going to be of any use without a baseline of physical fitness. Li refers specifically to power, but not the sort of power built by exponentially increasing muscle mass. Intensive weight training only builds tension and blockages to our internal energetic flow. That said, there needs to be a good degree of core strength, which might be established through something like bodyweight training, yoga, swimming, running, or purging exercises such as Dao Yin (leading and guiding), as well as through practising the forms and specific fundamental exercises (Jiben Gong) of the individual arts.

Chinese wisdom exhorts us to exert ourselves up to the point of just breaking sweat, but not to the point of breathlessness or exhaustion. The idea is to build energy, not to expend it. By engaging in cardiavascular exercise, we can increase our Yang energy, circulate our body fluids and optimise the function of our internal organs. We improve mental function by increasing blood supply to the brain, and prevent areas of the body from becoming sluggish and stagnating. This follows the principle of movement within movement. But of course, if we overdo it, we can end up with waning energy levels, depleted immune systems, and injury.

We can help ourselves further by ensuring we get adequate sleep and rest, practising mindfulness and meditation, and by observing a balanced and sufficient diet. The principle of Yin and Yang dictates that we should also balance exertive exercise with more restorative exercises. These might include loosening exercises (Fan Song Gong), nourishing exercises (known by the umbrella term of Qi Gong, where energy is regulated by finding stillness within movement), simple stretches and asanas, joint mobilisation, and self-massage, whether by foam rolling, massage balls, or acupressure (Zhiya).

This kind of holistic health practice is known in Chinese as Yangsheng Fa: methods for nourishing life. By practising daily and not excessively, we can maintain our health and suppleness and extend our power into later life. Verse 76 of the Dao De Jing makes the parallel between the pliability and moistness of growing plants, compared to their rigidity and dryness in death. When we ourselves grow stiff and congealed, that is a sign of death growing near.

Jin

The internal martial arts employ a kind of soft, pliable, and sometimes torsional power. This arises not through muscular contractions moving the skeleton, but through developing a subtle control of the internal tissues. Through persistent mindful practice, the web of fascia and connective tissues are physically altered in such a way that power lines can be built within the body, the whole body can be connected together, and energy can be directed along these lines at will. This energy is known as Jin, and can be expressed in many ways. One thing is common, however: Jin is not released through external tension, but through internal relaxation.

Song

Song is the method by which Jin is released. Like a drawn bowstring that is suddenly let go, energy can be passed through and out of the body by releasing tension. The quality of Song can be practised by using Ting (listening awareness) to find and unbind habitual tension in the muscles. It is crucial to maintain the frame while relaxing, however, so that the soft tissues unwind from the bones, rather than the skeleton itself losing structure.

Yi has been translated as “the thought before a thought”. It is the movement of mind before we become aware of it. As such, it is sometimes said to be our “intent”, but it can also refer to our focus, in the sense of attention and concentration, to our insightful or intuitive application of experiential knowledge and expertise, and to our clarity of perception. In Chinese medicine, it is associated with the Spleen, and disharmony in the energetic network of the Spleen can lead to unclear thinking, rumination, disembodiment, and fatigue. The quality of our Yi is a measure of our unity of mind and body, and through developing our Yi we improve both our reactions and our ability to react consciously.

Many of our problems in life arise from acting unconsciously. From stubbing our toe when unaware, or lashing out when angry, or simply being swept away by the current of our own thoughts, we arrive at a place – mentally, emotionally, physically, or all three – that we did not intend. When we learn to make our unconscious processes conscious, then we can live with clarity, intention and awareness.

Our Yi is also the coordinator of our mind-body interface; it is the means by which we can Song completely and direct our Jin effectively. And a strong Yi is decisive, effective, and committed – all highly important qualities for the martial arts. Yi is the rising Yang to the sinking Yin of Chen.

Peng

“Ward off” energy is a kind of Jin that is highly prominent in Taijiquan, but I would say it is a common in some form to all the internal martial arts. Through Peng energy, we establish our boundaries. This can be at arm’s length, or close in. In advanced practitioners, it can expressed through any surface of the body. It is a soft and bouncy quality achieved through long hours of mindful standing practice; a whole-body, relaxed strength that is difficult to overcome through brute force. Where Song is empty, Peng is full.

In the Ward Off posture of Taijiquan, the forward arm is not held rigid, and nor is it floppy, but rather it maintains a barrier through slow-twitch, interior muscles and an internally connected network of fascia and sinews. By turning the waist, Peng can be used to redirect pressure, much like turning a ball, or to return pressure, like a beach ball being pushed underwater and rebounding. It has an inflating, expanding feeling, as though a water hose were running through the limbs and torso and connected to the tap of the lower Dantian.

On a physical level, Peng is soft and pliable, yet virtually irresistible so long as the practitioner remains more relaxed than their opponent. By remaining relaxed, incoming force does not get stuck in the body, but instead travels through as though the body were hollow. Peng feels like resistance, but really it is acceptance. Thus comes the phrase “lead the enemy into emptiness”. You defeat your opponent by not being there. Of course, you are there – you do not step aside, retreat or turn; rather, you let their power through your body as though you were not there, and they find themselves pushing against the earth itself, against their own power. They lose their centre, and they are defeated by their own strength.

Xin

On a more esoteric level, Peng could be thought of as our aura – the electromagnetic energy field that surrounds each of us. In this sense it is a measure of our presence, our charisma, and our capacity to reach out and touch others, and to be touched. It is our connection to the outside. Our defensive boundary, and our membrane of communication. Where the lower Dantian is associated with our Kidney channel, our Zhi (willpower), our adrenal and autonomic nervous system, spine, reproductive system, and internal fire (Ming Men), Peng could be said to be associated with our Heart and all its correspondences to love, acceptance, generosity, gratitude, and courage – our Xin.

Xin is the quality of our spirit associated with the Heart in Chinese, but really it refers to the mind. When our hearts are open and truthful, our minds are clear and full of potential. With an open heart, our minds move easily. We have a capacity for lightness, playfulness, and contentedness. We can realise that we do not need anything to be happy. We already have all we need; it is just a question of clearing away our layers of confusion and delusion. We can do this by living virtuously – the De of the Dao De Jing, which I have written about in another article. By living simply and honestly, without a strong attachment to our own selves, we can align ourselves effortlessly to the Dao, to the true nature of things, to the unfolding flow of life itself. So we come full circle, or perhaps that should be full spiral. From our original frame, aligning ourselves to gravity and finding our internal structure, we come to align ourselves with the whole cosmos.

Kong

“Why would I want to abandon my own self?” It’s a fair question. We have strong instincts to keep ourselves safe and thrive. But on close examination, our notion of self is only a concept. A useful fabrication, and little else. In fact, when held on to too tightly, it becomes a source of great suffering and discontent. When we do suffer, our sense of self seems to intensify. When we are joyful, it expands and evaporates. The delusion of self-nature is a tenant central to every religion and spiritual tradition around the world, so far as I can see. It is like a greasy lens that we can take away and see tings more clearly as a result. When we can experience life without such a close grasping to our own identity and preservation, without the constant narrative of our own being, of “me” as opposed to “not me”, then we are closer to our true natures.

Through meditation it is possible to arrive at an experiential understanding of the dissolution of self and other, of subject and object. Our experience becomes simply “experience”, and the possessive pronoun is dropped. It is not something that can be understood by words; it has to be perceived directly. And when it is, we find a natural rising of compassion, as our eye of wisdom is opened to see all the impermanence, interconnectedness, dependent arising and fundamental selflessness of all existence.

Yogic traditions call this sunyata, or emptiness. In Chinese it might be termed Kong. But this emptiness is far from nihilistic. In Chinese philosophy it is depicted by an empty circle: Wuji, the fundamental nothingness, the infinite and limitless potential through which everything can be created. From Wuji comes Taiji, the axis of polarity. From Taiji, the separation of Yin and Yang, and from this separation the emergence of the “10,000 things”, by which is meant the limitless manifestations of existence.

Shen

This immersion and dissolution of self into emptiness, or giving over of ourselves to God, in the language of Abrahamic religions, is the ultimate spiritual realisation we can attain, and by attaining it we lose ourselves, and gain everything. The late Korean Zen master Seung Sahn was famous for his exhortation: “Only don’t know”. This simple statement encapsulates a very profound state of being – a release from suffering, and from death, even. It is the pinnacle achievement of our spirit, the most pure state of our Shen.

The Shen is our spirit, and this includes our Zhi, Yi and Xin, as well as our Po (our mortal, corporeal spirit, which is tied to our breath and our Lung channel) and our Hun (which might be equated to our dream-body, spirit-body or immortal soul, and is tied to the energetic network of our Liver). In meditation, and, more specifically, in Daoist alchemical practices, we can arrive at a place of stillness within stillness, and begin to work with our energetic body to move towards both health and spiritual realisation, by converting and circulating our internal energies. It is important to understand that mindfully sitting in silence is not in itself meditation. Rather, it is a practice through which we can reach a state of meditation. Meditation practice is something very many of us do regularly; realising meditation, however, is achieved by very few.

Shen is a highly refined quality of energy, but of course it is not the only kind of energy in our bodies. Our most condensed form of energy is our Jing, which is the Essence that drives our growth, development and eventual decline. It is our finite source of energy, which we can supplement only through conservation of energy, good diet, clean air, and moderate exercise.

Through internal practices we can refine our Jing into Qi. Qi is a subtle form of energy somewhere between Jing and Shen, and it is our vital force. Acupuncture is the manipulation of Qi, altering its flow through the energetic channels of our bodies by stimulating accessible “wells”, or acupoints. By physically connecting to specific points and combinations of points, we can instruct the body to move towards a state of harmony, to dissippate energetic blockages, and encourage a free-flowing system that is the foundation of health.

Qi is also the expression of our power in the internal martial arts. There is an internal equivalent to the external harmonies referred to above. The six internal harmonies are:

Xin – Yi

From our heart-mind our clear intention is consciously expressed. We must be centred, relaxed, sunk, aware and peaceful for our Yi to be strong. Moreover, we need to be well-practised and familiar with the inner process and mind-state. This sets up a chain reaction of the following two stages.

Yi – Qi

Directed by our Yi, our vital energy is mobilised as Jin.

Qi – Li

Our energy is finally released as course, physical power.

Whether practising Chinese martial arts, Qigong, or meditation, these fundamental ideas provide a conceptual framework by which we can navigate our development of internal skills. They are what separate the internal arts from other martial arts, and give them their intriguing, mysterious and poetic character. Moreover, they provide a profound means of integrating these arts into every aspect of life, from the mundane and everyday, to the philosophical and spiritual. Not only are they far-reaching, they are also bottomless. Many lifetimes could be spent exploring the internal arts; they only ever grow deeper.

Am I boring you? 🥱

I’ve been reading an interesting book on breath-work recently, called Just Breathe, by Dan Brulé. There’s a section where he addresses the importance of yawning; full-body, uninhibited and luxurious yawning, complete with instinctive stretching. He talks about how essential it is for the body.

There is plenty of research out there about yawning, with the most supported theory being that we yawn to help regulate brain temperature. Some believe it serves to oxygenate the body when carbon dioxide levels are too high, but this hypothesis seems to be losing favour.

Brulé strongly criticises the social pressures we create around repressing this behaviour as somehow being unacceptable, especially with regard to the way we teach kids not to do it because it’s associated with sleepiness and boredom, and therefore “rude”. Actually, yawning forces blood through cerebral blood vessels and increases alertness, so far from being rude it is really an unconscious effort to stay engaged.

Brulé prompts us to look for other areas in our lives where we inhibit our natural and instinctive behaviours in this way, in order to conform. I’m sure there are many to explore, from the way we hold our bodies and facial expressions in certain situations, to other natural bodily functions deemed “inappropriate” for particular circumstances. How could repressing these behaviours act as stressors on our minds and bodies? How much harm does such repression do us?

Brulé places much emphasis on the physiological aspects of yawning. He views it as a wholly natural way of clearing internal energetic blockages and a means of being more connected to our bodies.

From a Chinese medicine perspective, I think this is fascinating. Yawning itself stretches our facial muscles, of course, and if we allow our body to follow suit with a natural whole-body stretching, then it has the effect of opening up space within our bodies.

When we create space, something fills it, and Chinese medicine says this something is Qi. When our Qi can flow unimpeded through the spaces in our bodies, then we have good health. When there are blockages and Qi cannot flow freely, this leads to stagnancy and disease. So yawning, especially full-body yawning, may be far more beneficial than it appears.

All mammals yawn, and many other animals, too. Lionesses yawn before and after hunting, and Brulé suggests this might serve as a kind of bonding mechanism. I wonder if it also helps prepare the body for movement by freeing up “stuck” areas and getting the blood and Qi moving smoothly?

As well as a way of encouraging our autonomic nervous system into a parasympathetic state, which is crucial for rest, relaxation, healing and digestion, Brulé also puts forward arguments for yawning’s ability to strengthen our awareness and capacity for empathy, and to release various beneficial neurochemicals. So much of our busy, modern lives are spent in a sympathetic nervous state that we become stuck in a permanent fight or flight response, and our health inevitably suffers. Could it be that as well as relaxing us, yawning is actually making us more aware and more connected to others?

I found it a fascinating read and thought I’d share these nuggets here. It’s something I’ve never really thought about before, but I definitely do suppress yawns, even sometimes when there’s no one else around. And I’m sure I’m not the only one. Not any more! (Well, maybe with the exception of work meetings and funerals!)

Brulé suggests making full-body yawning a conscious daily practice. I for one shall be joining him, and revelling in it, too. Vive la révolution de bâillement!

The De of the Dao De Jing

Next to the Daoist notion of the Dao we find the concept of De, which is often translated as “virtue” or “uprightness”. It is a key element of Daoist practice, being the second character in the title of Lao Zi’s classic of Daoism, the Dao De Jing (Tao Te Ching). It goes beyond a moral code or set of precepts, and rather refers to certain qualities that we can look to instil within ourselves through a practice of contemplation.

As our practice deepens, we become more sensitive to our inner nature, and this can hold up a magnifying glass to the worst aspects of our character – anger, frustration, irritability, sadness, anxiety, fearfulness, rumination, flightiness, hysteria… all these can rise to the surface and emerge in terrible starkness as we turn our awareness within ourselves and look with increasing clarity.

So, having some focus on building a substantial foundation can be highly beneficial, helping to keep us on the right path and to give us some stability and sense of anchoring. But what sort of virtues should we look to cultivate within ourselves? Following are a few ideas we might like to consider, as a complement to our daily meditation practice.

I find it helpful to bring these to mind as I first set my feet upon the floor when sitting up in the morning, accompanied by some deep, mindful breathing and a conscious enjoyment of silence. As each foot presses down, breathe and fill your being with whatever quality you wish to infuse. It only takes a few seconds, but can set the tone and resonate throughout the rest of your day. Such contemplations can also serve as nice ‘bookends’ to a formal seated meditation session.

Gratitude

Gratitude is a quality often embedded into prayer but frequently overlooked in our daily lives. When considered deeply you begin to realise it takes the whole of humankind, the whole planet, and the whole universe, for you to exist. It offers a healthy perspective, humility, and a gentle outlook. It also helps to reduce that easily inflated sense of self, to which we all cling to some extent.

Generosity

Also there is generosity, meaning generosity of spirit rather than simply giving material things. It includes kindness and friendliness, forgiveness of self and others, and a non-judging and patient attitude. You could think of gratitude and generosity as two sides of a coin – a receiving quality and a giving quality. Perhaps the coin itself is stamped with something like ‘interconnection’?

Acceptance

Acceptance is another idea I’d suggest. I think that encapsulates notions of openness, surrender, and (like generosity) patience and withholding judgement. I dislike the word ‘tolerance’ – it implies an underlying aversion or intolerance, whereas acceptance contains a fundamental “Yes!”.

Playfulness

Playfulness, too, is a crucial quality we should look to actively cultivate. I think that combines curiosity and humour nicely, as well as keeping some space around things mentally – not attaching to things too closely. By maintaining a healthy distance we can retain our awareness and not lose ourselves in our emotions and the external world. And we remember not to take ourselves too seriously, either. It’s important to retain a sense of the absurdity of life, of our own insignificance, mortality, foolishness, and wretchedness. There are few things worse than a “serious meditator”!

Of course, there are many other virtuous qualities we might look to foster within ourselves. This is by no means meant to be a complete list; it is merely a starting point for further exploration.

Body postures and gestures are an interesting complement to our contemplation practice. As far as I know they’re pretty universal around the world, although their cultural expressions are often quite different, of course. I’m thinking in particular of hand mudras and prayer, and prostrations and bowing; the notion that you can embody a particular quality or virtue, and make it literally a part of your physical self.

In this way we build strong links between, for example, pressing our palms together and feeling grateful, and so with practice we simply have to make the gesture for that quality to express itself through us. Similarly, a gesture with our palms facing outward could signify generosity or acceptance, and a slight smile and softness in the eyes could express a sense of mischief, as well as kindness.

De is more than just a philosophical outlook or an ethical code that we dutifully observe. It is an exploration of ourselves, a grounding for our wayward minds, and a way of remembering our spiritual path and nurturing our inner being. If we can attain to the Dao, then De will express itself naturally, without effort. Until then, we might just need a little help…

Is this the end of the road for Chinese Medicine?

Increasingly, advocates of Chinese acupuncture are seeking validation by conducting and studying clinical trials. But has anyone stopped to consider if this is truly the best way forwards for this complex tradition, which exists within its own scientific paradigm, and stands apart from modern scientific practice?

At the moment there is a very real danger of traditional Chinese medicine, with all its depth and scope, its richness and wisdom, being usurped by the relatively narrow field of western dry needling. The distinction between the two is lost on most of the general public, so a cheap, tack-on course for physiotherapists and osteopaths becomes indistinguishable from a degree-level, and in some cases a lifetime’s, study of TCM. Furthermore, the push to “prove” Chinese Medicine through clinical trials risks the profession losing its way and becoming mired with Western methods.

(As a note, I use the term Western medicine throughout this discussion, to distinguish it from traditional Chinese medicine. Of course “Western” medicine is prevalent throughout the whole world, and could equally be termed “modern” medicine, or even “reductive”, as opposed to “holistic”, medicine; but historically its roots are in the West, and I think most people would instinctively understand the distinction.)

I’d like to make it clear that I think the regulation of Chinese medicine practitioners is certainly a good thing, for obvious reasons of public trust and safety; but there is a world of difference between being regulated, and being controlled and dictated to by governing bodies with no real comprehension of its beauty and profundity, and probably amongst some even a perception of it as being dry needling plus some new age woo-woo as an added ingredient.

While I can see good arguments in favour of clinical trials, I have to admit this need to “prove” acupuncture has always struck me as kind of paranoid. But I’d never really thought through the consequences of its gaining full acceptance by the medical community. Its whole dynamic and character would change as it got synthesised and inevitably diluted by western institutions, which tend to be led by a drive for conformity, more often termed as standardisation. I suspect and fear it would be reduced to a collection of “clinically proved” protocols, as a kind of one-treatment-fits-all approach, which in reality might not be the best solution for the individual complexities of each patient. In Chinese medicine a headache isn’t just a headache; it is a symptom of any number of possible patterns of the human body, mind and spirit.

I guess there’s good and bad in it, as with anything, but on the whole I’m skeptical of forcing Chinese Medicine into the straitjacket of a Western model. There’s a Daoist tale by Zhuangzi about the useless tree that’s too gnarled and twisted to be any good for firewood, so it never gets cut down. At least that way it has room to grow on its own terms. But as soon as it is seen as something useful, it will get chopped up into pieces and lose its essential wholeness and naturalness.

What would be the advantages of a more rigorous testing of Chinese Medicine practice through clinical trials? Scientific inquiry means confirmation of efficacy and would undoubtedly lead to all round growth in the profession. More research would mean more acceptance by the public, and more respectability amongst the medical community. It would also help to weed out unqualified practitioners and charlatans, unfortunately an all too prevalent scourge of so-called alternative therapies.

I’d also add that properly conducted clinical trials and literature reviews help to eradicate some of the erroneous conclusions and decidedly woolly thinking that are lurking out there around the subject of energy work. There are many individuals in the field, or at least on its murky peripheries, who see nothing wrong in conflating different systems of thought, often from completely different cultures. To give an example, just because there are some similarities between the chakras of the yogic traditions, and the lower, middle and upper fields of the Chinese energy body, this doesn’t mean to say that they are exactly the same thing. They are not interchangeable, and to dilute systems in this way is to do them a great disservice. Yet it happens all the time, and this only serves to muddy the waters and lend ammunition to those who would seek to denigrate sophisticated and complete systems such as those of Daoist alchemy and Chinese medicine.

These are all really strong arguments in favour of clinical trials and application of Western methods, however my gut instinct is still one of hesitancy. Already standardised TCM practice is quite far removed from the traditional master-apprentice style of classical Chinese Medicine. In becoming assimilated by Western Medicine I feel TCM is only going to become more diluted, and will eventually be eroded and washed away by a tide of reductive “improvements”. It will become more rigid. More closed. More objective and material in its approach. More standardised. More prescriptive. Less of an inquiry. Less of a direct communication between patient and practitioner. Less of a dialogue. Less of an art. It is the difference between doctor as fixer and doctor as listener and healer.

There’s a huge qualitative difference between fixing somebody’s problems (which often means disguising them with drugs) and truly healing them in both mind and body. I can imagine a rapid degeneration into a “this point is for this symptom” way of causative, Western logical thinking, rather than the “big picture”, pattern-led and subjective insights of the Eastern approach. I fear that by becoming more “respectable” and “scientific”, Chinese Medicine is in serious danger of losing its heart. Objectivity is a poor exchange for insight and intuition, in my opinion. We have this idea in the West that the new thing is better, that progress is always good, that ideas change and develop and get superseded by better ideas.

And while I’m sure it would be incorrect to claim that Chinese Medicine hasn’t had its pioneers or benefited from new ideas and approaches over the centuries, at its fundamental core it has remained static because that core is perfectly in line with the way things are in nature. A practitioner might always be able to improve their skill, but the art itself is already complete and universal. So why then this seemingly rather paranoid urgency to prove Chinese Medicine a worthy endeavour? It’s very difficult to make any experiment watertight, and doubly so with something like acupuncture. I’d even say it feels precariously close to a disrespect to the masters of its 2,000 year (and almost certainly far longer) history.

By reducing Chinese Medicine to graphs, charts and tables of experimental results, severed from the individual patient and their place in the environment, you’re forcing a holistic and largely inductive system into a reductive and deductive paradigm. You depersonalise it. You throw out subjective factors entirely in favour of the objective and measurable. And by taking out the subjectivity you remove its most characteristic and effective factor.

One of the biggest differences between modern “Western” medicine and TCM is that the Chinese approach engages with the individual in each case, and treatment is inextricably interwoven with that individual, whereas modern medical methods largely stand independently of the patient. By which I mean, if you have a headache, you and everybody else should take this particular pill; as opposed to the TCM method of looking more deeply into causes – lifestyle, diet, sleep, stress, etc. – and not just plastering over the underlying problem by making the pain go away.

The objective approach might make sense for chemistry or physics experiments, but our minds are intrinsically involved in our health; I’d say it’s a mistake to leave subjective factors out when it comes to medical efficacy. And of course, often the very act of measuring can greatly influence results. Scientists looking at the subatomic world have already found this to be true. The very act of looking, of paying attention to something, alters its behaviour fundamentally.

Evidence-based medicine is an excellent model for the reductive and specific approach of Western science. But it leaves out some crucial elements that are essential to the effectiveness of a treatment…

The expertise and experience of the practitioner.

Their diagnostic insight.

Their skilful technique.

Their clear-minded intention and close attention to the patient.

The clarity and honesty of communication between practitioner and patient.

Trust and expectations, including the well-documented and often underestimated placebo effect.

The environment in which a treatment is carried out.

And other peripheral but no less important circumstances, such as variations in patients’ lifestyle, outlook, diet, emotional disposition, mental acuity, air quality, environmental climate, sleep patterns, relationships, work, life history…

A human being is all of this, and when we try to narrow the parameters to test things in isolation, we leave out so much of value.

In Chinese Medicine there is great importance placed upon the Yi of the practitioner, which comprises skill, insight, knowledge, focus and intent; and their quality of Ting, which is a measure of their ability to listen to and observe the patient. All of this is largely disregarded by the homogenised nature of clinical trials. Generally, experiments of this type endeavour to leave out human factors as far as possible. What’s more, control groups are often arrived at through highly unsatisfactory methods such as sham acupuncture. And often, studies are simply neither large enough nor rigorous enough to be of any real use.

On balance I do welcome clinical trials, but we should be very wary of promoting their importance too much. I think they bring an interesting dimension to Chinese Medicine. But that’s as far as I’d go. I don’t think they’re imperative or even particularly useful at all. And I wonder with some trepidation where they will lead us. That’s just my take on the subject. I appreciate there are lots of differing and totally valid viewpoints.

The trouble is that as an Eastern art gets drawn into modern Western science, and Western science becomes increasingly prevalent in the East, there are fewer and fewer people who really have a feel for the particular mental approach that guides the skilful and subtle art of Chinese Medicine, so their voices don’t get listened to. Practices become steered more and more by Western ways of thinking and working, and in the end we are left with a medicine that is a shadow of its former self, impersonal and stale.

That would be a real shame, a tragedy in fact, so I think we have to be careful about how much weight we lend to the double-blind trials and (no doubt well-intentioned) scientific journals that publish them. No experiment is perfect. Especially in a field of research like Chinese Medicine, faults can always be found in terms of the comprehensiveness of trials, the effectiveness of sham acupuncture, timescales, control groups, etc.

I think both Chinese and Western medicines can happily coexist, and they definitely have their respective strengths. If you’re depressed and suffering from IBS, anxiety, migraines or insomnia, go get some herbs or needles. But if you’re having a heart attack or an arterial bleed, do go to A&E and not your local acupuncturist! But just because the two medicines can coexist doesn’t mean that they can’t stand apart. They don’t have to speak the same language. Something always gets lost in translation.

Qi Gong, Chinese Martial Arts, and daily life

Absorbing fully into a martial form practice, a Qi Gong set, or even just paying attention to your posture and breathing patterns, is a simple and ever-available method to realise the real presence of the present.

Formally practising conscious movement and breathing translates into a more conscious and truthful experience of everyday life. You become more aware of how you’re acting and speaking, and spend less of your life “on autopilot”. In other words, it facilitates a state of being whereby you can act consciously, rather than just react, to events around you. You also become more attuned to the quality of your thoughts, words and actions.

As a result, you are less prone to mistakes, accidents, poor judgements, omissions, obsessions, confusion, and conflict. Furthermore, moving (or not moving) consciously can help create a sense of separation between “you, the quiet observer” and “you, who is identified with your own internal monologue”. As such, your whole experience of life becomes less delusional. By simply paying attention more, you can live more truthfully – more in harmony with your actual external and internal environments – and see things less and less through the lens of your own individual preferences and self-concept.

There are lots of other benefits, too. I think a daily routine of some kind of movement and stillness practice (whether that be Qi Gong, Baguazhang, Taijiquan, meditation, or some other martial art or embodied practice) improves concentration, self-discipline, self-confidence, peacefulness, patience, and generosity.

It encourages a more flexible and less controlling or compulsive approach to life; a more self-contained and content disposition that allows you to take things (including yourself!) less seriously. It invites you to let go. And, as well as increasing your sensitivity to your own state of mind and body, I would say it even heightens your sensitivity to that of others around you. It improves your intuition for empathy and for well-judged and honest communication.

There’s something of a paradox in that these practices are kind of self-absorbed on the face of it, but the result is a way of being that is less self-centred and actually benefits the people around you. I’m not trying to claim that hours spent navel-gazing in Nei Dan practice, or perfecting your Zheng Manqing, chain punches or mud-wading step, will solve the world’s problems; but they might just improve your own immediate environment and relationships.

More obviously, they help you to function optimally on a physical level, increase your energy levels, and (perhaps less obviously) help to smooth out your experiences on an emotional level. That’s got a lot to do with getting blood and Qi flowing, training fluid and precise movements, and taking full, even, calming breaths, as well as getting into the habit of turning your attention inwards instead of always looking outwards for stimulation and validation.

I definitely feel more relaxed, comfortable and balanced after practice. It gives me a sense of being stable and anchored, and helps to make life feel less overwhelming. In particular, calmly enduring yoga asanas or taking punches and joint locks, helps you to endure or roll with whatever life throws at you off the mat; they help you to be more humble, to be more at ease with yourself, and to be more acceptant and less inclined to push things away (or grab on to things) in a reactive or compulsive manner.

Through martial arts training you learn how to maintain calmness and clarity when under attack, you learn to be less fearful, to accept defeat graciously, to remain humble in victory, and to test things in reality instead of nurturing fantasies inside your own mind. All this translates directly into our social interactions with other people.

I think training martial forms can also translate into your own natural body language, and therefore into everyday social interactions also. Standing tall, a level gaze, expansive and space-filling gestures, open palms, and relaxed body language, all influence hugely how other people see us, and therefore how we interact with others, and as a result can directly influence and alter the things that happen for us in life, too.

Finally, by practising every day you can get a real sense of how your internal state changes over time, and it perhaps even helps you to become more at ease with change in general. And change is inevitable and inexorable, regardless of whether you want it or not.

We spend far too much of our lives “living in our heads”, and in my experience this only leads to self-deception and dissatisfaction. Eventually, it will result in disharmony and ill-health. By sinking your awareness into your body, you can begin to peel away your individual perspective, and experience the world as a perceiving rather than as a perceiver. This is a subtle but profound shift. Embodied practices can be, with perseverance, a powerful vehicle towards this transformative end.

This might seem high-minded or even far-fetched, but there is really nothing to lose; at the very least you will discover a more equanimous, self-directed and flexible outlook, and experience a more mobile, supple, and energised, healthy body.

Listening inwardly will probably bring everything you’ve kept buried into the spotlight at first, bringing things up that you thought were already dealt with, or perhaps weren’t even aware of at all. But with perseverance you can learn to recognise and accept what’s there, and move towards a more conscious existence.

By adopting regular mindful movement and stillness practices, we can train ourselves to inhabit our bodies more completely, become more aware, and live entirely more creative, open, and meaningful lives.

Yin-Yang & Letting Go

It took me a long while to realise this deeply, and enacting it is an ongoing and never ending process, but letting go is the fundamental thing we need to do in order to find real contentment in our lives. We have to get out of the way, and then our path is clear.

It begins by looking outside. This is unconventional. Most meditators would tell you to look in, but I think it is helpful to first look out. Look around you, and you will see that all things are in a process of arising and dispersing. We see this in the daily cycle, in the seasons, in our own mortality – everything comes and goes. Then look inside, and you observe your blood, your thoughts, and your nervous system and emotions all do the same. Nothing stays still. Life is like the waves or tides of the ocean, in a constant exchange of rising and falling, of ebb and flow.

Keep looking, and you will notice that everything depends upon everything else. Look outside, look inside; it doesn’t matter. Nothing stands apart – nothing exists in isolation. Things might appear to us as separate, for our minds have learnt to discern things from our senses, and to create borders that say, “I end here, and you begin there”. This is different to that. But really, we cannot exist alone. We each require ancestry, family, breath, food, light and warmth. Our very existence is reliant upon all the rest of nature, and indeed the whole universe, existing alongside us. In fact, we exist not alongside other things, but within them, and they within us. We are in a permanent state of change and exchange. Life is wholly interdependent, like a vast web of interconnected parts. Everything is really one thing.

Imagine a circle. Nothing left out; everything contained within. Imagine the ocean; the waves rising and falling, the tides ebbing and flowing, but the ocean itself remains itself – it is always the ocean; the movements create no separation. They are contained within the ocean and are an inseparable part of it. From the choppiest surface movements, refracting light in many directions, to the deepest, darkness stillness beneath, it is only the ocean, thoroughly the ocean, and nothing else. The waves are the ocean, the tides are the ocean, the deeps are the ocean. Life is like this: many things and one thing, simultaneously.

This is where we begin, with this circle that contains all things. And because the things we perceive are really strands of one great web, waves of one great ocean, there really are no things that can be said to exist at all, truly. Yes, of course things exist, as we ordinarily see them. But in another sense nothing exists exclusively, of its own accord, because all is just a rising and falling. Does a wave exist? Can you separate it from the ocean and say, “Here is a wave!”? No, the wave is just process. It is an exchange. It is not a thing that can be pointed to, or removed. Its existence relies on all the other peaks and troughs around it. Everything is like this: on one level, things appear, and we can grasp and identify them; on another level, they are impermanent, dependent, and exist only in relation to their surroundings and their origination.

So what does this mean for us? Over the course of our lives we develop a strong sense of self. As children, we are often asked: “Do you like this one?” and “Which is your favourite?” We are encouraged to have preferences, and we are encouraged to feed our sense of self. We see ourselves as ongoing, individual entities, and we nurture that view with preferences, with likes and dislikes for things that are other. Here is me, myself, a thing. And over there are all other things, which are not me. Some things I am attracted to, and I grasp at them and hold on the them, and make them a part of this concept of “me”; other things I am indifferent to, or I push them away and label them as “not me”. This is a useful outlook for subsistence, but it is useless for realisation. And unfortunately, we layer our perception of separation with a substantial, abiding self-nature. But as we have observed already, all things are one ocean, one web. All things are me. Everywhere I look, there is “me”. So what meaning has “me” at all, then? If all is one, then there is no “me”. “I” exist only as a passing, dependent idea, a wave that requires all the other waves to have any meaning at all. It is this wavelike “me” that we need to drop, for it is the cause of all our confusion and suffering. We don’t need to annihilate it; on the contrary, we need to accept it and view it for what it really is – just a passing idea. We can play with it. We can use it. But we do need to stop holding on to it, and let go. If we fully grasp the notion of impermanence, then it becomes apparent that not even for an instant is there any abiding self anywhere, for all is in flux, in an eternal state of becoming.

If we identify strongly with the ocean-like “me”, then we are no longer pushed and pulled around by our preferences as we engage with the external world. We can experience this “bigger me” by turning our awareness inside and looking internally, instead of allowing ourselves to be influenced and entranced by our senses. As we sit and observe inwardly, we see clearly the chaotic tumult of the ocean’s surface. The quiet space beneath the madness of our thoughts. And if we just look at that self-generating chaos, without engaging with it, without identifying with it, then we can sink deeper into the stillness beneath, where lies a profoundly peaceful experience of the present, and which simply has no need for any notion of self. It is an all-encompassing awareness that does not separate subject from object, this from that, self from other; nor does it reject this duality – it embraces that too. This awareness is what lies beyond the borders of the circle we imagined. It encircles the circle, and observes everything within it. Like a mirror, it simply reflects whatever is, and requires no sense of an “experiencer”. The waves rise and fall, but the ocean is one, and the observer is unmoved, equanimous, perfectly still. Yes, things appear, and there is perceiving, but there is no perceiver.

When we move from this place of stillness, it is with the understanding that separate existence is only apparent, and that by holding on to the notion of self we create our own suffering. Two things naturally follow: compassion, for we are no longer separate from the suffering of others; and amusement, for the “cosmic joke” of our own absurd delusion is revealed, and we can let go of the ridiculous burden of the self. So long as we remain mindful, and do not cling to our idea of self-nature, then we are free. Sometimes this is spoken of as joyfulness, but to my mind that is not quite right. Joy is a state of agitation, whereas this freedom emerges from a place of stillness and contentment. And, it’s important to make clear, nor does this mean we live in a state of unchanging, soporific calm. That is just more delusion – a kind of self-tranquillisation. Rather, we move, we engage, we laugh and we cry – but now we are grounded. We have a place of stillness to return to. We are no longer like boats tossed helplessly on the waves, victims of our own externality and discrimination; but we are anchored and can no longer be lost. There is a deep change in the quality of our experience.

The Heart is Yang. It is a place of activity. It pulses waves of blood around the body. It houses the Shen, the refined and ethereal aspect of our being. It is the seat of our vigour and manages our capacity to deal with life without anxiety or dullness. It engages with the world. It moves. It’s fire rises towards the heavens. It feels emotion… laughter, compassion, gratitude. It is a Yin organ, but its function is Yang; it is like the waves. If we split our circle in two, the Heart is one pole, above. It moves, but if it is to be healthy, it must be anchored in stillness. There is a seed of Yin that connects it and allows for intermingling with the Yin field below.

The Kidneys are Yin. They are water, and their motion is downward, towards the nourishing earth. They balance the rising fire of the Heart and store the Essence of our being. In meditation, the mind is allowed to sink to the lower Dantian. The body releases tension as the mind sinks through, the mind deeply lets go as it sinks, and the breath becomes quiet and stable, deep and fine, unhindered and unhurried. Mind, breath and body relax and release as one. Tension unwinds, and the “small self” unbinds; the attention is focused, unwavering, but with a quality of softness and gentleness; the awareness is clear and still, like an undisturbed lake on a windless day – or like the deep ocean depths. This is the other pole: the Dantian. It is still and quiet, a receptacle for our Yin energy, for our deep reserves; but within is the spark of life, the fire of Ming Men. The Qi gathers and fills, the poles open to one another, and the process of releasing and opening the body’s energetic channels begins to restore us to health and balance.

Two poles. One, Yin within Yang; the other, Yang within Yin. One is the waves, the other the ocean. Yin, anchoring; Yang, enlivening. Yin, internal; Yang, external. Both in communication, in a process of never ending exchange. One reliant on the other, completing the circle. Ebbing, flowing, interchanging, transforming. Here our circle becomes the the Taiji symbol of Yin and Yang, something arising out of nothing. If we nurture our Shen, our spirit, and keep it contained within, and we build our Qi diligently, then we can find a higher energetic state – we can be fulfilled. The circle spins and mixes Yin and Yang in equal parts. No more separation. We transcend our “small self”. We must create the correct conditions, and then our bodies and minds can heal and reach new levels of openness and vitality. Only when we grip and hold on to something does the circle stop spinning. It goes off-balance. It wobbles. Perhaps it falls. Perhaps it breaks. When the motion is halted, something stagnates, or it depletes and its opposite grows excessive. Then we have imbalance, and what emerges is ill-health of body and mind. Discomfort. Discontent. Disease. We hold on to our “little me”, our wavelike me, as though it exists by itself, and we separate ourselves from the rest of the cosmos. Then we are not living in harmony with nature. We are no longer aligned with truth. We are mistaken, but we do not step outside the circle, so we cannot see it.

You have to let go. You have to get out of your own way. Then we move with things, not against them, because we have no preference, and life is easy. That’s not to say that no difficulties arise, but when they do we can understand them better and know how to respond intelligently. Sometimes we can step aside or recognise and deal with them before they become problems at all. And nor is this to say that we become like nothing, nonexistent, nonentities, or that we are at the mercy of the will of others. In Taijiquan this becomes clear. You can do two things in tai chi, which are really the same: blend your centre with your opponent’s, and disrupt his balance or uproot him with Fa Jin by allowing the Qi to pass through unhindered; or, you can Song and release your mass to the floor so you are not there at all, and he is effectively attacking his own imbalance, his own tension, his own self. Both require you to let go of your self. You do not raise your energy against his, you do not stiffen or become angry, you do not defy or resist, but nor do you run away – you simply blend and release, and he is defeated. He is defeated, and you are not even there.

This is a very high level of skill of course, and one that I certainly cannot profess to have attained, not by a very long way. But it applies in all aspects of life, and in some aspects of my own life I have seen it work to great effect. By blending and releasing, you drop your self and become one with the whole. By letting go, you can attain mastery of your own being. You are no longer a nervous, confused and self-attached mind in a tense, imbalanced, uninhabited body. Mind and body align in harmony and you simply act in accordance with what is right. Not a moral, intellectual “right”, but a natural, universal and comprehending “right”, which might be termed De, or Virtue. By letting go you fall into the Dao, into the natural way, and you attain to De.

I have managed to successfully, even easily, drop some very long-standing addictions and unhealthy habitual thought patterns simply by letting go. It’s not even something you need to learn to do. You already know how to relax, but you are clinging too tightly to your self, so you cannot. Instead, you distract yourself and call that relaxation instead. You fill your life and fill your mind when you should be emptying it. Paradoxically, only by emptying your being will it become full. If you simply release the tension in your body, relax your breathing and let your mind sink naturally to your centre, then you can begin to experience what it is to truly let go. You have to be diligent and accept your imperfection. Embrace your own absurdity. Watch your own mind closely. See where it moves, how it gravitates to things and reaches out. It’s easy to do, but not to maintain. Know that you will fail, but that is when you learn. Be patient and generous, and next time, maybe you will remain mindful. Bit by bit, you release deeper and deeper. You have to unbind the mental, emotional and bodily clinging of a whole lifetime – that is no small endeavour. But if you practise, you will notice that your life is gradually becoming smoother. Recurring problems and difficulties no longer arise, or they fade away more quickly. You are lighter, but also more grounded. You are more responsive, more adaptable, less serious, less narrow, and more self-aware. This is not about achieving some mystical insight, some flash of enlightenment, or supernatural wisdom. It is simply a return to a more truthful and centred version of your being, which exists even now beneath the unhappiness and delusion that arises simply from holding on. Everything is right, just as it is. Even you. There is no need to hold on. Let go, let go so you can find a place of equilibrium and underlying peace. Not stasis, but harmony. Abandon the wave, and the ocean will catch you. It was you all along. You just thought yourself a wave. So draw yourself up and let go. Through loss, only gain. When you get out of the way, everything is clear.

Things flow. Flow with it.