The Azure Dragon

The Mysterious Middle

The Lower Dantian. The Field of the Golden Elixir. The mystic central pivot of the human body. Mysterious, elusive, undefinable…

Or is it?

Since I first started practising Chinese martial arts and meditation, the concept of the Dantian has been ubiquitous. And the explanations I’ve heard regarding its nature have ranged from resolutely practical, to dismissive, to utterly bonkers.

I think first there is an important distinction to make. The Dantian referred to in martial arts is not exactly the same as that in Daoist meditation practices.

In martial arts it is the entire region of the torso, incorporating the lower abdomen, lower back and hips. In alchemical meditation practices it is a specific area deep within the lower abdomen located between Qi Hai (Ren 6 – Sea of Qi) and Ming Men (Du 4 – Gate of Life), directly above the perineum, where energy can be gathered and worked with in preparation for opening the channels.

The “alchemical” process is normally described as refining Jing into Qi, and subsequently Shen, but I’m going to try to avoid Chinese terms as it’s their misapprehension that tends to lead to the dismissive or preposterous positions I referred to above.

That said, there are similarities between the martial Dantian and that referred to in Neidan (alchemy).

In meditation, the Dantian is a focal point for the attention and the breath, serving to help quieten a person’s emotions and inner narrative.

As the breath becomes increasingly tranquil and deep, the mind sinks with it and the body can begin to conserve and build its energy. This process occurs within the lower abdominal space behind and beneath the navel.

As the body reaches a state of efficient, natural functioning, undisturbed by the mind, it releases nervous and muscular tensions, corrects habitual misalignments, and invigorates the organs.

Undistracted by external stimuli or internal stressors, the production and transportation of substances like blood, lymph, marrow, hormones and enzymes becomes optimised. Stagnancy is slowly eradicated and the body mobilises internally, unobstructed by emotional and physical blockages (which are not separated in Chinese Medicine as they are in the Western model).

There are many specific exercises that lead the body through this process, but with diligent long-term practice the body and mind can both settle and stabilise at a steady, open awareness and easeful, healthy flow.

The Lower Dantian is central to this “alchemical” change. As the process continues to advanced levels, which I certainly do not have authority to write about, the Middle Dantian (at the heart space) and Upper Dantian (at the forehead behind Yin Tang, which some theories have associated with the pineal gland) become more important as Qi is further refined to Shen, usually translated as Spirit and encompassing the insubstantial realm of consciousness.

In martial arts, the breath is also sunk to the region of the Lower Dantian. A degree of tension is maintained in the abdominal wall on inhalation, as with the reverse abdominal breathing technique of Neidan, and dissimilar to the calming abdominal breathing method of Buddhist meditation, where the belly is allowed to inflate with the in-breath.

Reverse abdominal breathing is not unhealthy or unnatural, as I’ve heard claimed. It simply allows the back and upper abdomen to inflate rather than the lower abdomen. Reverse breathing is still a deep and soothing breath, and with practice can feel quite natural and easy. It “pressurises” the body on the inhalation, with a feeling of squeezing into the centre.

It also encourages a total relaxation on the exhalation, allowing everything to further sink and let go (whereas “Buddhist” breathing can introduce some tension into the abdomen on the out-breath if overextended). Done properly, reverse breathing is a soothing and stabilising practice that helps to locate the energetic Dantian.

Why is the breath so emphasised? Because it’s the gateway between our bodies and the rest of the world, where our conventionally perceived boundaries between external and internal become blurred and fuzzy.

It also marks a boundary between surrender and control; we can’t help but breathe, but we can influence the breath, and the quality of our breath can in turn influence our body and mind. It can help activate the parasympathetic nervous system, eliminate airborne toxins, and aid in purging our “inner toxins” of excess stress, dysfunctional feelings, and retained and repressed emotional trauma.

I’m not saying we can literally breathe out our wounds and scars, but we can create the right conditions in the body and mind to encourage such a release.

Let’s turn our attention to our attention. As in meditation, in Chinese martial arts the attention is gently placed in the Dantian (and in similar arts such as Aikido, where it is given the Japanese term, Hara).

Why place the attention here? Shouldn’t you be alert to external threats? Looking outward?

It’s because, from here, at the centre of the body, the mind can move in all directions. There is an equality of awareness, and a heightening of peripheral awareness. You are not unaware of the external; you are finding a global awareness that encompasses everything rather than making distinctions between front and back, inside and out. If at least part of the mind is always at the centre, it can respond more quickly, as it doesn’t need to be pulled from total engagement with another stimulus.

Here, at the centre, the mind can be quiet, and listen. Placing the attention at the Dantian has a calming effect on the mind, nerves, and emotions, allowing for smoother and quicker reactions as the awareness has no distractions or preoccupations, being totally present with, comprehending of, and intuitively responsive to a situation. (See the discussion of Yi in my previous post, “Internal Circles”).

It helps ensure an appropriate response, too, as the practitioner is less likely to be overcome by fear, anger or an unhealthy desire to dominate another person.

Sinking the mind to the Dantian also allows for a finer sensitivity to the inner connectedness, flow and tension within the body. These are crucial qualities to be nurtured in the internal martial arts, without which much of their power, depth and intrinsic beauty are lost.

Finally, and perhaps most obviously, the Lower Dantian is emphasised in martial arts because it is literally the centre of the body. Here we find our centre of balance, and, when the pelvis is sufficiently dropped from the thorax, our centre of mass.

Being mindful of the Dantian helps us to move in a balanced and coordinated way. When we organise the body around this central fulcrum, our movements are more powerful and united. No part of the body is left out, detached from, overextended or exposed (and therefore vulnerable), as everything is contained and always returning to its centre.

When a strike is generated from the body’s centre, it is not only more biomechanically forceful, but it also allows us to return immediately to a relaxed, sunk and rooted posture that can’t be easily manipulated or overcome. It also allows us to move smoothly in all directions equally, physically as well as mentally.

Our rootedness is created by the physical relaxation of the soft tissues around the bones, as we release tension from the mind and muscles, and allow gravity to connect us strongly to the earth.

It’s interesting that when we carry stress and tension, we tend to hold it in our upper back and neck, it causes our shoulders to raise, and it gives us headaches. It rises within us and disconnects us from the earth we stand on.

When we relax the body and, while maintaining a sound skeletal posture that’s also aligned with gravity, allow everything to drop away from the head at Bai Hui (Du 20 – Hundred Meetings), the shoulders and the sacrum can be released, and the habitual anterior pelvic tilt that office jobs have inflicted on so many people, can melt away. This is what gives the characteristic “sitting” posture of Chinese martial arts. The pelvis isn’t deliberately posteriorly rotated – it’s simply released to its natural, healthy position.

This relaxed positioning of the Dantian area allows us to move from our centre with fluidity and efficiency, and allows for more effective transference of power from the legs to the upper body.

I love the Chinese way of explaining concepts such as the Dantian. Their talent for precise but poetic metaphor is one of the things that draws me to their whole culture.

But sometimes things get lost in translation, such that Westerners either decide not to engage with it at all, because they don’t understand it; or they start imagining all kinds of fanciful things that are simply not present in their somatic experience.

And, to me, it’s our somatic experience that facilitates our accurate comprehension of reality. Our imaginations are powerful, and wonderful, but they shouldn’t override and distort our basic perception of reality.

By allowing our awareness to sink and settle at the Lower Dantian, we find a place of equilibrium, rootedness, peace, relaxation, sensitivity, calm understanding, connectedness, and holistic health.

The Dantian is not mysterious, elusive or undefinable; it’s simply the centre of our being, of our unified experience of body, breath and mind.

Internal circles

Of all the Chinese internal martial arts, it’s Baguazhang that relates most closely to Chinese Medicine. But how and why does a (relatively) modern martial art find itself so entwined with Chinese Medicine and Daoist philosophy?

There are a number of parallels that I’m going to explore, but first, it might be helpful to think about just what an internal martial art is.

There are a few, including Water Boxing and White Ape, but the most well-known are Taijiquan, Xingyiquan and Baguazhang. Xingyi is trained mostly as a pure martial art; Taijiquan, while practised by a small number of people as a combat art, is mostly associated with health and well-being these days – which is a shame because there’s been an unfortunate resultant dilution there and much has been lost. There are still some good teachers around who understand Tai Chi fully, but sadly they’re few and far between.

Baguazhang lies somewhere in between Xingyi and Tai Chi. The Hou Tien linear forms explicitly codify its combat applications, but these are relatively more hidden in the Xian Tien circular forms. Circle walking has a meditative aspect to it that’s comparable to the slow forms of Tai Chi, except that it’s generally practised at a faster pace.

Theories abound about the roots of Baguazhang. The accepted legend is that Dong Hai Chuan learnt it from a Daoist sage, thus insinuating that it has a firm grounding in Daoist theory and lending it an air of ancient tradition.

But it’s actually very recent, relatively speaking – the youngest of the three main internal arts. Dong Hai Chuan lived in the nineteenth century. But people like to think things have deeper roots, and so you’ll find theories relating Bagua to Chinese ritual plays, Hindu shamanic dances, eight-armed Tibetan incarnations of Tara, and even the Egyptian creation myth.

There is something very ritualistic about circle walking, though. Something about walking round in a circle speaks of tribalism and trance.

So what is internal? Commonalities to the internal arts include a certain way of aligning and connecting the body, releasing power through the connective tissues, and keeping the bones stacked up in line with gravity. There is a sense of containment, and a body method that develops lines of communication so no part of the body is ever disconnected or overcommitted.

Internal arts emphasise smooth, soft movements and relaxation, coordinating the whole body to generate maximum and efficient power, never using more energy than necessary. Like many other martial arts they rely on exploiting an opponent’s weaknesses and using their own force against them, or neutralising attacks, but there is a preference for suppleness and litheness over strength and brute force-against-force.

This characteristic of softness and flexibility is reminiscent of the Dao De Jing, where it speaks of being rigid and brittle as the way of death, and being soft and supple as the way of life.

Of course, there are huge distinctions separating the internal arts, too. Xingyi is very direct and hard by comparison. The movements are relaxed still, but like Wing Chun there is a whiplike quality makes the strikes very powerful. It has a philosophy of hit fast and hit hard, and doesn’t worry too much about defence or what the opponent is doing. There’s a relentlessness to it; an indefatigable quality of “push through no matter what”.

Where Xingyi is hard and straight, Taijiquan is rounded and giving. Many techniques rely on accepting force and returning it, of absorbing and rebounding. There is an inflated quality to the body, organised around the Lower Dan Tian region of the lower abdomen. Stepping is grounded, as the heels root first, and there’s a strong emphasis on close quarter grappling as exemplified by push hands practice.

And Baguazhang? Bagua uses fluid, fast movement, twisting the upper body like rope and using spiralling attacks and light, circling steps that are designed to find angles and ways in through an opponent’s defences. The sure but agile “mud-wading” steps grasp the floor and the quick, unexpected changes of direction allow the practitioner to attack the flanks and take or destabilise the opponent’s centre.

Bagua’s techniques are varied and comprehensive: chokes and joint locks, throws and leg sweeps, a few kicks and stomps, and, particularly in Gao style, which steals a little from Xingyi, fist strikes, too.

But there’s a whole lot more to Bagua. It has strong links to Qi Gong, especially to Dao Yin, which are forceful exercises to lead and guide the Qi. As I’ve already alluded to, there are meditative elements to circle walking that encourage a non-discriminatory multi-directional awareness, and a calm, quiet clarity of mind that facilitates a clear perception of the situation.

Bagua has its own set of fundamental exercises (Ji Ben) and exercises for building the movement patterns and physical coordination (Nei Gong), and it can easily be incorporated into life nourishing (Yang Sheng) practices that seek to prevent illness (just as Chinese Medicine does) through good diet and eating habits, sleeping patterns, sufficient rest and exercise, and methods to regulate the mind and emotions.

Circle walking itself mirrors the ever-changing flow between Yin and Yang, seeking to balance Yin and Yang within the body through smooth palm changes, fluid turning and twisting movements, and combinations of hard and soft techniques.

Its eight mother palms, or frames, of Xian Tien (circle walking) practice correspond to the eight trigrams (the Ba Gua) of the Yi Jing (I Ching), which is the most ancient of the Chinese classics. The Hou Tien (linear forms) number 64 and relate to the 64 hexagrams (that are derived from combining two trigrams), which are used for divination.

The trigrams are fundamental to Daoist philosophy and so play an important role in both Baguazhang and Chinese Medicine. On the macrocosmic scale their three lines represent Earth, Humans and Heaven respectively.

Within the human body they represent Jing (essence), Qi and Shen (spirit), growing more refined as we move from Earth to Heaven. Made up of solid Yang lines and broken Yin lines, they combine to explain the one overarching constant of life: the process of change.

The eight trigrams can be arranged in two ways: the Pre-Heaven (Xian Tien) and Post-Heaven (Hou Tien) arrangements. In medicine, our Post-Heaven state is our postnatal being, necessarily sullied by impure air, foods and disturbances of the mind.

Yang Sheng practices look to restore us to our prenatal state of health and purity. And Baguazhang itself places importance on its health-giving benefits as much as it’s martial elements. By practising Baguazhang we can experientially understand the process of change within the body.

Of course, Chinese Medicine also works by balancing Yin and Yang and restoring the body and mind to a place of unity and harmony. The eight trigrams can be integrated with five phase (Wu Xing) theory or used directly in Yi Jing styles of acupuncture by imaging the Ba Gua on to the body and balancing the trigrams.

This can be done contralaterally, which relates well to Baguazhang as many of its techniques, as well as its fundamental Hou Tien posture of San Ti Shi (three-body standing post), are contralateral too. Why? Because that is our natural walking gait, and it makes sense to move in natural ways as they have evolved over millennia to be the most efficient.

Baguazhang and Chinese Medicine share another common thread in their emphasis on the Yi. Yi is basically our intention, our precognitive awareness and understanding of a situation arrived at through a combination of practised skill, learning and intuition.

In the internal arts we talk about the six harmonies. Three are external: coordinating hand and foot, elbow and knee, and shoulder and hip. The other three are internal: mind-intent (Xin-Yi), intent-energy (Yi-Qi), and energy-power (Qi-Li). A clear intent leads our moving energy in martial arts, just as a clear intent guides the needle and exchange of energies in acupuncture.

Both the practitioner and, to some degree at least, the patient, need an intention directed clearly towards healing, being tuned into the needles and to their own internal landscape. The acupuncturist gives clear somatic instructions, and the patient’s body listens and receives those directives.

Yi is more than just impulse or intuition. It’s a holistic grasp of the reality at hand, undistorted by the emotions and lending awareness equally to subject, object and environment.

How do we purify the Yi, then? Through meditation. Through practising virtue. Perhaps even self-hypnosis or visualisation. Think of an athlete preparing for a race, systematically enacting their idiosyncratic rituals to clear their minds and focus on the task at hand. Entering a state of readiness.

Perhaps it’s fair to say that the Yi has a different quality, or at least carries more or less weight, in different disciplines. In Xingyiquan, Yi is literally central. In meditation, I would argue it’s less so. Whereas attention must be full and undistracted, intention is likely to raise the body’s energy and stir the mind, preventing it from absorbing into the body and sinking and settling into stillness. But some intent is still needed – some gentle nudge to simply sit.

But is this intention conscious? Or does it arise before conscious thought? Does thought simply justify, in hindsight, the movement from intention to action? Again, I suspect it depends on the discipline. A highly trained and experienced physician might be able to operate successfully on the level of instincts and intuition, although it’s crucial to recall that this innate seeing has been arrived at through decades of study and dedication. Most cannot operate at this level, and must employ various conscious models to reach a satisfactory conclusion about what is appropriate for the individual patient.

As an aside, I think it’s interesting that Chinese Medicine works using several models that readily coexist; sometimes supporting one another, and sometimes contradicting. Yin Yang theory, Five Phase theory, Eight Principles, Nine Palaces (used in pulse-taking), Ten Celestial Stems, Twelve Earthly Branches…

It’s only Western science that insists so irrationally upon finding The One Theory of Everything. Life is messy. What makes us so sure one theory can ever describe everything? Chinese Medicine’s organic, flexible approach of using whatever models fit the scenario best seems to me to be not so much inconsistent as aligned with the reality of Nature.

Returning to Yi, then – it describes our inherent ability to harmonise with a situation. An impetus of the heart to engage fully and properly with reality. It is our Earth aspect; the spiritual manifestation of a healthily functioning Spleen system. It leads to efficiency and efficacy. There’s a proverb from the Tai Chi Classics that, to paraphrase, says: when your opponent moves, you are already there. This, to my mind, is a description of a well-developed Yi – so tuned, refined and present that a changing situation can be grasped completely and instantaneously. As one of my TCM tutors succinctly put it, Yi is “the thought before the thought”.

So both Chinese Medicine and Baguazhang require a degree of stillness, openness and relaxation such that a clear and strong Yi can manifest. Meditation and Qi Gong practices can facilitate this peaceful state of being, and, in the case of Bagua, it is incorporated directly into the practice.

Circle walking is Qi Gong, from one perspective. And, like meditation, Qi Gong brings us out of our all-too-habitual fight or flight mode and engages our parasympathetic nervous system. In this mode of relaxation, everything flows smoothly and appropriately. Our organs and our whole being benefit because everything becomes tempered and functions optimally.

The reverse abdominal breathing technique common to both internal martial arts and Daoist meditation brings the breath deeper into the body and improves lung function, as well as having a tranquillising effect on the mind. It increases blood flow to the brain and heart, aids digestion and peristalsis, lowers blood pressure, and increases stamina, lung capacity and lung health. And it calms and soothes the frayed nerves of modern living. How many people carry around their stress in their shoulders and necks, and breathe with only the tops of their lungs?

I stated above that Yi can be trained by practising virtue (De). What I really meant by that is that virtuous conduct creates the conditions for a calm and healthy state of being. By living truthfully and uprightly we strengthen our immune and nervous systems, ameliorate our cognitive functions and reduce excessive stress, tension, anxiety and depression. (I say excessive stress because some small amount of stress is beneficial – a life without any pressure would soon become dull and fruitless.)

Wu Shu (the Chinese term for martial arts) literally means “stop fighting”. Japanese martial arts in particular place great importance on the cultivation of virtue in the fighter – we’ve all seen The Karate Kid! Aikido’s whole philosophy is based around non-violence. And in The Art of War, SunZi describes subduing the enemy without fighting as “the supreme excellence”. Fighting is ugly and should be avoided at all costs. There’s a parallel with Chinese Medicine here, too. We don’t isolate and directly combat pathogens, but seek rather to restore harmony.

The Yang Sheng approach is one of moderation. Good health lies at the state of equilibrium. We must move from balance all the time, of course, as exemplified by the never ending exchange of Yin and Yang, but we should always seek to return to it. Lu Buwei advocated moderate exercise, without over-straining, and the walking practice of Baguazhang fits this attitude perfectly. Its long, deep postures and constant movement are challenging and make for a comprehensive exercise, but they don’t push the body beyond what is healthy and comfortable. They don’t exhaust us and leave us depleted.

Walking itself has been shown to carry all kinds of benefits (most of which we intuitively know). Here are some: it benefits our mood, longevity, cardiovascular health, strength, mobility, flexibility, balance, fascial health, memory, immunity, sleep quality, bone density, overall life quality, emotional health and our tendency towards healthy choices. Walking is detoxifying, encourages enzyme and hormone production, lowers our risk of cancer, and helps with hypertension, cholesterol and cortisol levels, fatigue, pain, reliance on medication…

You get the idea!

Moreover, when we practice Baguazhang we’re not plugged into music or podcasts like we are at the gym. Our awareness is directed both outwards and inwards.

The various palms of Bagua have specific effects within the body, such as Downward Pressing Palm, which helps to open the Ren, Du and Chong Mai. Why do we want these channels open? Because blockages lead to ill-health, and open channels mean freely circulating Qi, strong, healthy organs and a body that has good internal communication between its parts. Openness leads to wholeness.

Certain palms can even be emphasised to help rectify particular imbalances. So Uphold the Heavens, for example, being linked to Yang Ming (Yang Brightness) and the Stomach and Large Intestine channels, can aid with digestive disorders. Here again, we see a fundamental link between Baguazhang and Chinese Medicine.

So Bagua is more than just a martial art. It is a health practice too, that blends seamlessly with Yang Sheng methods. It integrates Yin Yang theory and the wisdom of the Yi Jing. It gives us a deep understanding of change. It trains the Yi and calms the spirit. It unites body and mind. It trains our breathing, exercises the body, helps to engender a virtuous mindset, and goes deep inside to open up and mobilise the whole body from within. It is an internal art.

All that from going round in circles! Well, it figures, I guess. After all, “walking is man’s best medicine” (Hippocrates).

Needling thoughts

Peacefulness. Listening. Communication. Consideration. These are the more abstract and innate elements of medical practice that don’t necessarily emerge from text books and lectures.

I’ve been observing a few acupuncture treatments in clinic recently, and there were a number of interesting details that cropped up, and which should hopefully guide my own practice in the future.

One was the personal interaction between practitioner and client. It struck me as quite a fine balance between professionalism and friendliness. Not that these two are necessarily opposites that must be balanced against each other. But an over-familiarity would harm the interaction, I think, and therefore consequently the treatment.

Conversely, too much playing a role would put up a barrier that might hinder a genuine exchange and understanding. There was a palpable and genuine sense of warmth and caring from the acupuncturist in clinic that I think unfortunately is all too rare amongst Western GPs.

To be clear, I’m not saying I think GPs are cold and heartless – far from it; I just think there’s a level of detached professionalism in their approach (speaking very generally, of course) that probably arises partly from time and performance pressures, partly from their training, and partly from the Western method of dealing with the symptoms or disease rather than the whole person.

In the acupuncture clinic there is a luxury of not running against the clock so much, and also of the necessity of a thorough conversation with the patient to arrive at a penetrating diagnosis.

There’s also a need to be quiet, focused and methodical when inserting the needles. A rushed treatment is liable to be ineffective. There’s a requisite that the acupuncturist find a connection between themselves and the client – a focused Yi and perhaps even an exchange of Qi through the needle. And that takes a good degree of peacefulness and attention.

A sense of spaciousness and calm permeated the whole consultation and treatment process, as well as an emphasis on the patient as participant. They weren’t there to have a treatment “done” to them. The needles work by stimulating the body to heal itself.

The 20 minutes or so just sitting quietly by themselves with the needles in is an essential element of the treatment. Time for the body to receive and respond to the instructions of the needles. Time to be quiet and pay attention inwardly. And with busy modern lives, how many of the patients, unless they are meditators, really give themselves opportunity to sit silently and rest the mind?

Patients were asked what it was they wanted from the treatment. Did they want balancing? Energising? Calming? Which symptoms would they prioritise? Not that the acupuncturist was there to simply pander to the client’s wishes, either. There was an exchange here. The patient offered the practitioner their trust and respect, and allowed them to plan a treatment that was appropriate and went to the root of the patient’s condition.

Likewise, the practitioner paid attention to what motivated the client. They weren’t just a thing to be dealt with, a set of symptoms to be gotten rid of. No judgment, only kindness. The patient was a rounded individual whose poor physical or emotional health was impacting upon their daily lives and ability to function in relation to their families, friends and colleagues. And on their relationship with themselves. The practitioner approached the patient as a learned friend, with an attitude of informed inquiry, and real interest, rather than a slightly ambivalent or disinterested mechanic who could categorise the issue, give them a label, and then “fix” them. There’s a big distinction there between the Western and Eastern methods. Western medicine fixes a problem. Eastern medicine restores balance and harmony.

Sometimes, of course, the former approach is necessary. Acute conditions often need surgical or pharmaceutical solutions. But so much can be addressed by holistic treatments. Especially with regard to things like chronic pain, anxiety and depression, digestive disorders, and the like; Chinese Medicine offers a far more elegant solution.

Anyway, I did feel that, while there was a professionalism maintained throughout the treatments, partly due to the automatic subconsciously ingrained respect, subservience even, to the “white coat”, the acupuncturist managed to convey a genuine sense of compassion and empathy for the client – a compassion that’s perhaps sometimes lacking in other fields that are more pressured and that hone in on the dysfunction or pathogen rather than observing the whole. It was shown in the warmth of the eyes and smile, in the reassuring touch that accompanied and completed the pulse taking, and in the needling itself.

Any massage that was conducted was gentle, or at least started gentle and never became aggressive. I could tell that the patients felt looked after, cared for and safe. There was no brutal spine-cracking Thai massage here. I think making the client feel like they’re in a safe space is a really crucial aspect of treatment. It allows the mind and body to relax and be receptive. It takes people out of the flight or fight mode that so many are permanently locked into to some degree.

The acupuncturist was constantly checking in with the client, partly to make sure they were comfortable, but mainly to check that there was some communication there between body and needle. The acupuncturist is looking for some sensation. No sensation means, in all likelihood, an ineffective treatment (unless the patient is Qi deficient, that is, or has some nerve damage). Pain is undesirable, and most probably indicates that the acupoint has been missed, but a dull ache or throb is a good sign that the body is responding. The practitioner would stand back sometimes to “zoom out” of their intense focus, to look at the overall picture of the needles and make sure they were properly following the channels.

There is feedback from the needle, too. The acupuncturist, as well as the patient, can feel the flesh “grab” the needle. It’s crucial that the practitioner be tuned into their tools. And it’s likely there will be some sensation of resistance and redness on the skin around the insertion, too. All good signs.

By asking the patient how they’re feeling, the acupuncturist can both reassure and get a measure of whether the needle needs “working” a bit to induce a response, either by turning it or moving it up and down in the flesh. It also ensures that the patient’s awareness is focused on the needle, which also increases the likelihood of efficacy.

At one point, Baihui (Du 20 – the 100 meetings) was being needled at the top of the head. The needle was placed at an angle to direct the Qi downwards, back down the Du channel, as the patient had too much rising energy and was suffering with headaches and other signs of excessive Yang. The practitioner, having placed some needles in the head and upper body, then massaged Yongquan (Kid 1 – Bubbling Well) in order to help ground the patient and bring things down further. There was real purpose behind that touch – it wasn’t just an idle gesture, but an integral part of the procedure.

The order of inserting needles was important too – working from top down to help descend the Qi. And, in another case, ensuring there was a stabilising, balancing needle around the level of the Lower Dan Tian along the Ren channel before other points were needled. Or, in the case of radiating pain, the needles were sequenced in the same direction as the flow of sensation, so as to draw it along and disperse it rather than creating a conflict or barrier that might cause further stagnation.

The acupuncturist’s phrasing was attended to, as well. Patients with deficient patterns were talked to in terms of “building resilience” through the treatment, rather than saying it was going to be a “powerful” treatment that might sound like too much and block the parasympathetic response. They tended to be given less needles too, so as not to overwhelm the body.

Taking needles out was given equal importance to insertion. The sequence of removal was considered, as well as the quality of the action – by which I mean, they weren’t just “yanked out” but removed carefully, with as much attention and intention as they were inserted. If pathogens needed to be released, there was no pressure applied to the area. But if the treatment was tonifying, the practitioner would keep some pressure on with the cotton bud so that nothing “leaked”.

There were a few other new things for me. I’d never seen threading before, or even some supplementary treatments such as ear seeds. But it was the quality of the approach that absorbed me most. And the honesty and communication with the client, too. For example, when a patient was treated for stagnation they were warned that the release of pressure could send things upwards and cause headaches. They weren’t just sent out the door with no concept of possible emergent effects.

There were no miracle cures promised, either – patients with chronic or severe symptoms knew that several sessions would be needed and often could expect only temporary relief rather than a complete and permanent cure. Nothing was ruled out. Hopes weren’t callously dashed, but false hopes weren’t fed, either.

And the patients were really listened to. There was an open, welcoming space that invited the patients to open up and made them feel looked after. They were encouraged to express themselves and vent their inner experiences. From their point of view, here was someone who actually cared about what they were going through and genuinely wanted to help.

I think they were reassured by the obvious skill of the practitioner, too. Palpating along the channels, the acupuncturist could feel what was going on with the body. They were tuned in, sensitive and… well, frankly borderline psychic in some cases. If you feel stagnation at a point you know is associated with unexpressed grief or frustration, and ask the client if that’s something they can relate to, you begin to enter the realm of the uncanny…

The pulse-taking is a seemingly rather mystical art, too. I think it will take a long time to reach any degree of skill at reading pulses. I could see an almost sedative effect on the patient, too, as everything went quiet while the practitioner just touched and listened to their body. It was like a few minutes of meditation in the middle of the consultation and felt quite powerful. In fact, everything about the sessions was calm, unhurried, precise, and deeply considered.

So, these are just a few impressions. You can read all the books and learn all the theory, but it’s these details of actual practice, along with experience of course, and a comprehensive grasp of point actions and the complexity of each client’s pattern, that turn you from a competent practitioner to one with real skill, awareness, and understanding for the patient.

It might sound a little trite, but above all you have to be human. Not a doctor. Not a specialist. Not a professional or a sage. But one human being engaging openly and deeply with another.

Sinuous seasonality

Springtime. And an unusual opportunity for rumination. A minor injury to my ankle – ligament damage only – and my increased desire to make the most of the long daylight hours and warmer temperatures is thwarted by unexpected immobility. Frustrating…

One of our TCM tutors was saying that at this time of year she saw an increase in the number of people with Liver-related issues like frustration. (Spring being associated with the Liver and the associated pathogenic emotion being anger.)

She qualified this by saying of course she sees people with repressed or unexpressed anger all year round, but there’s a noticeable increase in numbers/severity at this time of year.

Anecdotal, of course – there could be some confirmation bias there. Am I personally aware of an increase in such feelings in the Springtime? Because of my injured ankle I’ve not been able to exercise as I usually would.

But have I found a decreased ability to deal with that frustration due to the season? I can’t honestly say I have (but maybe I’m just repressing it!). I guess it would depend more on whether I had an excessive or deficient Liver – if the organ network is healthy and functional then no, there’s probably going to be no experiential change.

Sure, there’s been a sense of frustration. Of feeling a bit stuck. But I’d call it proportionate rather than dysfunctional. I’ve been a little fuzzy-headed, too. Lacking energy in the mornings. But college has been draining a lot of my concentration. There have been a few deadlines all arriving at once. I’m not stressed but I am a bit burnt out mentally. A bit phlegmy in the back of my throat, too, although there are a few Spring colds going round. Cold breezes and variable temperatures.

With my limited first year student’s knowledge it would be easy to conclude there’s a Spleen imbalance here. Studying Chinese Medicine can turn you into a hypochondriac pretty quickly. But I’ve yet to develop any real analytical skill. My channel palpation is fumbling and insensitive. But the large bruise on my injured ankle is definitely shouting out Blood stagnation in the Bladder channel… no prizes there!

In other ways it’s easy to convince yourself of anything, though. I decided I was Kidney Yin deficient first, then on reflection I became Kidney Yang deficient. Then there were Lung issues. Then Heart. Now Spleen. And with Spring arriving, maybe it’s time for some Liver Yang Rising…!

Hmm, my tongue does seem to be reading deficient, though. And there’s a pronounced central crack indicating Stomach or Spleen. An invasion of Damp…?

Here in the north of England we have a very damp climate (and I worked in a very damp environment for several years). A common dietary recommendation by Chinese Medicine practitioners, when advising someone presenting with signs of “Damp,” is to cut out Damp foods such as bananas.

I was told bananas naturally grow in hot, dry climates, where their Damp properties benefit the local people. But they’re not particularly good for people who live in naturally damp climates like ours.

I nodded sagely and agreed, thinking they grow a lot of bananas in the Caribbean (which I think they did in the late 20th century, but things have changed since then).

When I looked it up, it appears bananas are actually originally native to Southeast Asia – a tropical and very humid and damp part of the world, which kinda seems to blow the theory out of the water…

Saying that, there is a lot of folk wisdom related to eating seasonally and locally. It makes a lot of sense to me to eat in accordance with natural cycles, since we’ve evolved doing so for millennia and it’s only the very recent explosion in world trade, transport and big food companies that allow me to eat a kumquat in December.

It makes me wonder how that affects us internally. Being out of synchrony with the natural rhythms of the world. I’m certainly guilty of ignoring my natural circadian rhythm and going to bed after midnight quite consistently. But how deeply does that affect us?

Do our bodies get enough rest? Do we digest and absorb our food properly? How does this impair our ability to repair cells, build marrow, make blood, detoxify? What about our melatonin levels? And our endocrine system and nervous system? Are we all walking around half-asleep, unaware, subfunctional? And thinking this is normal?!

In some ways we can’t escape the seasons, of course. Despite our night-polluting addiction to artificial light and air- and ocean-polluting addiction to plastics and synthetic fabrics, we’re still at the mercy of daylight and weather. Think about how your movement habits change over the year.

I tend towards more strenuous exercise in the Spring and Summer. More sweat-inducing. Longer runs. More time outdoors. There’s definitely a natural urge to get outside enjoy the long sunlight hours and better weather while it lasts. Only mad dogs and Englishmen…

In winter I tend to be a bit more hibernatory, but still do plenty. Just not so much outdoors, and more restorative than exerting – yoga, stretching, foam rolling, Qi Gong, tai chi…

I wonder how this works for people who live in places like California, where there aren’t distinctive seasons in the same sense that we have in the UK? I imagine my body would be very confused for quite a while if it were suddenly Summer nearly every day.

I think exercise really helps with mental acuity and emotional wellbeing. Looking at some research just on walking I found this list of benefits.

Take a deep breath: improved metabolism, mood, longevity, cancer risk, cardiovascular function, strength, flexibility, mobility, fascial health, balance, detoxification, capacity to manufacture hormones and enzymes, memory function, immunity, hypertension, cortisol and cholesterol levels, reduced fatigue, stress, pain, reliance on medication, sleep quality, bone density, cognitive function, digestion and peristalsis, lung capacity, lung health, stamina, overall quality of life, emotional health, and tendency to make healthy life choices.

Okay. Take another breath.

Anyway, I think we know a lot of this intuitively. You can feel your own better functioning for engaging in exercise. You’re lighter, happier, more supple… You feel… at ease with yourself and everything around you. Unless you overdo it, of course.

I haven’t always been exactly a fitness fanatic but I’ve always had a physically active job. So experiencing “sofa-living” for a short while with this ligament damage has given me an insight into the kind of listless outlook some people arrive at when they don’t move their bodies enough.

Some guys I know eat takeaway most days and look at me like I’m mad when I say I’m going for a run! The very notions of exercise and vegetables seem to cause them anguish! They reason their way out of it. Even though, to me, it seems apparent they’ve just acclimatised to fat, sugar and lethargy.

They’ve been duped by their own dopamine receptors. And their rationality has conspired against them. I don’t say this from a position of haughty high-mindedness. I used to smoke. A lot. And it seemed perfectly normal and reasonable. Now it seems insane. It’s amazing, our self-justifying capacity for finding reasons not to be healthy, not to relinquish our comfortable habits and rituals. So it seems plain to me. I can discern their internal narrative working so hard telling us not to move. So much mental energy squandered on a determination not to be energetic.

And I kind of get it. Kind of. I don’t see any great appeal in going to a gym and pumping iron until I collapse. And that’s our common perception of what exercise is. Masochism. Pain. Punishment. And all that pectoral nurturing might bring strength, might send some lovely endorphins flying round, but it also brings stiffness, joint strain and spinal issues, unless you really know what you’re doing. I don’t want to generate tightness in my tissues. You can see the tension in some of those muscle dudes. Not to mention the narcissism…

No, relaxation is the key. And I don’t mean flaccidity. There has to be some tension available, but it needs to be measured, appropriate. You need to be able to switch it on and off. They teach you that in Wing Chun. 100% power. Then 100% relaxation. Leave some tension there and you’re giving your opponent something to use against you.

Same in Xingyiquan. Strike like a whip. Soft, soft, soft, then bam. The mechanics are different, but the principle is fundamentally the same. In Baguazhang it’s an image of a twisted rope. Soft, pliable, but strong and capable of torsional power. And in Taijiquan the metaphor I’ve heard most often is a hose pipe. Inflate the body with a circulating pressure. It’s all soft power. But that doesn’t mean it’s soft.

I’m not against circuit training or weights. It’s important to be strong. But not at the expense of flexibility and mobility. I do a bit of body weight stuff but nothing too intense. I think one of the great things about things like tai chi and bagua is that they’re fun and they make you feel good. That simple, yes. It’s an intrinsically satisfying way to move. It combines grace and power.

Think of a prowling tiger. Such finesse, such softness, such suppleness, precision and containment, but at the same time such raw strength, speed and savagery, only a split second away. Relax, relax, relax, then go!

And everything goes together. The whole body, perfectly coordinated and smoothly integrated. And the mind, too – that focused attention and clarity of intention. The predator’s entire being synchronised towards its target. And after? Relax, relax, relax. Why waste any more energy? Eat now. Replenish.

But as modern human beings, we don’t relax. We don’t know how to. Or we’re not aware that we’re not. We’re never 100% on. But we’re never 100% off either. There’s always that bit of tension remaining. That niggling thought. That unexpressed emotion. That ingrained over-engagement in sensory stimuli.

When it comes to martial arts, it’s not a means to an end. We’re not out to become killers. It’s self-mastery we’re training, really, I think. “De.” Physiologically, it’s good for your immunity and nervous health. Mentally, it’s good for your self-worth and emotional stability. It encourages a lightness of being. Balanced with a sense of grounding. Mr Miyagi knew it, certainly!

And then, on a less noble level, there’s pure enjoyment. You do it for its own sake. For the pleasure of it. It’s something you want to do instead of something you feel you ought to do. I never have to force myself to train. It’s just a part of being. (Except when I’m limping around with a sore ankle feeling sorry for myself, that is.)

I wonder how we got to this point where exercise is so widely perceived as a hard, boring chore? When we’re kids most of us love running round and moving in different ways. How do we lose that?

Why are activities like parkour and trail running still so niche? Isn’t that just normal? Natural? Why has the “getting 10 miles up on Strava” mentality superseded running just for the sheer pleasure of it?

Is it our tendency as adults to be goal-oriented? To treat our bodies like machines to be serviced? Do we just forget how to be playful? That’s a common enough statement, but then you see plenty of middle aged guys (and women) playing for hours on games consoles, so does that really hold up?

How did we end up in a place where we sit for interminable hours and then go kill ourselves at the gym as punishment? So many of us are existing at two unhealthy extremes rather than finding a healthy moderation.

Chinese Yang Sheng practices advocate not exhausting the body and stopping when you get to the point of a sheen of sweat. They view exhausting the body as being as harmful as not exercising.

There’s been an increasing trend in the last few years for super-high intensity HIIT sessions where you go all out for just a few minutes.

My instinct is that this sounds really destructive, but there seems to be a lot of scientific evidence backing up its benefits. Maybe if those studies looked at people over a longer term they might start to see some detriments to this kind of exercise?

I’m not sure, but it seems like these high intensity interval fanatics are missing the point. Exercise shouldn’t be something we do to get over with as efficiently as possible so we can go back to our box sets and social media accounts. It should be something we want to do. Not even that, in fact. It should be something we just do, because that’s how we naturally are as functioning bodies.

We seem to have reached a point of total separation from our bodies. We resist them. We torture them. We’re ashamed of them. We push them. We use them. We think of them as other. Here’s me, my mind. And over there, my body.

Chinese Medicine and internal martial arts teach us we are our bodies. Body and mind are integrated. They’re inseparable. We literally store our emotions in our flesh. Our consciousness permeates our being. And our bodies express our minds.

When the body is healthy, the mind can be healthy. When the mind is pure, the body is vital. It literally opens up. Everything flows. And never more so than in the Spring. Gone the pooling slumber of Winter. Here is the new vitality, the fresh life of the new year.

It’s interesting I think that my swollen, bruised ankle is viewed as Stagnation in TCM terms. That our Western solutions of cold and rest are the polar opposite of Chinese medical advice. Cold and rest lead the further stagnancy. Longer recovery. A return to Winter. An unnatural reversal. A source of inner frustration and a feeling of standing against the flow.

So it’s time I take my own advice, get up out of this sofa and get my body moving. Get the blood flowing. Get the Qi moving. Lend some momentum to my ruminating mind. Spring is the season of tendon and sinew, and of kindness, too. Let’s be kind to ourselves, then, and get our sinews moving…

Du Du Ren Ren

Here’s a link to a song to help remember the flow of the acupuncture channels. Apologies to The Crystals.

https://soundcloud.app.goo.gl/WP17yDoknivxDWje9

Expect the unexpected

New beginnings…

It would appear to be an auspicious time, if you believe in auspices, that is. The vernal equinox has ushered in the Spring and the first new moon of Aries has risen. There is much excitement among the astrologically inclined with regard to the coming of the Age of Aquarius. Although it would appear nobody can agree on whether it has already arrived, it seems likely to me that it would approach more like a slow-rising tide than a tsunami. A gradual transition as the Age of Pisces slips away.

We hear tell of a new era of rationalism, of humanitarianism and an opening of consciousness. We turn our backs on religion and worship and embrace science and self-direction. Perhaps it found root in the Age of Enlightenment, and sent out green tendrils with the smog and oil of the Industrial Revolution. We fly rotorcraft on Mars; Voyager 1 still hurtles away from us, 14 billion miles distant, having turned and shown us how fragile we are as a pale blue dot in the vast ocean of space.

We wake up slowly to the devastation of carbon dioxide and plastic. We look upon stranded, emaciated polar bears and strangled whales with empathy. It becomes apparent that our role is not to yoke Earth to our needs and desires, but to harmonise with it. Not to stand separate, but to be within it. To be with it.

Finding harmony and balance is of course one of the fundamental principles of Chinese Medicine. It is the essential character of healing. With regard to emotional dysfunction in particular, the mind is required to reintegrate with the body – to harmonise with it. Not to stand separate, but to be within it. To be with it.

There is an implicit need for acceptance here. A willingness to exist as an embodied entity. Not to push away the parts of us that we dislike, but to acknowledge, embrace, and move beyond. Too often we try to separate out the mind, placing egg white and yolk in isolated containers that no longer communicate. And that way lies disharmony and suffering. We can’t live as disembodied minds. Only when mind and body mix thoroughly can we function as integrated, realised beings.

This mixing of body and mind is a central aspect of Daoist meditation practices, for only when the mind is absorbed into the body can transformation occur. It’s also a key characteristic of Qi Gong, whereby mind, breath and body move as one, and in Taijiquan, whereby the postures and movements reflect the continual exchange and transformation between Yin and Yang.

Within each of these opposing and mutually supporting forces we find the seeds of the other. Within Yang, there is a seed of Yin; within Yin, a seed of Yang. When one reaches its fullest expression, it is inevitable that the other will find a chink and begin the cycle anew.

New beginnings…

As part of my Chinese Medicine studies we were invited to try a divination using the Yi Jing. My Baguazhang practice had already led me to this ancient text, which I viewed with cautious interest. I’d stopped short of an actual reading, though. The college tutor suggested we use a website to attain our reading, but this kind of impersonal, computerised randomisation seemed to me to be at odds with the Daoist outlook. Despite their commonality in binary language (1, 0 or solid line, broken line), there is no awareness, no mind, involved in a computer-generated result.

A decade or so ago I would have been highly sceptical of this kind of “woo-woo”. But my understanding has changed. A clear mind is a powerful and perceptive entity. It has huge potential for insight and intuition. If an open awareness, not occluded by desires, aversions or false ideas of itself, is mixed with a perception of reality in the present moment, something very special can result.

I had no yarrow stalks so I used some feng shui coins and cast those to determine the hexagram, with an open question in mind about my venture into Chinese Medicine. Number 52: Ken – mountain over mountain. With two transforming Yin lines, leading to number 50: Ting – fire over wind. I have to confess I hadn’t really entered this exercise with any great faith or hope; I was mildly curious but had no real expectations. Yet there it was: a result I could only interpret as highly auspicious and meaningful.

There was a journey laid before me, from a state of stillness, meditation, wu-wei, bodiless repose, to a state of rejuvenation, alchemical transformation, self-sacrifice and supreme good fortune. Here before my eyes was the process of Nei Dan – from silent meditation to the cauldron of inner alchemy.

Which leads the cynical side of me to question: what if the result had been something that seemed irrelevant or ambiguous? Would I have dismissed the whole thing as nonsense? Probably, yes. But intention is a powerful force. It is capable of forcing through circumstances to see the fruition of our will, often to disharmonious and harmful outcomes. Only when intention is light and aligned with the natural unfolding of things does it yield a bountiful harvest. A non-forceful, gentle intent can lead to an experience of gliding easily through life. Things happen for you, not to you. Too little intent, or too strong an intent, and stuff gets in the way. Life becomes a struggle as you try to walk against the current, or drift helplessly at the mercy of fickle winds.

In Chinese acupuncture, too, the correct, gentle but prudent intent of the practitioner in selecting and needling points is crucial to the treatment’s success. Along with the mind-state of the patient in being receptive to the suggestions of the needles, to respond and heal. Was my own mind mixing with reality in the correct way? Was my detached ambivalence just the right kind of unforced intention? I can’t answer that, but the results of the divination nevertheless resonated with me.

The power of intent is very much a part of Xingyiquan – it is the Yi in its name. Our intention is a crucial and determining factor in how we interact with substantial reality. In meditation, the intention should be delicate, like an hypnotic suggestion. If it’s too powerful, the mind is stirred up and cannot settle in the body. It can cause tension and disturbance where we seek relaxation and stillness. But without any intention, there is no instruction to be still. We sit and our attention is pulled around helplessly by our random thoughts, emotions and memories. With a subtle intent towards meditation, we can enter a process of quieting and subduing the mind so that it can sink with the breath and begin to form the lower Dantien – the keystone to opening the channels, unblocking locations of habitual stagnation, and restoring the body to its natural, flowing state of health.

New beginnings…

And so with great optimism did I regard the Spring of 2021. In the internal martial arts there is the metaphor of the dragon awaking and leaving his cave, meaning that the inside of the body mobilises in the correct way for the Jin to be expressed and released. Hence my choice of the Azure Dragon, the Chinese symbol of power, rebirth and vigour, in naming this blog. He is a representation of my own new beginnings in the three pillars of medicine, martial arts and meditation. Altogether, they are a potent elixir for change, touching every aspect of being from posture, to organ health, to peace of mind, to will and creativity. Apparently diverse and unrelated parts of our being reorganise and interrelate as we move towards wholeness.

This all sounds very promising. But then I sprained my ankle.

A stupid, seemingly random, accident. Not even a dramatic one. Just a humdrum but nevertheless painful sprain. Suddenly, unexpectedly, I find myself feeling frustrated. I can’t work (my current job involves a lot of hiking and physical activity). I can’t go running. Can’t do yoga. Can’t circle walk. Can’t practise tai chi. Can’t do turning forms in Wing Chun. Can’t even go for a stroll in the warm, sunny weather that has heralded the passing of winter and, hopefully, the end of the worst ravages of the coronavirus pandemic.

Sure, I can still practise meditation and Qigong. I can still study. But it’s still a shock to have everything else just… stop.

Acutely, as I hobble about the house, wincing, I am reminded that I am not in control. I should expect the unexpected. And, slowly, I begin to realise that there is wisdom to be found in these apparently unfortunate circumstances. There is a Chinese parable about a Daoist farmer, known widely as “Bad luck? Good luck? Who knows?”, in which a series of connected events bring a farmer alternately good results and bad results, such that he can never agree with his peers’ assessments of his good or bad fortune. “Maybe,” is all he replies, unwilling to assign any notion of good or bad.

Likewise, here I stand (slightly lopsidedly), faced with an instruction from the universe not to get carried away by my own notions of how things are unfolding. Like John Snow from A Song of Ice & Fire, I know nothing. Moreover, I’m not an omnipotent dragon; I’m a fragile human body, mortal and transient, with tendons, ligaments, bones, muscles and fascia that pop and tear and break. There’s an opportunity to find humility here.

It’s also a chance to experience and come to terms with pain. To learn to deal with it through acceptance and relaxation, rather than fight and resistance and tension. In some small way, it’s a vehicle too for nurturing greater empathy for those around me who live with far greater or chronic pain every day.

And perhaps here also is an opportunity to briefly enter a more Yin period, stripped of my usual (and possibly excessive) activity, allowing for a time of reflection, slowness and rest. Maybe, it’s just what I needed.

An opportunity for new beginnings, only not as I had intended.