chinese martial arts – The Azure Dragon

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…

💡
🤔

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.

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.

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).