dantian – The Azure Dragon

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.

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.