nei dan – The Azure Dragon

A simple meditation

Sit with the hips open, pelvis elevated, knees grounded.

Relax the gaze and allow the eyelids to gently close.

With a soft focus, pay attention to the breath.

Let the mind follow the breath.

Let the breath grow longer, deeper and slower.

Feel the sit bones in contact with the ground.

Feel the weight of the body, and the ground supporting it.

Feel the lower back expand with the in-breath.

Feel for space between the lumbar vertebrae.

Let the breath grow calm and easeful.

Allow the upper back to spread.

Allow the shoulders to slope.

Let the elbows, wrists and fingers relax.

Gently draw up the back of the skull.

Let the breath grow soft and quiet.

Relax brow, jaw and neck, connecting tongue to upper palate.

Soften the chest and release all tension.

With the skeleton upright, surrender to gravity.

Unbind from the bones and let the flesh hang down.

With mind at ease, allow a smile within.

As you breathe in, draw inwards from skin to belly.

As you breathe out, release, sink down.

As you breathe in, contract into your centre.

As you breathe out, relax, sink down, sink deeper.

Breathe to the belly, the mind within.

Let go of the breath; let go of the body.

In perfect stillness, sit silently, rest the mind.

When it feels right, rub the hands and eyes.

Slowly open the eyes and move the body.

Bow the head and place the palms together in humility and gratitude.

Learn to sit

What follows is an easy, step-by-step meditation for beginners. But first…

What is meditation?

A decent definition might be something like, ‘a state of absorption we arrive at through stilling the mind, stilling the body, being present, and letting things be’. This could probably be improved, but it’s a start.

As a practice, meditation is hugely beneficial for our physical and emotional health. It allows us to rest the mind and restore the body to its optimal state of functioning. At its most profound, meditation allows us to lift the veil of perception and directly experience our own true nature.

Different cultures have developed various methods of meditation throughout history. In the developed West, we tend to associate it with East Asia, partly because of Gong Fu movies and famous Zen Buddhist teachers such as Shunryu Suzuki and Seung Sahn, and partly because meditation has all but died out as a practice in Western spiritual traditions. But before it was sanitised into a largely doctrinal and ritualistic religion, early Christianity was itself a rich, contemplative tradition.

However, this aspect of Christianity has virtually vanished over the centuries, sadly leaving us with only empty rites, regurgitated dogma, an emphasis on scripture rather than personal insight and realisation, and consequently swathes of people for whom the Church is only there to facilitate baptisms, weddings, and funerals.

In its place, we see the rising trend of aggressive atheistic secularity, which provides us little to no internal nourishment and much external confusion; and also the growth of decidely contrived, hybrid ‘mindfulness’ practices, where people are quite often taught that meditation is effectively about distracting the senses with relaxing music, and imagining themselves to be in some idyllic ‘happy place’.

But that’s not meditation; that’s just fantasy.

In other religions around the world, there are many more intelligent, tried and tested methods for meditating. Vipassana and Yoga yoke the mind to the breath. Tantric meditation uses intricate visualisation, and a mental exchange of the self with the Buddha. There are repeated mantras and prayers to quell and hypnotise the mind; prolonged, single-pointed concentration upon an object of worship; deep contemplation of themes such as gratitude, acceptance, impermanence, compassion, interdependence, or the location and nature of the self. There are standing meditations, walking meditations, even sleeping meditations…

So there are lots of ways to meditate, and different methods will appeal to different people. For me, Daoist meditation has proved to be the most effective. Again, it takes many different forms, and there are various precise, prescribed methods for developing certain qualities, but I would like to describe here a simple and accessible way to enter meditation through a deep awareness of the body.

Please be advised, I am not an expert by any means, nor am I an ‘inner door’ student of the tradition. I’ve just found that my own practice has helped me a lot, so I would like to share some of it here. I don’t intend to share any exact methods; that is not my place. I’ve simply converted some basic techniques into an easily memorised routine that anybody can try.

If your interest is piqued, it’s worth doing some research into Quanzhen (Complete Perfection) Daoism, the Longmen (Dragon Gate) lineage, and the writings of Master Wang Liping. Some excellent Western writers on (and experienced practitioners and teachers of) Daoist meditation include Nathan Brine, Damo Mitchell, and Robert James Coons, all of whom have far greater expertise and knowledge than I. Look them up.

If you’re really enthused, find yourself a teacher from whom you can learn the methods directly. But if this post spurs you on to explore just a little deeper into the world of Daoist meditation, then I shall count that as a success.

So to it. The meditation I describe below is easy to learn, as it uses the body as its object, and follows a logical path as we gently guide our awareness around and through the body.

In terms of the meridians of Chinese Medicine, it follows a reversed pathway through the Du Mai (over the head and down the spine), Ren Mai (up the front of the body), and Chong Mai (back down through the centre of the body), so I have split it up into three sections of active, or ‘governing’, methods, which roughly trace these channels, followed by a period of silent sitting, or ‘non-governing’, and finally a closing ritual to return to normal consciousness.

The real meditation really lies in the ‘non-governing’ phase, which should really be at least as long as the ‘governing phase’, and preferably longer. This ‘non-doing’ segment is where all the beneficial consequences of the ‘doing’ part get assimilated into our being.

I’ve endeavoured to keep these instructions free of jargon. You don’t need any understanding of the channel system to follow along.

Just approach the practice with an open mind and heart.

MEDITATION

Find somewhere quiet where you are unlikely to be disturbed, without demanding or expecting silence. Notice your environment; sounds, sensations, smells, temperature. Accept them without judgement, without any notion of whether they are good or bad, with neither desire, aversion, nor indifference. Resolve to ignore distracting thoughts, impulses, itches, and small discomforts. Avoid practising on a full stomach, and make a firm intention to give your full attention to the meditation process.

If it’s possible and comfortable, sit with your hips slightly elevated on a cushion, one foot tucked behind the other, so that you have three points of contact with the floor – your sit bones, and each lower leg. This way you will feel grounded and stable.

GOVERNING PHASE

Du Mai – the Governing Vessel

Begin by relaxing your jaw and connecting the tip of your tongue to your upper palate, just behind your incisors. Allow a slight smile to provoke within yourself a sense of inner peace and contentment.

Place your attention on the sensation of the breath as it enters and exits your nostrils. Here is your bridge to the external world, your bridge to life. Your breathing is ever-present and automatic, but can also be brought under conscious control. Do not adjust your breathing and simply be aware of it.

Notice any perceived shallowness or irregularity, but withold judgement. Notice the difference in temperature between inhalation and exhalation. Notice the qualities of your breathing – its rhythm, smoothness, depth, and sound. Notice the pause between the end of an out-breath and the next in-breath. Notice how your breathing changes over time.

Now fill your lungs to capacity, allowing your belly, chest and shoulders to rise, and your back to expand, and sigh audibly as you breathe out slowly.

Gently close your eyes and look to a distant horizon. Look as far as you can see, and allow your gaze to soften its focus. Gradually bring your gaze to a point between your eyebrows. Relax your brow and move your awareness to within your body. Forget the outside world.

Have an intention to relax the thin sheets of muscle across your scalp. Find a point at the apex of your skull on a line between the tips of your ears. Rotate forwards around your temples to slightly tuck your chin and gently draw this crown-point upwards, lengthening the back of your neck without introducing tension.

Allow this movement to gently lengthen the spine. Maintain its natural, supple curve, but feel spaces opening between your vertebrae. Relax the muscles of your back, and rely on the upright, stacked structure of your spine to effortlessly maintain your posture.

Imagine your bones floating upwards, and all your muscles melting away, hanging from the bones like clothes from hangers. Allow your flesh to release its grip on your bones. Let go of any muscular tension you do not need.

Roll your shoulders back and down, and let them settle in a neutral position. Feel their weight and allow them to slope away from your ears, accepting the push of gravity.

Relax your elbows, wrists and fingers, and feel the bones of your hands spreading open. Through your palms you maintain your connection with reality, and with others.

Ren Mai – the Directing Vessel

Feel the weight of your whole body sinking down through the tripod of your sit bones and lower legs. Trust the ground and notice how effortlessly it supports your mass.

Get a sense of spaciousness in your abdomen, as your upright posture stretches your waist between ribs and pelvis.

Observe your ribs expanding and relaxing with each breath. Has your breathing changed? Is it slower, deeper, quieter, more easeful?

Keep your chest in a neutral position, neither hollow nor thrust outward. Feel the softness and vulnerability of your neck.

Return your attention to your tongue against your upper palate. Is your jaw still relaxed? Are you still smiling slightly? Are your eyes and brow still soft?

Chong Mai – the Penetrating Vessel

Direct your awareness more deeply towards the interior of your body. See if you can feel the mass of your eyes, brain, and skull. Inquire. Don’t imagine. Really take the time to feel it.

Move your attention downwards from your head into your torso, searching for areas of mass and solidity, and areas that are hollow and spacious.

Can you feel the weight of your liver and spleen? Can you feel and hear your heartbeat? Allow your attention to rest here for a while, with an attitude of patience and kindness.

Feel your breath. Feel your circulation. Feel the subtle movements within your body. Even within stillness, there is movement.

Feel the motion of your lungs expanding and flexing your diaphragm, causing your abdomen to rise and fall. Feel the even circularity of your breathing. As you exhale, allow all your soft tissues to relax and sink downwards away from your skeleton.

Be aware of your kidneys sitting behind your bottom ribs. Feel their weight. Feel their warmth. Feel your own inner vitality.

Gently contract your perineum, and allow your awareness to float up into your lower abdomen. Imagine a line connecting your lumbar spine to a point two fingers’ breadth below your navel. Draw another mental line from your perineum up to this horizontal. Where the lines meet, rest your attention lightly upon this point.

Here is your centre.

Now be aware of your entire body, of the space you occupy. Locate your extremities – the outermost layer of your skin, the very tips of your hairs. Can you feel the air around you? How far beyond yourself can you feel?

Listen to your whole body. Listen to your head. Listen to your heart. Listen to your abdomen. Again, find your centre. Let your breath settle here. Let your mind settle here. Absorb into your centre.

As you inhale, feel everything contracting inwards, like a slow implosion from your skin to this central point. As you exhale, allow everything to expand and relax.

Stay for a while with this sense of squeezing and releasing the whole body.

Gradually reduce it to a gentle contraction and expansion in the lower abdomen.

Let it become increasingly subtle, until it is a squeeze and release of the central point.

Let the breath become increasingly subtle. Here, at this physical centre, your breath and awareness combine. Body and mind move together in easeful harmony.

NON-GOVERNING PHASE

Listen, beneath the breath, behind the heartbeat. Any sensations that arrive, simply notice and accept them with disinterest. Any thoughts that come, just observe them steadily until they subside of their own accord. Don’t get involved. It’s just your brain doing its thing. Focus on your breath. Focus on your centre.

If your attention scatters or wanders, gently bring it back. Allow it to sink back down through the body, like sediment settling in a pool of cloudy water. Let it sink down slowly to your centre so the water becomes clear and still.

Cultivate a sense of calm and timelessness. Enjoy a feeling of profound rest and stillness. Allow yourself to abide here. Let go of any control of your breathing. Forget your body. Forget your mind. Sit silently.

Sit silently.

For as long as you wish, remain in stillness. In silence.

CLOSE

When you want to finish your session, scan once again through your body, relax and adjust your posture. Feel everything sinking down through the sit bones, and regulate your breathing to a slow, even rhythm.

As you inhale, squeeze and contract your whole body. As you exhale, relax and release your whole body.

Repeat this several times, before slowly expanding your awareness and returning to a natural breathing pattern. Has this changed since the start of the session?

Feel the breath at your nostrils. Begin to reconnect with the outside world. Notice any interior feeling of peace, stillness, spaciousness, harmony, equanimity. Allow yourself to enjoy that feeling. Do not rush.

Begin to foster an intention to move. If it serves you, place your hands palms together at your chest, keeping a little space under your arms, and bow your head in a gesture of gratitude.

Rub your palms together and place your hands over your eyes. Feel the warmth of your hands. Swallow, rub your brows and face, and slowly open your eyes. Observe any changes in your environment.

As you inhale, move your arms outward and upwards in a circular movement, folding in at the elbows before the shoulders can raise. As you exhale, bring the hands down the centreline of your body. Repeat these circles as many times as you like to close your meditation.

To finish, massage, stretch, mobilise your joints, and gently shake your body. As you stretch, be mindful of the connective tissues pulling and lengthening like spiderwebs. As you twist your waist and turn your neck, imagine you are wringing out a damp towel.

If your legs are numb, wait for blood flow and sensation to return before rising slowly and carefully from your seat.

*

Whilst going about the rest of your day, try to reserve some space in your being to preserve this sense of inner peace. If things happen to activate your sympathetic nervous response, take some time out afterwards to breathe, let go, and move towards this familiar state of internal relaxation.

Try to establish a daily routine of meditation practice. Give it some priority, but don’t make it a chore. Don’t add it to your To Do list. In fact, you should tear that up.

Don’t expect miracles. Don’t look for ‘experiences’. Don’t seek out visions or revelations.

Enjoy your meditation. It is a rare opportunity in your day to fully unwind, rest the mind and body, nourish yourself, and find your centre. Meditation can heal you. It can clean you from the inside.

You might not notice much from day to day, but when you look back after a month or two of consistent practice, you will see a difference in yourself. Less reactive. Less hurried. More open. More generous. More in tune with your own being. More in tune with others.

Each day, your experience will be different. Your practice won’t grow in a straight line, and progress will be slow, like a tree growing from a tiny acorn. But trees grow big. Really big.

Don’t aim for anything in particular. Don’t set goals or time limits. Don’t try too hard, or feel guilty if you forget. Don’t seek to ‘get something out of it’.

Just sit.

You won’t regret it.

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.

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.