Tag Archives: tai chi

96 Common Principles of the Chinese Internal Martial Arts Styles of Baguazhang, Taijiquan, Xingyiquan, and Chu Shong Tin Wing Chun

There is some redundancy and overlap here, and some of the principles apply to only one or two internal styles, but in general there is a marked commonality in approach, which segregates these arts from more external Chinese styles such as Shaolin Gongfu, White Crane, Praying Mantis, and Ip Man Wing Chun. Of course, many other internal styles exist, such as Aikido, Liuhebafa, and Yiquan, but my familiarity with these is either limited or non-existent.

The essence of an internal style is an emphasis on mind-state, intention, sensitivity, structure, softness, internal connection, expansiveness, circles & spirals, a balance of interoception and exteroception, standing post practice, mind-breath-body integration, and body-method over technique (not that techniques are absent). The difference between internal and external can be felt most palpably by stepping into a class and comparing the training methods.

Oh, and being a Baguazhang enthusiast, I felt obliged to make the total number of principles divisible by eight!

  • The intention is forwards & focused
  • Mind-state is open, calm & clear 
  • Awareness expands in all directions to the periphery
  • Awareness soaks into the soft tissues and organs
  • Both mind and body are alert and supple
  • Breathing is soft, smooth and deep, moving the diaphragm naturally and freely 
  • Breathe into the back and the bowl of the pelvis, or into the sides, or use reverse abdominal breaths
  • Breathe through the pores of the skin, gently squeezing and relaxing the whole body
  • The crown (Ding) is suspended, as though from a thread
  • The tongue connects to the upper palate
  • Eyes are level and the face is relaxed
  • Use intention (Yi) rather than muscular/mechanical power (Li)
  • All parts are independent yet interconnected 
  • Release the pelvis & lower back 
  • Sit into the hips and raise the perineum
  • Spread the lower back (Mingmen, Du-4) by allowing the sacrum to release downwards with gravity
  • Support the torso by the inner thighs & perineum (Kua)
  • Relax the outer hips & glutes 
  • Soften & open the joints 
  • Keep the fists loose
  • Keep open palms cupped like a baseball mitt
  • Relax the muscles, especially the biceps & triceps 
  • Develop elastic internal unity by connective chains and pressurisation through breathing
  • Rise up through the spine & crown (Tai Gong / Yang Qi)
  • Lengthen the cervical spine to slightly tuck the chin
  • Release Tiantu (Ren-22); don’t expand the chest
  • Shoulders & elbows are heavy 
  • Align the body with gravity to remain upright with minimal effort
  • Give your weight to your partner, without leaning
  • Maintain sound, triangular skeletal structure in the limbs
  • Keep the spine (Du Mai) stretched and the anterior torso (Ren Mai) relaxed
  • The skeleton rises; the flesh hangs from the shoulders & occiput so the soft tissues sink
  • The shoulders push the elbows; the elbows push the wrists
  • Hands & feet, elbows & knees, and shoulders & hips move harmoniously
  • Keep the upper back broad, relaxed & upright 
  • Sink the scapulae towards the elbows
  • Transfer power to the hands through the spine and trapezius
  • Squeeze the lower abdomen between Mingmen, Huiyin (Ren-1), and Qihai (Ren-6): Xiatian
  • Pressurise the interior of the body, especially the lower abdominal cavity (Xiaofu)
  • Compress/sink (Chen) and stretch/release (Song) internally like a spring to express power (Jin)
  • Release upwards from the feet
  • Feel for spaciousness between soft tissues and bones
  • Move the waist (Yao) to direct power to the hands
  • Arms move in continuous circles or spirals, containing the energy
  • When released, the energy arrives (is expressed) all at once (Fa Jin)
  • Attack the centreline and take your partner’s centre of mass
  • Uproot and destroy your partner’s balance
  • Sense, yield, follow, and stick (Tui Shou & Chi Sau)
  • The mind leads the movement
  • Continually coil and flow: “the most important thing is through”
  • Use torsion not tension
  • Gather energy like pulling a bow; project (Fa) like releasing an arrow
  • Find stillness in movement, and movement in stillness
  • Keep the feet at shoulder width (with exceptions, such as Santi Shi & Xiantien palms)
  • Distribute weight evenly under the feet (centred over Yongquan, K-1)
  • Move the thighs as though wading through mud
  • Spread the fingers and open the centre of the palms (Laogong, P-8)
  • The connective tissues are slightly stretched
  • The feet are rooted by sinking the mass, not by bracing against the floor
  • Steps are careful and powerful, like a prowling tiger’s
  • Fingers are like an eagle’s wingtips or talons, trailing or curving 
  • Shoulders are like a bear’s
  • The body moves and coils like a dragon’s 
  • The arms drill and recoil in snakelike spirals, driven by the Lower Dantien
  • Keep the mind peaceful, and the body at ease but ready, like a resting cat’s
  • Skin and mind are sensitive to your partner’s intent (Ting)
  • Connect with your partner’s mass 
  • Feel your partner’s feet and centre of balance
  • Clear internal blockages (at the joints)
  • Release all unnecessary tension
  • Stretch and connect the body internally like a wet suit through the fascia (Huang)
  • Free the fascia to move and slide
  • Direct incoming force through the spine to the ground (“lead the force to emptiness”)
  • Don’t push with the arms; turn the waist or move the centre of mass forwards
  • Don’t respond to contact/force with tension; keep the arms soft and heavy
  • Don’t overextend or lock the joints
  • Don’t use momentum, but an elastic twist like wringing a wet towel
  • Twist around the centre of the body (Chong Mai) rather than around the spine
  • Twist using the abs, lats, and trapezius, rather than by loosely spinning the shoulders counter to the hips
  • Attack and counterattack relentlessly; act, don’t react
  • Force is directed through, not at, the opponent
  • Inflate the body in all directions with a springy resilience; buoyant and unstoppable like the ocean (Peng)
  • The power is smooth, flowing, continuous, and capable of changing vector at any time
  • Power and intention are brimming, yet contained
  • Be neither floppy nor stiff; be like dough 
  • Movements are natural, efficient, precise, and contralateral
  • Cultivate a chewy quality to your movement
  • The body and spirit (Shen) are alive and present, with both a fierce readiness and gentle sensitivity
  • Develop whole-body power and mind-body integration through standing post practice (Zhan Zhuang)
  • The body should first be made strong and supple before softness or internal power is trained
  • Practise strengthening (Neigong), loosening (Fang Song Gong), and stretching/mobilising (Daoyin)
  • Emphasise core principles and fundamental movements over external forms
  • Besides fitness and explosive power, train proprioception/interoception, balance, and sensory integration
  • The central nervous system should become efficient and responsive
  • Harmonise mind, breath, and body (Qigong)
  • Find ways to apply these principles appropriately to everyday life beyond the martial arts

Put your back into it! Structure in the Chinese internal martial arts

Common to all the internal arts is an emphasis on sound posture and physical structure as a core foundation. You start with the external, and then move inwards, in through the layers of the body… and the mind. But, just for emphasis, you start with the external.

Many devote hours to Zhan Zhuang, or “standing post” practices, whilst others disregard such “boring” elements of training, or just pay them lip service, in favour of more exciting and enjoyable dynamic forms and partner work. Sure, it is certainly possible to train forms while remaining mindful of maintaining good posture. And it’s a lot of fun moving through the forms and playing with others. (Just moving in any manner that isn’t the customary “walk, sit, or lie down” is joyful – something that children intuitively know, but adults swiftly forget.)

But is that posture really going to be ingrained in quite the same way. What happens when you get pressed or tested?

When we stand, we soak our awareness in through the body. We sense, adjust, relax, tweak, stretch, relax, tweak some more. We get to know our bodies and feel how the parts are connected, and how moving one part influences the whole, like waves spreading out from a raindrop falling in a still pond.

Before any internal power can be developed, which arises largely through creating this whole-body interconnection through the fascia and connective tissues, and through an internal process of relaxation and release, a basically sound physical structure must be found. If that underlying framework has not been established, power cannot be generated, and any application of technique will be easily undermined.

At very high levels of skill, it would appear this is no longer the case, and power can be returned even from some very awkward or compromised positions, but certainly for the novice or intermediate practitioner, good structure is a crucial foundation.

Despite some very different emphases, techniques, footwork, and movement principles, the fundamental physical alignments are very similar, if not identical, for Taijiquan, Xingyiquan, Baguazhang, and Wing Chun. Stances can vary between shoulder-width and narrower, but in all four the leg joints are kept lightly flexed and the hips dropped, relaxing the lower back muscles to allow the pelvis to posteriorly rotate and the lumbar spine to lengthen.

The shoulders and elbows are sunk to maintain connection between the abdominal centre and the arms and hands. A distance is kept between elbows and torso, and the shoulder and elbow joints are opened and extended to allow force to be transferred through them, and not get caught in the joint itself. Fingers are gently stretched and enlivened to engage and connect the sinews, and the back of the head is drawn gently up and back to keep the integrity of the upper spine. The eyes are soft, the mind quiet, the senses listening, the breathing deep.

And thus do many practise the forms of their chosen art, with perfect structure and appropriate state of mind, calm and aware, slowly developing internal relaxation and power through years of dedication. But all too often, as soon as an opponent is placed before them, whether that be in sparring practice, or more cooperative play such as Chi Sau or push-hands, all structural integrity is swiftly forgotten.

Why should this be? The focus has shifted. The attention has moved from inside to outside. They are focused on what their opponent or partner is doing, and how to overcome them or defend themselves, rather than being aware of their own internal state. Two things can break: the mind or the body… or both.

The mind can become perturbed, anxious, angry, or proud, and this tension can translate into muscular tension and haste of movement that disrupts the body’s integrity and leaves it open to manipulation. Or the body can lose its structure, severing its connection to the ground and its own internal connectivity. When the relationship between the parts is unbalanced, the whole body is disharmonious and susceptible to external pressures.

For someone who has practised, tested and played for years or decades, this should be less of an issue, as the fundamental structure should be fully integrated and unconsciously always present. Even so, the unpredictable actions of a training partner, and especially those of an aggressive opponent, are highly likely to disturb the mind, induce muscular tension, or disrupt the basic skeletal alignments.

When the physical geometry is correct, the internal connections established, and the mind and muscles sufficiently relaxed, an incoming force can be directed through the body to the floor. It can even be returned into the body of the opponent if the practitioner is skilful enough, and can stay more relaxed than their opponent.

Keeping the muscles relaxed allows power to be transferred through the body from the abdominal core and turning waist. But this can be difficult to maintain when receiving pressure from an opponent. Tension can arise before you are even aware it is there, both in body and mind. One of the most effective ways to keep this from happening is to return to the physical structure, and in particular the back.

The spine is the keystone of our structure. If we can keep the crown lifted, and maintain a feeling of rising up through the spinal column, this provides integrity to the rest of the body. With an opponent in front of us, it is very easy for the upper back and shoulders to round, or for the neck to crane forwards as we keep a forward-moving intention or become acutely focused on our opponent’s movements.

But if we can keep the gaze soft, feeling our opponent more than we watch them, and not have our attention drawn inwards in this way, our own power is hugely increased. Staying relaxed and vertically aligned, we can find Peng: that soft, inflated power that makes it very difficult for an opponent to fold our joints or otherwise destroy our alignments.

Simply by keeping our awareness partially inside, sitting the shoulders and scapulae neutrally, and rising up through the back, we can make a massive difference to our ability to generate power, and to resist incoming forces. When somebody is moving towards you with Peng, it feels like an unstoppable force that cannot be resisted by direct muscular opposition, no matter how many kilos you can bench press. You can’t stop the tide.

I have felt this integrity of structure in my own Taijiquan and Xingyiquan teachers. One in particular is female and has a much smaller frame than my own, and yet when I apply pressure against her Ward Off posture, or indeed any posture, all of my strength is absorbed without effort. She never loses that relaxed expression of body and mind, and simply redirects my power through her body, as though she is not there at all: “taking the force to emptiness”.

Likewise, I have felt this in certain Wing Chun practitioners, and particularly those who have trained in schools following the lineage of Sigung (Grandmaster) Chu Shong Tin. A very relaxed power flows into the arms through the rising energy in the spine, and the external structure is absolutely solid. Neither dense nor tense, but light and springy like an inflated ball. And utterly unrelenting. Yes, the power of internal martial arts is “soft”, but it is also preternaturally strong. Water is soft. But the tide…

There is something in the Yi, as well; a relaxed yet unyielding intent, which reminds me of the forward-moving principle of Xingyiquan, to attack and move forwards without regard for whatever your opponent is doing. But a mind-intention is no use without effective body mechanics. A whole-body forwards movement, driven from the legs, hips and centre of mass, harnesses much more power than the isolated mechanical movements of a disconnected limb. This can be seen very clearly in forms like Five Elements Xingyi, but of course is equally present in the other internal arts.

The positioning and flow of energy within the thoracic spine is key. Here is the conduit of power from the sacrum, up the spine and out to the arms. It is an interesting exercise to find space between the vertebrae, and to seek a sense of openness in this area, without sticking out the chest or introducing any tension.

How much can you draw up the crown, and how much can you sink the pelvis away from the ribcage, without distorting the natural curve of the spine? This is a process of release, not of effort. Once tension manifests, internal power is lost. Unless of course that tension is the kind of torsional power we seek in Baguazhang, where deliberate internal twisting and releasing adds energy to our movements.

Whether in Cheng Bao, San Ti Shi, Dragon Palm, Ward Off, or just moving very, very slowly through Siu Nim Tao (or indeed any internal martial arts Tao Lu), paying attention to the upper back can bring a coherence and connection to the body, and profoundly affect the way in which the entire body moves. With the head upright, the spine aligned with gravity, and the soft tissues sunk and relaxed, we can move not only with great power and strength, but also with grace, unity, efficiency, and ease.

This is something we can train all the time, in our everyday lives. Most of us slouch or drop the head forwards, particularly in this age of comfy sofas and screen addiction. By staying aware of our spinal alignments and the position of the skull, as well as the relaxation of the trapezius and other back muscles, good martial posture can become a natural habit for daily living. And by regularly practising gentle stretching and loosening exercises, and mobilising the joints and spine, we can keep our spines supple and healthy and our lives healthy and long. To paraphrase Joseph Pilates, we are as young as our spines.

What’s more, practising this upwards extension of the spine directly translates into our mental state, too, helping us to be more relaxed, confident, and aware; more graceful, easeful and unified not just in body, but in mind and spirit, too.

Remember all those times your mum nagged you not to slouch? Well, maybe she really knew what she was talking about…

Fettered by the Fuzz: Getting a feel for fascia

You know your own body. Right?

Yeah, of course. Vital organs, flesh, blood, nerves, skeleton… oh, and connective tissues. Most people forget about those. But what exactly are these connective tissues? Tendons, ligaments, cartilage – most of us are aware of these. They consist of elastin, collagen, and chains of polypeptides that keep our sinews fibrous and sinuous. And then there is the complex network of fascia that binds, stabilises and separates our viscera. It encloses and penetrates our muscles, wraps around our organs, and underpins our skin. It prevents us, along with our bones, vessels and skin, from functioning only as amorphous blobs and oozes. But you already knew that… right?

Fascia has largely escaped the notice of the medical world for centuries. It was the annoying stringy membrane that you had to cut through to get to the meat of the operation, so to speak. Modern keyhole surgery, however, makes extensive use of fascia, sliding surgical implements and cameras through the convenient spaces between fascial planes. The human mind tends naturally to focus on “stuff”, on “things”, and to ignore the vital spaces in between, but in recent years the importance of fascia has become increasingly recognised and acknowledged. No longer is it just the good-fer-nuthin’ chewy piece of gristle in your sirloin steak. It keeps us mobile and elastic, contributes significantly to the structural scaffolding of our bodies, and provides us with functional lines of kinetic power and movement.

Increasingly, the fascial network is being offered as an explanation for the efficacy of acupuncture. Whilst I’m not convinced the correlation is so direct and simple as some suggest, there are certainly some convincing parallels with the Sinew Channels and Twelve Primary Meridians. There is, for example, one continuous sheet of fascia that runs from the brow-line, over the scalp and down the back, all the way to the plantar fascia beneath the foot. In traditional Chinese medical theory, the Bladder channel follows the exact same path. Aha! Acupuncturists now have a neat and handy, scientific-sounding explanation for when the sceptical patient asks why a needle in the foot might help alleviate their lumbar pain or stiff neck… without having to resort to nebulous expositions about the mysterious workings of Qi that leave most Westerners flummoxed at best, or derisive at worst.

There is even a suggestion that Qi itself is in fact an electrical flow facilitated by the piezoelectric quality of fascia, and by the conductive properties of the fluids that run along and between it. By manipulating the myofascial web with needles, we can adjust and manipulate the flow. We can release or engage the fascia, and change the manner in which it feeds back to the nervous system. In many cases, chronic pain is not caused by damaged muscle or scarring, but by taut, overstretched, or bound-up fascia. Often, that pain is not felt at the dysfunctional area, but is rather referred along muscle and fascia to knotted Ashi points and trigger points. The fascia is not just inert material; it is a sensitive network running through the entire body and feeding back to the Central Nervous System. Is Qi electricity? Electricity is a kind of Qi, perhaps – but again, I don’t think they are one and the same. I don’t think it’s the whole story.

One of the effective mechanisms common to acupuncture, meditation, yoga, and Qi Gong is that through breathing and an emphasis on an alert but quiet mind-state, the parasympathetic response of the autonomic nervous system can be activated, and this is crucial to dealing with all kinds of pain conditions – not just musculoskeletal ones, but things like Irritable Bowel Syndrome, too. The role of the mind cannot be underestimated here. For tissue to release, the mind and nervous system have first to say, “It’s okay”. Our minds are not separate from our bodies; they are integrated and inseparable systems. Indeed, there has been much written on how negative emotions that are not “worked through” and released can instead become stuck inside the physical tissues.

Certainly, this perspective is one shared with classical Chinese medicine. I have myself witnessed people being needled at particular points, and suddenly becoming overwhelmed with emotion. I’ve seen vasovagal responses, too, in the form of “needle shock”, that have also been closely tied to past trauma, both physical and emotional. Indeed, we easily accept that physical trauma is likely accompanied by emotional trauma; less accepted is the notion that emotional trauma necessarily manifests in the physical body.

Interestingly, one of the Nei Dan, or Daoist internal alchemical, techniques I have learned is an alternating squeezing and releasing of the whole body. This is to encourage full relaxation of the flesh, especially those parts that we unconsciously keep in a state of tension. By squeezing and releasing we can become aware of the degrees of tension we hold within us, and gradually let them go. I believe that this letting-go is not purely physical, but emotional, too. We let go of thoughts, emotions, and physical tension and tightness, and therefore allow the body and mind to enter a state of rest and healing that it cannot attain even in sleep (when the mind is still busy with dreams).

Various Buddhist visualisation techniques also work with imagining the body as space. We know from modern subatomic physics that this is literally true: our bodies are comprised overwhelmingly of empty space, contrary to our sensory experience of ourselves as primarily solid entities. On a more palpable level, the ancient Chinese practice of using suction cups also creates physical space in our bodies, allowing stagnation to move, toxins to drain, and fresh nutrients to replenish. Massage, foam rolling and acupressure work by compressing space in the body. How much time do we spend actually opening it up and increasing internal space?

In Zhan Zhuang standing practices, often associated with martial arts, such as the San Ti Shi posture of Xingyiquan, or with Qi Gong, such as the Wu Ji posture, we work on a process of internal release, through the muscles and connective tissues, but in particular through the spine. As the crown of the head is gently lifted, we relax and allow gravity to pull the pelvis away from the skull, gently stretching the spine and opening up space between the vertebrae. What lies between our vertebrae? Our cushioning intervertebral discs: connective tissue. Through the process of release during standing practice, the overly-curved and compressed lumbar region especially is partially straightened and lengthened as the sacrum drops and the pelvis tilts posteriorly.

This is a perfect antidote to the postural imbalances induced by a lifetime of sitting in chairs, such as Lower Crossed Syndrome, where the glutes and abdominal wall weaken as the thighs and lower back tighten. The whole releasing process, known as Song (approximately pronounced sung) in Qi Gong, Taijiquan, and other Chinese internal martial arts, involves the gradual unbinding of habitually tight fibres in the muscles, and around the bones, so that space can be found in the body and Qi can flow unhindered. Spaciousness and tension within the body are directly paralleled by spaciousness and tension within the mind. Each feeds into the other.

Many Chinese health practices work directly with fascia. Tui Na massage, Gua Sha, and suction cupping therapies certainly do, as do Qi Gong and the internal martial arts. A high level Taijiquan practitioner has a remarkable ability to direct power through the body via lines of connective tissue that are developed through consistent, mindful practice. In Baguazhang, too, there is much emphasis on chain-like, flowing, full-body movement, maintaining a relaxed stretch or torsion of internal fibres. We don’t just move the hand; the whole body moves the hand. We feel how the torso, legs and feet can all become involved in the movement. Nothing is isolated; the whole body is involved in every action. We are an interconnected web, strung together by the cobweb-like filaments of fascia. Where Western medicine dissects, Chinese medicine and martial arts seek to connect, and to work with the whole.

Aside from complex martial and internal practices, simple, natural stretching is crucial to fascial health. Without movement, the fascial membranes that are designed to glide over each other and provide us with an easy, open, and extensive range of movement, instead knit together as strands of sticky, yellowish “fuzz” form between the layers. This fuzz thickens and congeals until our natural elasticity is restricted. We are literally bound up by our own fascia. What should be lubricated and frictionless instead becomes viscous and impaired. And it doesn’t take long. A few hours without motion and the process of knitting together is underway. A few weeks or months go by and whole areas become stuck. By the time we are old we are bent over and drawn in. We can no longer touch our toes. For some people this happens well before they are old. It doesn’t have to be this way.

This is the real, physical benefit of yoga and Qi Gong. A stretched muscle soon returns to its habitual state, but regular movement-based practices such as these inject energy into the body and work these fascial membranes, which might otherwise become irrevocably stuck together. They create internal frictions that gradually free up the body’s restrictions. Not only that, but yoga especially works certain movement patterns that do not form a part of our normal routine, such as lateral stretches, twists, and forward bends. The twists are particularly useful as they work the spiral fascial planes that connect one side of the body to the other, and bear some similarity to the Gall Bladder channel and Dai Mai, or Girdling Vessel.

It is increasingly believed that static stretches are not as effective as dynamic stretches, if indeed they are at all. Dynamic stretching needs to be performed mindfully and cautiously, so as not to overstretch or potentially tear muscles or connective tissue, but quite often a static stretch is simply lengthening areas that are already free to move (and possibly taking them close to their elastic, or even their plastic limit), whilst areas that are bound up simply stay bound up. It might be that it is not even a muscle that is restricted, but rather a nerve or adjacent area of fascia. Perhaps even a distal one. The tightness in your lower back could be rooted in constricted plantar fascia in the foot. When we introduce internal heat and move in various spatial planes, things can slowly begin to unwind internally.

There is an organ in Chinese medicine that is not acknowledged by Western science. Perhaps it should be. It is the “organ with function but without form” – the San Jiao, or Triple Heater. It is an organ of space. Its three spaces separate the respiratory, digesting, and excretory zones of the torso. How are they separated? By fascia. The diaphragm, for example, is a sheet of muscle partitioning thorax and abdomen… and it’s wrapped in fascia, which creates an impregnable wall between the two zones, penetrated only by oesophagus, vena cava, aorta, and vagus nerve. The San Jiao coordinates the cooling and warming functions of the body, transports fluids, and provides for the free passage of Qi. Sound familiar?

Indeed, from an embryological standpoint, the entire foetal development of the body can be seen as an unravelling of distinct, organisational spaces. These begin as the Eight Extraordinary Vessels: the Du Mai, Ren Mai, Chong Mai, Dai Mai, Yin and Yang Qiao Mai (“stepping” vessels), and Yin and Yang Wei Mai (“linking” vessels). Only after parturition do the Twelve Primary Channels of the Zang Fu take over as we enter the Xian Tian, or “Post-Heaven” phase of our lives. The way in which the embryo divides and organises itself can be equated uncannily closely with the partitioning lines of these Extraordinary Vessels.

Fascia, whilst criminally overlooked, is crucial to us as living organisms. Without it we would literally be a real mess, like blobby amoebae. Fascia is instrumental in the smooth functioning of our organs, and of our muscular, nervous, lymphatic, respiratory, digestive, vascular, immune and endocrine systems. Everything, basically. It holds us in space, and lends us structure, spaciousness, and freedom of movement. Its health reflects our emotional and physical state. Keep it moving, and it lubricates our entire existence in integrated, joyful motion. But let it grow stagnant, and it will bind us, constrict us, and fetter us to a lifetime of stiffness, pain, and decline.

See those elderly people still practising the slow, fluid movements of Taijiquan in the parks of China in their seventies and eighties? Those are people who have not only looked after their organs, their breathing, their minds, muscles, and bones; they’ve looked after their fascia, too. Pulling and twisting, stretching and relaxing their way to a graceful old age.

It’s time to get connected.

Recommended reading and viewing…

Bessel Van Der Kolk: The Body Keeps the Score (Penguin Books, 2015)

Dolma Johanison: The Beginner’s Guide to the Eight Extraordinary Vessels (Singing Dragon, 2022)

Dr Daniel Keown: The Spark in the Machine (Singing Dragon, 2014)

Gil Hedley: Fascia & Stretching – The Fuzz Speech [https://youtu.be/_FtSP-tkSug]

Thomas Myers: Anatomy Trains (4th Edition, Elsevier, 2021)

University of California Television (UCTV): The Role of Fascia in Movement and Function [https://youtu.be/raCBeQ-gXfs]

Embrace Tiger, Return to Mountain

Sshh! Do you hear that? Something stirs the undergrowth. A guttural purr. A glint of amber. Watching. Hungry. Dispassionate. Predatory. The hairs raise across your neck. Panic rises to your throat. Flee! Flee! A blur of motion. You turn. Eyes widen. Three hundred kilos of murderous intent launch at your belly.

You exhale. Ward off. Grasp. Roll back.

Humiliated, confused, the tiger slinks away. Back into the shadows.

Where did my prey go? As soon as I pounced, it disappeared. A ghost! It emptied itself into the very earth. Into the mountain. It became the mountain.

The tiger is your fear. It lurks in the darkness at the back of your mind. Stalking you. Padding silently behind, awaiting its chance. Ever present. Always hunting. Always hungry. Death in the unknown. Fixated. Feral. Unremitting. Voracious. Waiting for you to manifest from nothing. To cut yourself off. Make yourself distinct. Reveal yourself as a singular carcass of timid flesh. An isolated being; something that can become nothing. A flame to be snuffed out.

There! Again! Do you feel that? The breath catching in your chest. The sweat seeping from your brow. The blood surging and plunging through your veins. The fleeting, feline shadows that dart behind you. Never revealing themselves. Always just beyond your vision. Shifting out of focus. Feeding on your anxiety. Tormenting you. The demons of thought. Your whirling minds. Incessantly you turn, this way, this way, this way – never quite grasping them, never still. Breathe in. Breathe in. Again. Breathe in.

The tiger is your fear. Your doubt. Your worry. Your pride. Your anger. Your obsession. Your self-pity. Your guilt. Your shame. Your boredom. Your excitement. Your hostility. Your disregard. Your contempt. Your loneliness. Your futility. Your stories. Your despair. Your hope.

The tiger is your own self. Your small self. Your vulnerable self. Your separated self. Your unreal self. The tiger is the thought that partitions you from the rest of existence. The idea that stakes out its territory and marks its border. That builds walls around you. Through you. Within you. It divides you up and devours you piece by piece.

As the jaws open, as the claws reach, you release it all. Exhale. You return to the emptiness from which you arose. There is life in the unknown. There is only life. No birth. No death. Just… this.

Embrace the tiger. Embrace it all. Accept, accept, and let it all go. Bring it into focus. Know your fear. Know yourself. Know your delusion. See it clearly. Stop turning. Stop fighting. Stop running. Allow it. Know it. And let it go.

Sink, sink, fall away. Return to emptiness. Return to the mountain. To tranquillity. To equanimity. At peace in the very isness of everything. Merged with it. At one.

Lost to the prowling tiger. But not lost to the silent mountain. In silence, in stillness, you disappear…

Within the mountain, everything is yours.

… Or, for a more practical outlook, here’s a great video by Liang Dehua on differentiating between Brush Knee & Push and Embrace Tiger Return to Mountain: https://youtu.be/cFVaLgo7RWY

Nourishing seeds: Neuroplasticity and skilful living

If you were to ask a randomised group of people what the meaning of life is, or their life’s purpose, I suspect you would be met by a plethora of answers. Happiness, wealth, health, friendship, kindness, procreation, progress, pleasure, success, security… I’m sure there are more I haven’t considered. I think all have their merits. But how do we go about fulfilling this purpose or meaning, however we might define it? Well, we have to live skilfully. There’s no use in bashing away at our life’s potential shape with a blunt rock. A much wiser course of action would be to take a sharp chisel and tap away with precision and finesse. The resulting statue will be far finer.

To put it in less pretty and metaphorical terms, we have to find a way to navigate our lives that will lead naturally to the outcomes we desire. We have to create the correct conditions in order for a certain result to manifest. We need to put down strong roots, to have a firm foundation; a baseline of skill that will serve us as we apply our tools. And as we grow, we have to stay pliant and adaptable, like a new, green branch. Rigidity is a characteristic of death; suppleness is a mark of life.

If we want a seed to germinate and sprout, we need to ensure the ideal environment for that seed; the best soil, with the right amount of nutrients, the right amount of moisture, and so on. This seems like an obvious statement, and yet so many of us go about our day to day lives paying little attention to these conditions, while wondering why our lives are not turning out the way we had hoped. We keep trying futilely to fit through the same narrow gap, without thinking to change the angle. Or we stop trying altogether. The result can frequently be a narrative of victimhood, of unfairness, of resentment, of blaming the world when in truth it is our own behaviour that has worked against us. Our own lack of attention and flexibility. Often, we are our own worst enemies.

I believe that much of our own self-created suffering is rooted in our inability to live consciously. We think we are awake and aware, but really we are acting in a very unconscious way, and this only gets worse as we age. It is a cliché to say that the years slip by more quickly as we get older. I think in part this is because increasingly our lives become a series of repeated, unconscious habits. We find ways of dealing with things that seem to work, and we stick to them. We become rigid in our responses, set in our ways. We fall into routines, into habitual ways of thinking. We plough the same furrows, and they grow ever deeper, until we can no longer see over the sides. Our view becomes narrower, more linear. And we stop challenging ourselves, because, hey, life is hard enough as it is, right? I have to hold down this job, feed my family, fulfil my obligations… why would I seek to make life more difficult for myself? This works, more or less – why fix it? And yet, when the day is done, there is that nagging sense of dissatisfaction. Those what ifs, bubbling underneath. That feeling that life is slipping you by, and you somehow ended up in the passenger seat. You gave up. You settled. You didn’t fulfil your potential. Oh well, it’s too late now…

Is it?

There are ways to turn things around. Ways that are embedded in traditional Chinese health practices. These methods have little to do with what’s out there, with all those things you’ve been happily blaming for your mediocrity. Your external environment is important, of course. Your job, your relationships, the physical climate you live in – all these things will impact on you. But your most viable solution is to change yourself. “Yeah, I’ve tried that – didn’t work. I’m back to my old self,” you might say. But that’s probably because you only tried to change one or two things. Or you picked the wrong things to focus on. Maybe you changed your diet. Or you started going to the gym. Or both. But it fizzled out, and here you are again. Except this time round you feel even more stuck. Even more jaded. What is required is to change everything. And what I mean by that, is you have to change your whole waking experience, from moment to moment. Pull yourself out by the roots and find more fertile internal ground. In short, you have to engineer your mind to think differently – more consciously.

There are some very specific ways in which we can set about achieving this. First, let’s start with the most obvious, material component we have to work with: the body. We tend to think of ourselves, our being, in terms of our thinking minds, and treat our bodies as tools through which our minds interact with the world, vessels that contain and transport our minds. We live in our heads. “I am in here”, we say, tapping our skulls. But what if this were an incorrect model? What if our bodies were our minds?

This isn’t as crazy as it might at first appear. There has already been some fascinating scientific research that suggests the heart possesses its own rudimentary (or perhaps not so crude?) sort of consciousness, as does the lower abdomens, which has been termed our second brain. Both these regions house large portions of our autonomic nervous system, crucial to operating our fundamental, automatic operations, such as organ function and hormone release. This is a striking parallel to the Chinese model, which identifies three significant fields of energy in the body: the Xia Dan Tian, Zhong Dan Tian, and Shang Dan Tian, or lower, middle, and upper elixir fields. One characteristic technique of Daoist meditation is to move our awareness from one field to another, or indeed spread it through the entire body, so that we no longer feel we are trapped in our heads.

Anyway, whether this parallel holds up or not, we all know instinctively that our bodies, and not just our facial expressions, betray our emotional states. Think of a cartoon, or even a stick figure. You could show someone a simple figure in a particular posture, and that person would be able to say with confidence what state of mind that figure was in. Standing tall, chest thrust out? Confident. Self-assured. Hunched over, head dropped forward? Depressed. Anxious. Perhaps grieving, or nervous. If the artist was good, you could probably identify which of these options was the most accurate.

We have a whole metaphorical language of mind based in our bodies. Courage is guts. So is instinct. We are sick with envy, or filled with bile. Much of it goes beyond metaphor. We actually, viscerally feel it. We feel love in our hearts. Fear in the pit of the stomach. Nerves in the belly, like butterflies. Sadness is a lump in the throat. In Europe, the humoral system of medicine, based upon bodily fluids, has existed in various forms since ancient times, and was the prevalent medical model in the Medieval period. In Chinese medicine, Five Element (or Five Phase, Wu Xing) theory ties aspects of mind inextricably to energetic organ networks in the body. If you are suffering from anxiety or insomnia, there are acupuncture points on your wrist, along your Heart channel, that can be stimulated to help bring this aspect of mind back into harmony.

“You are only as old as your spine” paraphrases a quotation of Joseph Pilates’, which may also have its roots in an old, Chinese proverb. But suppleness is not just a physical quality. Children are immensely flexible. For most, a wheel asana, or a crab pose, bending over backwards to form an arch, is no big deal. And it’s no coincidence that children are immensely flexible mentally, too. Their capacity for learning, for connecting new neural pathways, is something we should all endeavour to maintain. But we don’t. We become rigid. And we become stuck. We cling on to ideas and notions. We get lazy. We dissociate from our bodies. We slump. We sit. We crane into our screens. Then we get back pain. Our breathing becomes shallow. Our anxiety levels creep up. Why? Because our hearts are closed off by sunken chests and rounded shoulders. Or our chests sink and shoulders round to protect our vulnerable, assailed hearts. Our spines lose their natural shape through repeated, bad postural habits. And these start when we’re very young and are forced to sit at desks for prolonged periods at school. Is it any wonder we live in an age where back pain and anxiety are epidemic?

In Qi Gong and Yogic practices, there is a great deal of emphasis placed on postural alignments. On planting the feet and spreading our weight evenly. Letting the pelvis rotate posteriorly and drop from the ribcage. Neither expanding nor sinking the chest. Finding an easy, upright, neutral position. When our spines are stacked correctly, our over-used and abused large muscle groups can switch off. We can engage our core, deep muscles, and rely on our skeleton to hold us in place. Without the toll of poor posture, we conserve energy. Energy that can be instead diverted into alertness, awareness, cognition, empathy. Our resources are finite; if we devote all our energies to holding our bodies in weird, unconstructive positions, it follows that we will have less to feed our minds.

This is a two-way street. Our minds follow our bodies, and our bodies follow our minds. If you feel depressed, your body will look depressed. You can imagine the stick figure. Equally, if you adjust your body to be more upright, your mind will follow. Most meditation traditions suggest a seated posture that is upright, not slumped. Why? Because it promotes awareness and alertness. Try meditating with a rounded back and you will most likely find yourself nodding off. Spend your life in a slumped, defeated position, and guess what? You sleep. You lose.

Try going about your day with your shoulders rolled back and down, seated properly in the shoulder girdle, and your spine erect, with the back of your neck gently extended, and your gaze level. You will feel different. Your breathing will be full and natural, without constriction. There will be space for your organs. Space for your mind to permeate through and settle. You will speak and act with more confidence, steadiness and vitality. You will be more connected to others. More astute and vital. Your heart will be open, both figuratively and literally. What’s more, people will pick up on these cues subconsciously, and they will respond to you differently. They will judge you differently. New paths will open. New possibilities. One small adjustment, and your whole experience of life can begin to alter profoundly.

A mistake many of us make is to think in a way that values quantity over quality. When we go to the gym, we think about how much we’re lifting, or how many reps. When we go running, we try to run faster or further. But how many of us really pay attention to how we are doing something? We might consider our overall “form”, but that’s as far as it goes. And enjoyment is often the first thing to get thrown out the window. What we want is results! A better time on the stopwatch, or a less insulting number on the weighing scales.

So try this instead. The next time you go running, or swimming, or cycling, or even just walk to your local shop, ditch the apps and timers, and pay close attention to how you are moving. The buzzword is mindfulness. But whatever you call it, just pay attention. How are your feet hitting the ground? Is your movement even? Is it fluid? How fluid? Can you be more fluid? Can you walk more softly, with less impact? Can you let your body be heavy, while keeping your steps light? Can you run with more rebound, with less effort? Can you identify any areas of tension? Can you let that tension go? Then what happens? Do other tensions appear? Do you uncover deeper tensions? What adjustments can you make? What are you really feeling when you move? What is your state of mind? How does your breathing change? How does your breath move? How does your body move as you breathe? What moves? What doesn’t? Be inquiring. Be playful. Don’t just walk how you always do. Don’t let your mind wander into reverie. Stay present. Don’t fall into the furrow of habit.

The next time you exercise, take off your headphones and really place your mind inside your body. This is very much the emphasis of the Chinese “internal” martial arts, such as Taijiquan, Baguazhang, and Xingyiquan. They ask you to turn your awareness inside. To release internally. To know yourself. To explore and play. To find your centre in a sense that includes yet goes beyond simply finding your centre of gravity.

Let’s take a simple example: turning from the waist. Just stand symmetrically and turn your waist. Turn slowly. Turn quickly. How are you doing it? Are there other ways? Which muscles are working? Are any overworking, or underworking? Is your waist loose, or are you turning with some resistance? Are you leading with your arms or your shoulders, or are your arms swinging like dead weights and following the waist? Are your hips stable, or are they working with the movement? What about your knees and ankles? Try isolating them. Try integrating them. Synchronise your breathing. Desynchronise it. Feel how your weight shifts and your feet pedal. Feel how the motion massages your internal organs. Feel how your fascia pulls and twists. Feel the substance of your body. Feel its spaces. What do you feel like inside? A spinning top? A flapping flag? A twisted wet towel? A spring under torsion? Play with it. Enjoy it. Immerse yourself in it. Just don’t count the reps.

When you look at parts of the world where people are staying healthy and mobile for longer, what you tend to find are not dietary fads, obsessive or extreme exercising, and endless bottles of proteins and supplements. No – you find balanced, seasonal, local, whole food diets, gentle and moderate exercise, and an emphasis on social connection. On family, friends, laughter. I suspect any negative health effects of the bottles of red wine at a rustic Italian table are vastly outweighed by the benefits of the convivial atmosphere – by the stories, jokes, songs and sense of belonging. Another way is to eat in silence, unhurriedly, with your undivided attention upon your meal. Compare these to a takeout TV dinner in an inner city bachelor pad. Isolated. Chewing mindlessly. Eating too quickly. Eating too late. Your attention on the television instead of the food. Can’t even remember what you had for tea yesterday. There is probably a difference in quantity, too, for sure, in terms of nutritional value, but the real difference is one of quality.

The same goes for sleep. We “manage” our sleep like it’s something to be contained. A necessary evil that really just gets in the way of our busy lives. We make it fit into our schedule. We ignore our dreams. We sever our sleep with jarring, demanding alarms. We curtail it with brutal efficiency. Seven hours. Six hours. Five and a half. “A siesta? Are you mad? I don’t have time!” We don’t listen to our bodies. We don’t give them time to recoup and repair. We don’t even know how properly to rest. We entrance our senses with music, films, podcasts, video games, and social media. Always looking outwards. Seeking stimulation.

That’s not rest. Slouching isn’t rest – it’s a stretch for a few moments, and then it’s just a stress on your spine. True rest is sitting quietly upright. Moving inwards. Moving toward stillness. Rest is doing nothing. Not interfering with your thoughts, neither feeding nor suppressing. Rest is letting go. Deeply letting go. What we colloquially term relaxation is really just distraction. A way to fill our time so we don’t have to face ourselves. So we don’t have to face our discontent. Instead, we force ourselves into these unnatural patterns of productivity or distraction and then wonder why we are developing chronic stress or worsening health problems. The answer is often chronic fatigue. Chronic inflammation. Suppressed immunity. Not exercising right. Not resting right. Not eating right. Not sleeping right. Feeling like shit.

How can we start to remedy this? How can we start to live more skilfully? We all know, for the most part, where we’re going wrong. Yet we are apparently incapable of change. Our habits are too strong. Part of the answer lies in training our awareness. Another buzz-phrase is “living in the moment”. Well, we can’t do anything other than live in the moment, in the present. But we can be more present. An easy way in is to slow down. Listen to your breath. Attend to your posture, to your inner environment; be upright, expansive. Own your own space… and then own your own time, too. Move more slowly and deliberately, while maintaining a potential for swiftness and timeliness. Allow yourself to be entranced by your own somatic feedback. Pay attention to how you are moving. To how you are breathing. To how you are talking.

Are you breathing into your shoulders? Your upper chest? Your belly? Your back? Are you using your abdominals? Your diaphragm? Can you feel it moving? How about your breathing pattern? Is your breath a continuous loop, or is there a pause before you inhale? What happens if you prolong your exhalation? (Answer: Your heart rate slows down, and you relax more deeply.) Now, what about your voice? Is it harsh, or loud? Are your words rushed? What is your tone? Your inflection? Your timbre? Are your words constructive or destructive? Are they communicating effectively what you want to communicate? What is it you are communicating, really? What is your intention? And do your words match your intention? Take a moment to consider. Soften. Slow down. Give yourself a little space. Don’t take it to an extreme, either. Don’t turn into a sloth, or a saint. Be appropriate. Make subtle changes. The key is to train yourself into a certain state of mind.

And it takes practice. There is a reason people refer to Yoga practice, Taiji practice, or meditation practice. It takes time to develop. Time to deepen and become a part of you. To become habitual. You have to keep guiding yourself towards it. You have to set aside time to practice. Time to sit and do nothing but attend patiently to what is within. It’s not a state you can just get. Not without psychoactive drugs, sudden satori, or a nervous breakthrough (as opposed to a breakdown). No, to find a lasting, stable, and equanimous peacefulness, you have to practice. Twenty minutes at least, to activate the parasympathetic branch of your autonomic nervous system. Or, more simply, to get out of your persistently heightened, habitual mode of “fight or flight”, and into a state of deep, healing relaxation.

In one sense it’s a nebulous state, in that it’s hard to define because it’s not a “thing” – it’s a “way” of being. But in another sense it’s very clear. It’s clarity itself. A relaxed alertness. A state of readiness, focus, calmness and adaptability. It’s acceptance and responsiveness. Responding to what is actually here, and not to what you think is here, or what you’d like to be here. In Zen traditions there is a metaphor of the mind like a mirror. The mind reflects whatever is before it, without adding distorting lenses of desire, aversion, or judgement. Without layering in the delusions of self. Nothing mysterious, esoteric, or divine. Very mundane, in fact, but utterly liberating.

In truth, there is no “self” that perceives. There is only perception itself. Of course, there is an exchange through our senses; and there is awareness, which experiences our perceptions. But they are not our perceptions. It is not our awareness. It is what is – only thus. The ongoing self is a construct, a narrative we create to make sense of things. And all too often it leads us astray. Only when we achieve certain states of flow, or of profound meditation, do we experience life as it really is. And that is when we drop the we, drop the me. So long as “I” am experiencing “that”, I am deluded. I have imposed a false relationship of subject and object on to reality. The whole concept of self is just that – a concept. It is irrelevant. An illusion. Reality is just… this, here and now. It is ineffable. So words fail.

Okay. So we have grounded ourselves in our bodies. We have found a more efficient and beneficial way of organising our posture and our movement. We have paid attention to how we are moving, breathing, and speaking. To how we eat, sleep, rest, and exercise. We’ve slowed down, we’ve looked inwards, and we’ve established a practice of silent sitting or mindful movement to start wearing a new groove in our habitual minds – one which helps to facilitate this nebulous state of clarity, and to make it more familiar to us. What now?

It’s time to work on our interactivity. It’s time to start moving outwards. Maintain that inner peace, that internal attentiveness, and move gently outwards. How do you respond to stimuli? Are you in control of that response? Think back to the last time you saw someone get angry in traffic. Maybe it was you. They cut you up, and before you know it you respond. Did you choose your anger, or did it choose you? What are you angry at, anyway? First, you’re frustrated, because you need to be somewhere. Second, that person is an idiot. They don’t know how to drive. They’re careless. They’re not paying attention. They’re selfish. Now, look again. But drop your self. Drop their self. And drop your knowing.

You came into this world unknowing, you’ll go out unknowing. Why now do you act as though you know something? You cannot know the intricacies of the situation. Whatever led them to behave in that way was a series of conditions and causes over which they have little or no control. Maybe they have poor motor control or poor spatial awareness. Maybe they’re stressed out, preoccupied, upset. Maybe they’ve had a really shit day. Maybe they need to be somewhere. You don’t know. You just don’t know. When you open your mind to a wider perspective, to more possibilities, and empty a situation of intrinsic self-nature, suddenly there is no problem. You simply respond to the situation. You act appropriately. You yield, or you claim your space, but there is no need for anger or judgement. Because, well, your judgement is probably wrong, anyway. We have to maintain a certain emptiness of mind, a certain mental distance, and comprehend that a situation emerges from whatever preceded and formed it.

Suddenly, we find ourselves in a very different mindset. We are patient and forgiving. We feel sorry that this person is suffering right now, in their closed-down, selfish mindset. We see them as a human being, with a life beyond this unfortunate moment. We wish we could help. We are thankful for the insight they have provided us. That anger you’re feeling – it’s impotent, futile. If it arises, just examine it closely and it will recede. It’s not something of solidity; it’s just a neurochemical process. You don’t need to express it, or suppress it. You certainly don’t need to feel guilty, or feel like you’ve failed. You’re human, too. Be kind to yourself. Lead yourself gently in the direction you wish to go. There’s no use in berating yourself; just be patient and forgiving, and get back on course. Examine the situation. You’re empty, too. Just a product of causes and conditions. Intervene with this understanding, and harmful emotions, like this uncontrolled and unconscious anger, will naturally subside.

Understanding is a valuable tool. It’s useful to spend some time contemplating the interconnectedness of things. How everything is entwined and, in a sense, part of one abiding whole. The whole goes on, but it is in a state of permanent flux. We talk of impermanence, and we think of something distinct that lasts for a while and then changes into something else. But the reality of impermanence is more profound than that. Nothing stays the same for even a moment. Everything is constantly changing, so nothing can really be said to ever exist in its own right. Nothing exists by itself. Everything is in flow. Nothing can be held on to. Yet one of our greatest mistakes is to try to hold on. To ourselves, to others. To the things and people we love. To things we want to stay the same. But when we isolate things like that, when we try to separate them out and keep them the way they are, we kill them. And we ourselves inevitably suffer, because our attempts are doomed to failure. They contradict truth. They contravene the natural way.

This is another way to comprehend the non-existence of self. Where is your abiding self, if all is change, if all is flow? This is very much a central tenet of Buddhism, and Daoism too. The Daoist Yin Yang symbol represents this flow. Everything is interdependent, constantly transforming in an endless dance of consumption and creation. Yes, we exist. Things exist. But they, and we, are a construct of mind. What we perceive is merely appearance, and to directly perceive the reality behind this illusion is liberation, bliss, and fearlessness. This isn’t an intellectual understanding. You can’t arrive at it through reading these words. They might seem quite mad. No, it is a direct experience, through which all concepts – even death – just fall away like dust. But if we have this intellectual understanding as our framework, it certainly helps us to find the path.

Still, we did not set out here to become enlightened sages. We just want to live a little more skilfully. But there are more religious practices we can steal to help realise our goal. One is giving. Generosity. That means giving yourself, not material things. Being open and honest. Giving people your full attention. Giving yourself fully, without holding back or expecting something in return. Giving selflessly. (Can you see the theme here?) In fact, it doesn’t just apply to other people. Whatever you’re doing, give yourself fully to it. Immerse yourself in it. Forget yourself. A few ideas begin to melt together here: immersion, flow states, attentiveness, generosity… they’re all ways of getting at the same mind-state, just from slightly different angles. We’re looking into the same house through different windows.

What else, then? Gratitude. Most religions have some kind of gratitude practice. Thanksgiving. Meditation techniques that focus on vividly recalling the somatic feeling of gratitude. Current research even suggests that we don’t even have to contemplate our own gratitude. Just witnessing or reading about somebody else’s gratitude can be equally beneficial. The point is not the specific expression of gratitude, but the neurological change it induces within us. Both generosity and gratitude engender a certain kind of brain function, and even heart function, that contributes to our health and wellbeing. Inflammation and anxiety are reduced. We produce more serotonin and more oxytocin, and so we inhabit a mind and personal reality that is both more content and more empathic. More connected. More at ease. Less anxious, less serious. More playful and humorous. Humour, too, of course, is a powerful tool for internal change. So please don’t take all of this too earnestly. Be humble and acknowledge your own ignorance and absurdity. Laugh at yourself as much as possible. You can be a master of your own brain chemistry. And your nervous system and internal organs will thank you for it.

But wait! There is an enemy lurking out there, or rather in there, that we have yet to consider. He goes by the name of Laziness. Procrastination. Stubbornness. He’s cunning. He’s devious. He urges you to return to your old habits. Your old thought patterns. Your old behaviours – the ones that got you into this mess in the first place. He wants you to go back to sleep. How can we fight him? The answer is, on multiple fronts. And fighting – in the outward expression of martial arts – may be one ideal approach. Anything that brings us to life, that brings us to this moment. Not intellectually, but physically. Our bodies are always here, but our minds rarely join in. They’re off somewhere else, wandering. We have to shake ourselves awake. We have to climb out of our holes and subject ourselves to some level of healthy, that is, non-chronic, stress. We need to raise our levels of alertness and focus, incite some adrenaline release, some sense of managed urgency – just not a neurotic urgency. It needs to be contained. We need to be skilful. In this way we can stimulate our minds to change, to reconnect our neural pathways, fill in those habitual unconscious ditches, those mindless neural loops, and dig some new ones, some channels that actually serve us.

How else can we get our fires blazing? We can ponder transience. The preciousness of time. Not to induce in ourselves a kind of manic activity – that would be counter-productive. But we need to realise with no uncertainty that time wasted is gone forever. Project yourself forwards in time. Tomorrow, next year, in a decade, at the end of your life. What have you achieved? What have you to regret? Death is our greatest blind spot. We carry on as if it isn’t going to happen. But it’s here right now. Each moment is death, and each moment is creation. Each instant is a celebration of Shiva, the Creator and the Destroyer. We die and are reborn with every breath. We presume, generally, that death is something dark and scary, something to be feared. The Grim Reaper. But that’s just pessimistic guesswork. Maybe death will be the best thing that ever happened to you? A release. A return. An immersion in something greater. In Chinese medical philosophy, the immortal spirit is a very real thing. A highly refined state of material reality. It can be touched. It can be worked with. But, whatever your beliefs, a little consideration of your own mortality is a great motivator. And here we are, back at the notion of impermanence.

Now, again to attention. One great weapon against laziness is your ability to maintain conscious awareness, and not to slip into unconscious behaviours. You have to live in witness to yourself. Know yourself. Wake up. Compulsiveness is a symptom of inattentiveness. Suddenly a cigarette has appeared in your hand! How did it get there? You weren’t paying attention. Those words popped out of your mouth, unintended. You just lost the last hour to scrolling through rubbish. You were acting habitually, unconsciously. What you need is a kind of Dojo mindset. Alert, but calm – not agitated. Calm, but alert – not docile. You’re not in danger on the Aikido mat. No need for fear or stress. Your partner is not out to kill you. They are looking after you. But you have to be fully engaged, fully present. Take the mat with you into your daily life. Give yourself entirely to the moment. Give yourself. Generosity. There we go again. It’s almost as if these ideas are connected somehow…

If we can keep good posture, too, be upright, open, and engaged, and conserve our energy, then our motivation will be stronger. We will be more active, more Yang. It is exhaustion and indifference that makes us say, “I’ll get to that later. I’ll put it on my To Do list.” Hey! Burn that To Do list. If it’s a priority, do it now! And if it’s not a priority, be skilful in your approach. Write it on your calendar and do it when it needs doing. But that list is just you lying to yourself. And making yourself feel bad when it only ever gets longer. Of course, it’s good to have intention. It starts with intention. But if your vision stops there, and gets relegated to the To Do list, then it’s as good as dead. When the intention is stirred, you need to act. Enact it. Realise it. Then bask in the dopamine release afterwards. That’s better than regret and hopelessness, isn’t it? Just do it. (No, I’m not trying to sell you trainers.)

The more you practice this kind of discipline, the easier self-discipline gets. It becomes a habit. Once again, it’s about ploughing furrows that lead towards your goal. Towards good, conscious habits, instead of destructive, unconscious ones. And the momentum will build. Everything will snowball if you can establish good, consistent routines. Meditate. Find some hypnotic movement practice like Yoga, Qi Gong, or Taiji. Eat mindfully, breathe mindfully, and infuse your body with awareness. Get sufficient, deep, restorative sleep, and find periods of high arousal and focus. Yin and Yang, interchanging. Nourish your will and your intent. Balance exercise with rest. Foster good qualities – generosity, gratitude, playfulness, humility, selflessness. Observe your speech, and contemplate emptiness, impermanence, and interdependence to broaden your acceptance and deepen your understanding. If you make excuses, leave it until tomorrow, decide you’re not in the right mood, or you have something more important to do, then your routines will collapse, and you will get precisely nowhere. Nowhere except frustration and defeat.

Make small steps. Be realistic. Be skilful. But keep going. You have to engage with the process. A process of neuroplastic evolution. Of self-realisation. And like any process, it’s hard to get moving. We have to overcome inertia. But once we build momentum, it becomes a joyful thing. Tending skilfully to your own seed becomes an artistic project, an endeavour of boundless depth and expanse. It gives us meaning. Living skilfully doesn’t just facilitate meaning in our lives; it is meaning. It makes every waking moment a creative act, an expressive act, a conscious act. And if we keep watering this seed and giving it our attention, it will grow into a beautiful expression of life. Of our lives.

We’re not looking to find balance here, or at least, it’s not a static balance. It’s a dynamic interplay, in synchrony with the flow of reality. We have to be fluid and present. Flowing with the changes. We need to throw out our rules, our morals, our self-narrative, and our fixed positions. We have to be constantly changing and adjusting. Oh, and sometimes we need to be fixed. Like I say, there are no rules here. We have to be like water, as Bruce Lee said. Be relentless. Be torrential. Be still. Be nourishing. Be gentle. Be soft. Be violent. Be yielding. Be shapeless. Seep through the cracks. Pour from the heavens. Whatever is appropriate. Whatever is required.

This is the way of plasticity.

This is Dao.

The Great Unlearning (of how to live)

Allergic to stress?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Won’t somebody please think of the children?

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

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

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

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

Solutions in stillness

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

Slow.

Down.

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

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

Slow down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moving solutions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Give it a rest

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

Then we dither and delay.

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

And then we collapse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let.

Go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Internal Concepts

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

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

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

Frame

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

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

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

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

Chen

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

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

Dantian

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

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

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

Ting

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

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

Li

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

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.

Qi

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).