Work on your biceps and, after a while, you’ll be able to show off your muscles with pride. Cycle against the wind every day – or get yourself an exercise bike – and before long the circumference of your thighs will have increased considerably. What you get is what you see. Carrying out such targeted physical activities is only possible when a connection can be made with the muscle or muscles in question. Trivial, I hear you say.

A breakthrough moment in my understanding of physicality occurred during a train journey between Haarlem and Leiden. Looking out of the window, I suddenly became aware – probably due to a change in the light – of my face reflected in the glass. Suddenly, I understood the location, and thus the function, of the tiny muscles that enable me to move my ears. Despite countless attempts, I had never before managed to make them move even the slightest bit. I had, in effect, resigned myself to the fact that this lay beyond my physical capabilities. The muscles required were certainly rudimentary and evolutionarily superfluous and had disappeared. But now it turned out that they were indeed physically present; it was simply their use that had fallen into oblivion.

Muscles that are visible and can be touched can usually be brought to the forefront of one’s awareness with relative ease, and thus activated or relaxed as desired. When you put muscles to work, they provide sensory feedback; they become warm and, after a while, tired, and you may experience some muscle soreness the following day. All these sensations bring the muscle or muscles into even sharper focus, which further unlocks their potential.

Not only in the practice of sport but also in sports education and the study of anatomy, the ability to sense, see and touch muscles and other parts of the body are key factors. However, body awareness is not distributed evenly across the body. This has biological, cultural and social causes and is specific to each individual. The head is usually much better known than the feet. The front of the body is often more familiar territory than the back. And what lies on the surface is generally easier to grasp than what lies deeper.

The Chinese character 胯 ‘kua’ can be translated as ‘hip’, but also as ‘crotch’ or ‘groin’. We experience the hip, in all its complexity, on the outside of the body. Perhaps it is more accurate to say that the ‘function of the hip’ is located on the outside and, in that sense, is tangible and visible. The hip is by far the largest of the joints in the human body. It marks the transition between the torso and the legs, and its stability and mobility are crucial to our overall health. There does not seem to be too much misunderstanding about its ‘how’, ‘what’ and ‘where’.

How different is the situation with ‘crotch’ and ‘groin’? They lack the solid, concrete quality of the ‘hip’. They seem rather to denote negative space – folds rather than bulges. More the absence of anatomical mass than its presence. The groin, crotch and perineum are therefore less straightforward to explain in anatomy and sports education. Add to this their association with vulnerability, shame and sexuality, and it is clear that they do not feature prominently in such contexts.

Within chi kung and the internal martial arts, the ‘kua’ – meaning the groin, crotch, perineum and ‘open, negative space’ – plays a crucial role. If gravity is to reach the ground freely whilst standing, it must pass through the ‘kua’ . If not, the body becomes top-heavy and lacks grounding. This applies equally to the reaction force directed straight upwards: if it encounters too much resistance in the ‘kua’, the body lacks lightness and space.

When the body is in motion, the ‘kua’ plays a similar role in the forces of downward push-off and upward jumping.

The ‘opening and closing of the kua’ is an essential aspect of practice and cultivation for every chi kung and tai chi practitioner. The better one masters this, the more the body moves as one.

Do not view the ‘kua’ in isolation from the rest of the body, or even separately from the body’s surroundings.

The feet push off against the ground, after which the forces generated pass through successive parts of the body: starting at the ball of the big toe, then the medial arch of the foot, the talus, the inner ankle, the medial tibia, the medial thigh, the ‘kua’ and on through the torso and upper body. The source of the upward-directed force and movement lies at the ball of the big toe, which is surrounded by three important energy points: 湧泉 ‘yong chuan’, 太沖 ‘tai chong’ and 太白 ‘tai bai’.

Each of these three points lies on a meridian that follows a specific path of force and movement. In much the same way as a riverbed determines the course of the water. These three meridians are located on the inner side of the legs and channel the forces reflected by the ground. There are two reasons why they are referred to as ‘yin meridians’.

Starting with the practice of the wu chi posture and continuing with all the basic and applied zhan zhuang postures, special attention is paid to grounding the body via the ball of the big toe. The alignment of the big toe, the space between the big toe and the second toe, the horizontal spread of the toes, and the correct distribution of pressure between the heel and the forefoot are all important in this regard. This same grounding carries through into all shi li and zhou bu movements.

Vanaf ‘yong chuan’, ‘tai chong’ en ‘tai bai’ verlopen de krachten volgens de drie min of meer parallelle geleidingsbanen over onder- en bovenbeen en convergeren in het perineum. Heel specifiek, in 會陰 ‘hui yin’, het centrale punt van het perineum. De naam betekent ‘yin convergentie’ of ‘yin samenkomst’.

A second convergence point of the three yin meridians is found in the centre of the groin: 氣沖 ‘chi chong’. ‘Chi’ 氣 means ‘energy’, the same character as in 氣功 ‘chi kung’. ‘Chong’ 沖 is translated into English as ‘flush’. So: ‘chi chong’, ‘flushing chi’, ‘the flow of energy’. Just as a dammed river finds its way through an open sluice. Just as the water accelerates when the river is forced through a canyon. And yes, just like flushing a toilet and rainwater thundering down a drainpipe during a downpour.

Bending and stretching the hip of a body that is floating is pointless. It will not result in a jump or any other movement in space. Opening and closing the ‘kua’ only have meaning in conjunction with the grounding of the foot. The ‘kua’ and the dynamics around the ball of the big toe are both part of a single energetic phenomenon.

‘Tai chong’, translated as ‘greater flushing’, is located between the metatarsal bones of the big toe and the second toe, in the centre of the adductor hallucis muscle. This muscle brings the big toe closer to the second toe. Chronic tension in the adductor muscle of the big toe, combined with footwear that is too narrow, leads to hallux valgus. This significantly disrupts the foot’s grounding and the efficiency of movement.

The antagonist of the adductor hallucis is the abductor hallucis muscle. This is situated on the medial side of the big toe, and ‘tai bai’ is located along its course. The adductor hallucis can cause the big toe to move inwards, away from the second toe. The balance between ‘tai chong’ and ‘tai bai’, in other words between the adductor and the abductor hallucis, helps determine the alignment of the big toe and, consequently, the natural functioning of the ‘kua’.

A piece of elastic stretched lengthways simultaneously becomes narrower across its width. When the stretch is released, both the length and width return to their original state. This is the principle behind the stretching exercise with which the Ba Duan Jin series begins. The entire length of the body’s elastic band between the two ends – in this case, the palms of the hands and the soles of the feet – is stretched. The waist, exactly halfway along the elastic band, consequently becomes narrower.

So the waist gets narrower? That doesn’t seem like an unnecessary luxury in the case of the model pictured above. Or is his round belly actually a sign of being able to let go of the area that many of us are constantly holding in?

The first sequence of the Ba Duan Jin is known as Two Hands Supporting the Heaven and Regulating the San Jiao (雙手托天理三焦, shuāng shǒu tuó tiān lǐ sān jiāo). Huh? That calls for an explanation, which will certainly be provided in one of the following posts. For now: an exercise that looks so simple deserves a short, straightforward name. Support the Heavens.

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The search for the origins of Ba Duan Jin takes us back to the Southern Song dynasty and General Yu Fei. Nine hundred years have passed since then, and most traces linking the modern-day practice to that of Yu Fei’s troops have been lost. Similar to transference in an oral storytelling culture, the exercises were recounted and passed down from generation to generation. Written sources are scarce, and in the reconstruction of the history of Ba Duan Jin, fact and legend are undoubtedly intertwined.

General Yu Fei must also have had predecessors. It is inevitable that he based his Ba Duan Jin – and Hsing I Chuan – on older sources.

During the construction of a hospital in 1971 in a suburb of Changsha, the capital of Hunan province in China, workers stumbled upon what would later become one of the most significant archaeological discoveries ever. The site was known as Ma Wang Dui, the ‘Mount of the Horse King’ (馬 ma – horse, 王 wang – king, 堆 dui – mount). Did the name of the hill refer to its saddle-like shape? Or did it refer to King Ma Yin (馬殷) of the Kingdom of Chu (楚)? However, the Horse King was also a deity in the Chinese pantheon: was the hill perhaps dedicated to him?

Three tombs dating from the Han dynasty were discovered. The first belonged to Marquis Li Cang (利蒼), who had died in 186 BC, but this tomb had been plundered at some point in history. A second tomb, however, had never been entered and contained a wealth of the most exquisite artefacts. It had belonged to Li Cang’s wife, Xin Zhui (辛追), the Marquise of Dai. Her body was completely intact and lay in four nested coffins.

The third tomb had belonged to a man who had died at a young age. He was probably the son of the marquis and the marchioness. The most significant find in this tomb consisted of a variety of texts – written on silk, wood and bamboo – including the oldest known versions of the I Ching, the Book of Changes, and the Tao Te Ching. The discovery of these texts was to give a significant boost to our understanding of classical Chinese thought.

A painting on silk was also found in the younger man’s tomb, depicting some forty-four figures performing exercises. This painting later became known as Dao Yin Tu.

Dao Yin (導引) is a generic term for a wide variety of traditional exercises designed to improve and maintain health. The meaning of ‘dao’ (導) is ‘to guide’, and that of ‘yin’ (引) is ‘to stretch or pull’. Through a combination of techniques that stretch the meridians and guide the chi, the circulation of chi is stimulated, thereby promoting good health.

‘Tu’ means ‘image’ or ‘map’.

Significant sections of the Dao Yin Tu had been lost, and a group of specialists from various disciplines spent a long time considering how the whole work might be reconstructed. The Dao Yin Tu contains hardly any text, so that provided little guidance. Furthermore, whilst each illustration is a snapshot of a moving sequence, it is equally possible that each figure depicts a static posture. The final reconstruction of the Dao Yin Tu is nonetheless beautiful.

On closer inspection of the forty-four figures, a number of things immediately catch the eye.

The Dao Yin Tu depicts both men and women.

Some figures are barefoot, whilst most are elegantly shod.

Some wear a tunic –– common amongst the Han Chinese –– whilst others wear trousers –– in vogue amongst the northern horse-riding peoples.

Were the people depicted on the Dao Yin Tu soldiers or acrobats, farmers or civilians?

Some of the figures are bare-chested and appear to be doing breathing exercises. A few others are practising with a stick.

And does the Dao Yin Tu depict moving exercises or standing postures?

Some of the movements bear a striking resemblance to elements of the Ba Duan Jin. The Dao Yin Tu dates from 200–150 BC, and according to historical records, the Ba Duan Jin is said to have taken its present form only around 1100 AD and to be attributed to General Yu Fei. It is possible that Yu Fei may have had access to writings in which the Ba Duan Jin essentials were described. Another possibility is that the Ba Duan Jin had been a living tradition for over a millennium, passed down from practitioner to practitioner.

It is still early in the morning. In the distance, the sound of a locomotive building up steam. After the oppressive heat of late summer, it has suddenly cooled down. The smell of mist, coal and musty jute sacks.

I don’t have to go looking for my black Fei He Flying Pigeon bike – I used to park it every afternoon or evening in the spot I’d agreed on with myself. Finding this bike, carelessly parked amongst masses of other identical black Fei He bikes, is impossible. That’s what I discovered a few months ago, when I’d just arrived in Hangzhou.

My bag in the front basket, bike unlocked, and off I go. There aren’t too many cars about; all the more reason for people to be honking their horns. Later, back in the Netherlands, the sound of even a solitary horn will instantly transport me back here. To the blast of a locomotive, the smell of mist, a whiff of musty jute sacks, the acrid smell of coal fumes, and cycling.

I join the stream of silent cyclists. First, a stretch along the wide Huang Cheng Xi Lu, 黃城西路, the ring road. Like in many old towns, this was built on the site of the former city walls. Then I turn right, onto the street that runs alongside the lake.

There are a few small restaurants and modest shops where the staff set out their wares on the pavement early in the morning. Right by the roadside, on the pavement, a number of bicycle repairmen are already sitting, waiting for customers. A box of tools and a few spare parts, a standing bicycle pump. That’s all there is to it, but it’s enough to fix the common bicycle mishaps. The fog here is breaking up into patches, through which a watery sun peeks out.

The road follows the northern shore of Xi Hu, the famous West Lake. I cycle along this road every working day of the week to get to a small training centre on the grounds of the old Ling Yin Temple. Luo Zhen is in charge there, and I’ve been training under him for the past few months. I stop for a break halfway through the ride.

An entrance gate, a ticket office, and a small bus park. Every day I pass by here, there are groups of Chinese visitors. They come to see the tomb and memorial of one of the country’s historic national heroes, General Yu Fei. Could you compare him to Michiel de Ruyter or Horatio Nelson? Throughout the centuries, Yu Fei has been a model of integrity for all Chinese people. He is patriotism personified.

Yu Fei was born in 1103, during the Northern Song dynasty. It was a time of political unrest. From the north, the fierce Jurchen horsemen were invading the country. Eventually, the imperial court was forced to retreat to the south of the empire. Hangzhou became their capital, and the dynasty was henceforth known as the ‘Southern Song’.

A young Yu Fei enlists in the army and quickly rises through the ranks. As a commander, he leads campaigns against the Jurchen, who have established their Jin dynasty in the north.

Yu Fei is successful in defending the fatherland, but not everyone at the court in Hangzhou is pleased about this. There is envy, and a conspiracy is hatched against him. Once recalled to Hangzhou, he is accused of high treason, imprisoned and ultimately put to death.

His rehabilitation was not long in coming. A temple was erected in his memory on the northern shore of Xi Hu.

After the north, the south eventually fell too. The Southern Song dynasty was overrun by yet another nomadic people, the Mongols. Under the leadership of Kublai Khan, a grandson of Genghis Khan, China was reunited, albeit under foreign rule.

Hangzhou is no longer the capital. That honour now falls to Khanbaliq, which we now know as Beijing. Hangzhou remains an important cultural centre, and during the reign of Kublai Khan, the city is visited by a remarkable guest.

Yu Fei is not only remembered as one of the most capable generals in Chinese history. He is also regarded as the founder of Hsing I Chuan or Xing Yi Quan. This is considered one of the three Chinese internal martial traditions, alongside Tai Chi Chuan and Ba Gua Zhang. Yu Fei is said to have developed Hsing I Chuan from various sources. As is often the case in history, all manner of things are not always rightly attributed to prominent historical figures and heroes. It is therefore a matter of debate whether the Hsing I Chuan tradition actually began with Yu Fei.

Martial traditions were generally passed down without being recorded in writing. Knowledge and experience were transmitted only within the clan or family or, in exceptional cases, to a trusted confidant who had, over a long period, proven themselves worthy of receiving that knowledge. Recording techniques and insights on paper would inevitably have led to the leakage of vital information. The transmission took place in a practical and physical manner and was based on ingraining movement patterns through repetition. A theoretical foundation was, in fact, not an issue – or perhaps better put – the theory was interwoven with physical practice.

We must also realise that the circles in which the various martial arts were practised were, as a rule, illiterate. Only a small elite within Chinese society was literate, and the majority of the military profession did not belong to this group.

During the 19th century, there was a growing recognition in China that martial disciplines constituted an essential part of the country’s cultural heritage. Doctors recognised that, in an adapted form, these disciplines could play a role in preventive medicine. Political philosophers and activists saw their potential for education, for fostering discipline and for strengthening national consciousness. The techniques and history of a number of martial disciplines were now viewed, researched and described in a new light. Despite this, many gaps remained in our understanding of their origins and the lines of transmission. Legend and reality are often difficult to distinguish from one another.

A central training posture in Hsing I Chuan, the san ti shi — the triangular stance — may well have originated in the use of the lance in Yu Fei’s infantry. Over the centuries, the ‘open’ san ti-stance evolved into the more ‘closed’ chen bao zhuang.

So let us assume that General Yu Fei was indeed the founder of Hsing I Chuan. For several centuries, there is no mention of it, and it appears to have been lost. It was not until around the transition from the Ming to the Qing dynasty that a certain Master Ji Ji-Ke, also known as Ji Long-Feng, discovered a training manual by General Yu Fei and gave Hsing I Chuan its current form. The style spread, and one of the custodians of the tradition in the 19th century was Guo Yun-Shen. His pupil was Wang Xiang-Zhai, and it was with him that the I Chuan tradition began, with its range of standing training postures. According to this lineage, there is therefore a direct connection between Yu Fei and the practice of standing chi kung today.

Another tradition associated with Yu Fei is the Ba Duan Jin, the Eight Brocade Exercises. He is said to have devised this series of exercises and used them to enhance the physical and mental resilience of his soldiers. The exact form in which the Ba Duan Jin was practised in Yu Fei’s time has been lost in the mists of time. Between the Song-Dynasty at the beginning of the 12th century and the present day, the Ba Duan Jin has been widely emulated and has evolved into countless variations.

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wu chi posture

no1. Two Hands Hold up the Heavens

no2. Drawing the Bow to Shoot the Eagle, variation

no 3. Separate Heaven and Earth

no 4. Wise Owl Gazes Backwards or Look Back

no 5. Sway the Head and Shake the Tail

no 6. Two Hands Hold the Feet to Strengthen the Kidneys and Waist

no 7. Clench the Fists and Glare Fiercely

no 8. Bouncing on the Toes

wu chi posture

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What do you see? A dog in the woods. The dog leaves. The woods remain.

The previous post ended with:

The grass is growing through the paving slabs. 1. There are simply paving slabs and gravel there. 2. The grass is growing annoyingly through them. Chronologically, however, the situation is different. 1. Originally, there was a great deal of grass and dandelions; there were meadows, large grassy plains, and, further back in time, peat bogs. 2. Then, a single tile was laid there for the first time, and gradually more and more, until the entire landscape was covered with tiles, gravel and asphalt. Now, only a tiny fragment of it remains visible. A small fragment of the original landscape. A single tuft of grass and a dandelion as its last remaining representatives. That is what you see in the photo on the right.

The two birds have found a splendid vantage point. They flew in, settled down, and have now been sitting high and dry for a while, looking around, before continuing on their way shortly. They will leave, but the trees—of which you can only see the tops—will remain standing. And tomorrow too, as well as throughout the coming year. They will outlive both birds and offer generations of offspring the same excellent resting place. What do you see in the photo? The transience of the birds’ rest or the eternal presence of the greenery?

Yes, and where do you start? Do you look at the cow first? Or perhaps the fallen willow? You can still feel the force of the storm and hear the roots snapping and the wood splintering. Even now that the tree lies there, defeated, the action continues to echo and reverberate. And the cow? It stands there, watching, completely still. This photo illustrates the ‘plant blindness’ dilemma.

A little blackcap. A green bush. One comes and goes. The other stays.

The literal translation of ‘zhan zhuang’ is ‘standing pole’. What inspiration can you draw from following the example of a pole hammered into the ground? Some authors point out that in the distant past, in certain Buddhist monasteries, monks performed standing chi kung training on top of a sawn-off tree stump for a greater challenge in terms of balance and alertness. Zhan zhuang might, in that light, be better translated as ‘standing on a pole’.

I am unaware of any historical sources that directly link zhan zhuang to the life of trees. Sifu Lam Kam-Chuen popularised zhan zhuang as ‘standing like a tree’ through his lessons and books. Professor Jiao Guo-Rui, who taught in Germany for many years, labelled the wu chi posture as ‘Stehen wie ein Kiefer’, ‘standing like a pine’. What do you think of a perfectly straight Douglas fir as a role model? A worthy totem for the practitioner of the wu-chi posture!

Or did Jiao Guo-Rui have a more robust pine in mind when he used the phrase ‘Stehen wie ein Kiefer’, stand like a pine?

I would suggest choosing your own favourite tree as a model for your zhan zhuang practice. Incidentally, it is high time we cured ourselves of plant blindness. And swapped the hackneyed martial animal totems – bear, lion and eagle – for totems associated with spruce, pine and beech.

Plants are bound to the location where they first sprouted. Unable to dodge, run or flee, they have no choice but to resolve any difficulties that arise right where they stand. Plants have developed an endless array of self-defence mechanisms. Often without any outward signs of anything unusual, they use great creativity to fend off aggressive rodents and grazers: bark, spines, thorns, scent, poison and intoxication. Our science has investigated and documented only a fraction of plant warfare and seduction techniques. Who said that plants just stand there defenceless and know nothing of martial arts?

You might wonder why plants are so rarely found in martial heraldry. Razor-sharp glass daggers that shatter upon impact, releasing an irritating acid. How is that peaceful and green?

Perhaps it would be a good idea to adopt the stinging nettle as a martial totem?

Plants with sci-fi weaponry?

Plants with selective defences.

Treating plants with chemical pesticides

This intense bitterness is lethal to microorganisms and is therefore a vital medicine for us.

What can bring us close to the chemical world of plants is navigating and orienting ourselves through our sense of smell. Just like plants, we live in a world of scent, although for most of us this is a neglected – and washed-away – reality. Scents are immediate, instinctive, and relentless and awaken memories. A large part of the sea of scent in which we live is of plant origin. A dizzying palette. When a plant cannot bridge a distance because of its roots, there is always the wind. It carries the plant’s scents far away and brings the scents of others to it. The lack of a nose in no way prevents the plant from perceiving scent.

Alongside the development of martial skills, the practitioner explores the paths to health and the art of longevity. And who better to turn to for inspiration? By the time a healthy oak or beech tree reaches adolescence, the vast majority of animals are already elderly or have passed away. The lifespan of most animals pales in comparison to that of many plants.

It is a true miracle that a starfish can grow a new arm after losing one. Doesn’t that seem rather handy? Yet any ordinary tree loses branches throughout its life, and within a short time they are all replaced by new ones. Whereas an animal’s vital functions are concentrated in specific organs, a plant is built in a modular way. All parts are replaceable and renewable. Even if a storm or a fire has destroyed the above-ground part of the tree, the hidden root system is often still very much alive. And look, so soon after the devastating fire, new greenery is already appearing again.

In Utah, USA, grows Pando. Pando is not a single tree but a forest of over 40 hectares of quaking aspen. All 40,000 trunks share the same root system, and whilst individual trunks are born and die, Pando as a whole is ancient, dating back 14,000 years. Isn’t that a fascinating example of regenerative power?

Halfway through your daily walk in the woods, you suddenly hear a strange whistling sound. Then it goes quiet, but you hear it again. You look around to see where the sound is coming from. The dense foliage blocks your view. There it is again. Where the woods give way to a single row of trees along the path, the view is clearer. And now you see it: the hissing sound is coming from the burner beneath a large yellow hot-air balloon. What a sight, as tall as a house! You take a photo; you can show it at home later this evening as evidence to back up a good story.

But what can you actually see in that photo? A yellow hot-air balloon? Or perhaps lots of green plants, bushes and trees? Yes, the latter is certainly true. There is far more green than yellow to be seen in the photo. A single balloon versus a large number of plants of a wide variety of species. Moreover, the balloon is in the background of the photo, and many of the plants – certainly the two oaks – are in the foreground. Yet, when you tell the story in the evening, it will undoubtedly be all about that yellow contraption. The greenery merely makes an appearance; it forms the backdrop, the wallpaper.

An hour after you took the photo, the balloon took off. Perhaps you saw it drifting off into the distance later on and heard the sound of the burner a few more times, each time from further away.

The trees and plants, on the other hand, remained where they were. An hour after take-off, and even now – you can safely assume – they are still there. If something doesn’t move, it apparently goes unnoticed and gives little cause for a story. Of all the walks you took in the woods, you can recall that one specific occasion when you saw the balloon. The memory of the trees and the forest, however – which you encountered on every walk – has faded into a gentle background melody. Pleasant, certainly – the proximity of the greenery is, after all, the main reason for your walks – but within the fabric of your memory, it is white noise.

The ‘No Entry’ sign catches the eye. You show this photo to someone and ask, 'What do you see?’ Two rows of pedunculate oaks, blackberries and ground elder; overhanging branches, a home and food source for countless insects and birds; the contrast between the light in the open field and the shade beneath the trees? No, the answer undoubtedly relates solely to the traffic sign. Unlike the hot-air balloon in the previous photo, it doesn’t move; it is just as rooted to the spot as the greenery around it. So that doesn’t make the difference. Perhaps the person you asked will notice that the sign is screwed onto a post found on the spot. A twisted, broken-off branch from one of the oaks. But then again, there are so many of those lying about in the woods, and they don’t stand out at all. At least not until a red-bordered traffic sign is attached to it and stuck upright in the ground.

The phenomenon whereby the plant world does not seem to make much of an impression on our consciousness is known as ‘plant blindness’. For our distant ancestors, who lived in the wild, greenery was not a threat. At least not to the same extent as many of the animals they might encounter in the forest. Greenery does not bite, does not spring from ambush and does not chase. Greenery represented the neutrality of shelter, and it still does so for us. Greenery does not impose itself, as red tends to do. The red border around the ‘no entry’ sign and the red-chequered level crossing with red warning lights in the photo below stand out and occupy your mind.

Life requires the exchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide. This phenomenon is found in both animals and plants, and the two mechanisms complement one another. What one gives, the other takes. What one exhales, the other inhales deeply. Haemoglobin and chlorophyll, central to the oxygen-carbon dioxide cycle in animals and plants, respectively, although very different in function, have a similar chemical structure. The former is built around an iron core, the latter around a magnesium one. Animals derive their characteristic red colour from the former, whilst the latter makes plants green.

The grass is growing through the paving slabs. 1. There are simply paving slabs and gravel there. 2. The grass is growing annoyingly through them. Chronologically, however, the situation is different. 1. Originally, there was a great deal of grass and dandelions; there were meadows, large grassy plains, and, further back in time, peat bogs. 2. Then, a single tile was laid there for the first time, and gradually more and more, until the entire landscape was covered with tiles, gravel and asphalt. Now, only a tiny fragment of it remains visible. A small fragment of the original landscape. A single tuft of grass and a dandelion as its last remaining representatives. That is what you see in the photo above.

It doesn’t take much for us to recognise ourselves in an animal. Just like us: two eyes and two ears, and a mouth that wants to bite and chew. Arms and legs, paws, wings, fins: a continuous evolutionary kinship. And then there’s that remarkable shared animal restlessness. We, as animals, are always on the move. When danger approaches, we run away. If we smell a tasty morsel or a fragrant fellow creature, we sneak closer. The solution to both obtaining what is lacking and avoiding what is irritating, uncomfortable and threatening lies in our movements through space. If you cannot find what you are looking for here, you go there. And if you encounter something there that does not suit you, you move on again to somewhere else. This relentless restlessness marks the kinship between us humans and other animals.

How different plants are. Rooted in the spot where they once sprouted as seeds, they cannot escape or gain an advantage by moving. They must find a solution to every challenge they face – and do so right where they stand. An unthinkable task for any animal, a member of the restless family. Biologist Stefano Mancuso, author of ‘The Revolutionary Genius of Plants’, notes:

Whereas animals react to changes in their surroundings by moving to avoid those changes, plants respond to the constantly changing environment by adapting to meet it.

And the renowned French botanical illustrator Francis Hallé says in an interview: ...

When I entered the Sorbonne in Paris, I was not really interested in plants, but rather animals, indeed like 99 percent of students, by the way. Today. I like animals, but I can’t take them seriously because they move all the time. …. For me, trees are much more beautiful than animals. Animals are dirty, noisy, and when they die, they smell awful. When a tree dies, it doesn’t smell bad because its molecules contain less sulfur. I wonder if our initial relationship to trees is aesthetic rather the scientific. When we come across a beautiful tree, it is an extraordinary thing. ….

TOTEM

People who see themselves reflected in animals are easily tempted into anthropomorphism. A small, cuddly dog – yet a direct descendant of the feared wolf – is dressed in a fashionable jacket. And in the upturned corners of a greying Donald Duck’s beak, the artist draws white teeth. In other words, this game of mirrors leads to zoomorphism, whereby humans, out of envy, are only too eager to appropriate the characteristics of the animal. The animal possesses primal physical strength, lightning speed and fearsome teeth and jaws, without which civilised humans are nothing more than wimps.

The animal as an icon. The Hague, my hometown, has the stork as its city totem. Our neighbours in Scheveningen feature two herrings on their coat of arms. The Dutch national football team takes the lion as its symbol. Runners adopt an antelope as their totem, swimmers a sea lion, thieves a magpie, and weightlifters an Asian working elephant.

In martial arts, it is common to draw inspiration from the animal kingdom. Martial animal totems therefore take many forms. The grenadier’s bearskin cap, a dragon on a knight’s shield, Bruce Lee’s praying mantis and General Yu Fei’s Eagle Claw.

Tiger, crane, leopard, snake and dragon in the southern styles. The twelve Hsing I Chuan animals. The ‘bear step’ and the ‘snake step’ in I Chuan. But aren’t we missing something? For the martial artist, animals certainly possess enviable qualities. Qualities that you can imagine, imitate and perhaps one day call your own. But aren’t there plants that can serve as our teachers and sources of inspiration? Where are the plant and tree totems?

Within Chinese traditional internal martial arts, there is a remarkable training method: remaining in certain body positions for long periods of time. Not infrequently, such practices are viewed with a certain disdain. They are said to be static, detached from martial dynamics and actually naive. How could martial skill ever be trained by standing still? Yet the correct practice of zhan zhuang, the collection of standing poses, shows that reaction speed, sensitivity, movement coordination and resistance to stress can be honed through it.

One martial tradition in particular, I Chuan, is fully committed to the use of silent postures. The entire basis of I Chuan is laid by zhan zhuang practice. Zhan zhuang is translated in the literal sense as ‘standing like a stick’, but more vividly as ‘standing like a tree’. An essential posture is wu chi zhuang.

‘Wu chi’ refers to unformed action. Before a defined action is selected to be performed, there are innumerable other actions possible. Before ‘stepping forward’ is selected and ultimately manifested, together with ‘stepping backward’, ‘stepping sideways’, ‘jumping up’ or ‘turning’ and many more movement options, it lies dormant, and all have equal potential value. There exists a vacuum, a stage of stillness, where all these options have wakened up, but none of these have yet manifested.

The practice of the wu chi posture doesn’t include any particular movement; at the same time, it includes the potential of all movements. Instead of focussing on merely ‘stepping forward’, one intends ‘stepping forward’ and ‘stepping backward’ at the same time. Plus ‘stepping left’ and ‘stepping right’, ‘sitting down’ and ‘standing up’, ‘turning left’ and tuning right. The wu chi practice lay in the area of pre-movement.

While standing still in the wu chi posture the intention (i) is preparing the body for action. All the qualities of movement are awakened: direction, duration, length, strength, intensity, etc. Without that this leads to actual movement. The practitioner wants to move, has cultivated the strong intention to do so, but doesn’t show any of it.

Instead of a dull stand-off, a boring standstill, the wu chi posture includes a high internal dynamic. It shimmers with possibilities.

The wu chi posture resembles the stance of a marvelled child. Or the stance of an adult, intensely listening. Centred, grounded, balanced, the senses primed, optimally relaxed. The decision to move has not yet been made and is repeatedly postponed. Yet the body is ready to spring into action at any time.

On the athletics track, sounds ON YOUR MARKS: the body relaxes and connects with the ground. Then GET SET: the mind sharpens and alertness grows. With GO the athlete explodes into action, and the accumulated energy is being consumed.

However, the wu chi training takes a different track. ON YOUR MARKS and GET SET remain the same, but on GO, the practitioner doesn’t sprint forward at all.

At the normally inevitable GO the practitioner returns to the deep relaxation phase of ON YOUR MARKS. And use that as a bed for increased mental sharpness at another GET SET. The GO phase is omitted – what follows is an ongoing alternation between ON OUR MARKS and GET SET, in ever-increasing intensity and refinement. The GO moment is closely approached, and a lot of potential energy, chi, is built up. None of it is lost in the movement. The area of research of the wu chi zhuang is the seemingly empty space before the movement, the movement that, as long as the wu chi posture is practised, will never manifest.

Physically, the wu chi posture is left-right symmetrical. The intention to move is also equally divided between the left and right sides. At a GO command, the practitioner could move equally fast and equally powerful to either the left or the right. However, the GO command will not sound, and movement will not appear, but the circulation of chi will, in abundant measure.

Equally, the physical posture and distribution of intention is also perfectly divided between the front and the back of the body. When a GO command would sound, the practitioner could move forward or backward quickly and adequately. But there won’t be any GO command or physical movement to either the back or the front, but chi circulation to these regions is greatly enhanced.

And the same goes for the space above and the space below.

Imagine: you are standing still in the middle of traffic on a very busy square. All around are pedestrians, cyclists, cars, a bus and a tram. When the body is tense and/or the mind distracted, you will never be able to give the right response to potential collision. A cyclist comes from the right, a car from behind, and the tram from the front. Your attention and intention to step away quickly must divide between six primary directions. The wu chi posture will give a clue.

If you don’t like the image of a busy traffic square, get up early in spring or early summer and go into the forest. Stand with your eyes closed, upright, feet firmly on the ground, relaxed, ears pricked. The wonder of bird sounds will naturally connect you to the space around you. Bird sounds in front, behind, to the left and right, above, and perhaps near you on the ground. Your breath is elongated and still. There won’t be any physical move in any of these directions. From your body centre in your lower abdomen, the xia dan tian, sensual awareness, intention and chi will spread in six directions.

Remember the hide-and-seek of your childhood. After counting back, you stood there alone, wondering where your friends were. You looked forward but equally well backwards. You looked left and right, up and down, and tried to do all that at the same time. And with that you kept an eye on the whole environment; you were able to take action in every possible direction if necessary.

In the I Chuan tradition, we train in the wu chi stance for five or ten minutes. Five or ten minutes to refine sensory perception and train alertness, increase reaction speed, become more grounded, and build chi. But there are also days when we stand in that same wu chi posture for 45 minutes. 45 minutes devoted to high-energy training.

Another name for the wu chi stance is ti cha zhuang. Ti translated as ‘carrying’ or ‘lifting’, cha as ‘stabbing’. In silence, when practicing the ti cha zhuang you make these two opposing movements simultaneously: an upward directed lifting, and a downward directed stabbing. Both movements are limited to a bare minimum; in fact, they balance each other in such a way that the result seems a silent pose. The intention is clear: no physical movement but a strong stimulus for chi circulation.

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The performance has ended, and the theatre is emptying. It's not going very quickly. The audience were comfortably spread out throughout the auditorium, but now they are standing in line like sheep, waiting to exit one by one through the door. A narrowing leads to congestion, a delay to a traffic jam. At least, that's how it works with theatregoers, sheep and cars.

More cars lead to more traffic jams, which call for more roads, which in turn encourage more cars. This self-perpetuating phenomenon can be mitigated by driving closer together when a traffic jam threatens to form, rather than braking and increasing the distance between vehicles, as is customary. Cars equipped with thick rubber bumpers all around would offer a solution. Just like bumper cars at the fair. No one would be afraid of tailgating. A narrowing of the road would compress the traffic flow, causing cars to accelerate.

Traffic like water: if you squeeze the end of a water hose, the water sprays out with more force. Traffic like air: if you purse your lips, you hear a higher tone.

Chi behaves like water and air. Compression makes it flow faster.

The transition areas between the three fundamental body cavities determine the speed of circulation. They function as valves. If they are closed slightly, the speed increases. If so much tension builds up in the intermediate areas that the valves are effectively closed, circulation stops.

In the straight sections of one of the longer channels of chi, the zu yang ming meridian, circulation flows easily. This can be compared to traffic on a straight road or water in a canalised river.

However, curves create turbulence and possibly stagnation. Nevertheless, chi finds its way where it cannot go. Ants never get stuck in traffic jams.

Study the winding path of the zu yang ming channel at the level of the collarbones, in the transition area between the upper and middle cavities. And do the same for the one at the bottom of the rib cage, between the middle and lower cavities. A third sharp bend in the meridian can be found at the bottom of the lower cavity, at the level of the groin.

You can read more about the curves in the clavicular and groin areas in Four Gates.

Imagine an earthworm with only three compartments. Rotate the whole 90 degrees, add limbs, and voilà, the energetic functionality of a human body in a reduced form. Three fundamental cavities are separated from each other and connected by intermediate areas with a regulating sluice function. The top of the structure is formed by the fontanelle and the bottom by the perineum.

Between the chest and abdominal cavities lies the respiratory diaphragm, which ensures dynamic physical interaction between the two. The diaphragm is a closing muscle plate that is primarily responsible for breathing through rhythmic alternation of contraction and relaxation. At the same time, its constant movement provides an essential stimulus to the functioning of the abdominal organs. Two of the most important blood vessels – the aorta and vena cava – and the oesophagus pass through the diaphragm.

There is no single structure comparable to the diaphragm between the head and chest cavities. When we refer to a ‘throat diaphragm’, we are referring to the body parts related to the complexity of the swallowing function: the upper oesophageal sphincter, tongue, palate and epiglottis, as well as the jaw and jaw muscles. The body parts involved in speech also belong to this diaphragm-like structure.

Chinese medical and martial traditions recognise a functional centre in each of the three cavities, called 'dan tian', 丹田. Just below the centre of the abdominal cavity lies the 'lower dan tian', xia dan tian, 下丹田. In the centre of the chest cavity is the 'middle dan tian', zhong dan tian, 中丹田. And just above the centre of the head cavity is the 'upper dan tian', shang dan tian, 上丹田.

In most chi kung traditions, in Eastern internal martial arts, as well as in Buddhist meditation techniques, the lower dan tian plays a crucial role. Beginners are advised to anchor a large part of their attention in that area – in posture and movement, in success and failure, during training and in everyday life. Advanced practitioners are advised to return to the instructions for beginners time and again.

The pelvic diaphragm, of which the perineum is the superficial part, closes off the bottom of the abdominal cavity. The top of the cranial cavity is formed by the fontanelle, which is still open and soft in newborn babies.

The three dan tian are located on the central axis of the body. This is the imaginary line connecting the fontanelle to the perineum, just in front of the spine. It connects seven points that are essential for chi kung practice. From bottom to top: the centre of the perineum, the lower dan tian, the centre of the diaphragm, the middle dan tian, the centre of the 'throat diaphragm', the upper dan tian and the centre of the fontanelle. The central axis is called chong mai in traditional Chinese medicine. We will return to this later in this chapter.

Transport your thoughts to the origin of existence, to the beginning of the unimaginably long process of evolution. The very first life forms consisted of a single cell, without a central nucleus. Single-celled organisms with a nucleus would not appear until two billion years later. A tiny lump of life, surrounded by a wafer-thin membrane, separating and connecting the outside world and the inside world, and in the centre, a nucleus.

While Western medical and biological sciences investigated the material and biochemical properties of cells in order to shed light on the mystery of life, Eastern empirical science focused on a fundamental life function found in all living beings: pulsation. It is the rhythmic alternation of tension and relaxation, of contraction and expansion; the succession of inhalation and exhalation; and the dynamic ability to adapt to ever-changing environments and circumstances. Pulsation can be found in all their body parts, all their organs, tissues and cells.

The fundamental phenomenon of pulsation is captured by the Chinese character chi, 氣. Without chi, matter is lifeless. Without matter, chi cannot manifest itself.

Chi is the central theme in Chinese natural sciences, traditional medicine and martial traditions. Developing sensitivity to chi is a prerequisite for every practitioner of the aforementioned disciplines. But where to focus? Develop sensitivity to what? As a student, one may have the misconception that chi is an extraordinary quality, a mystical property that can only be perceived with a special sensitivity. The reality is simpler.

When a party, a training course or a public transport network is organised in an exemplary manner, this largely escapes the notice of those who is involved in it. Good organisation seems self-evident. A well-functioning liver or healthy teeth do not attract attention, and in such cases it is quite normal to be barely aware of their existence and flawless functioning. Only when the chi is blocked, only when the level of chi is low, and when this manifests itself as pain, fatigue or discomfort, does it become apparent to the consciousness. Chi is therefore not a mysterious quality. It is the background noise of well-being. To perceive chi, one need look no further than everyday life.

From a single-celled organism to a sea anemone is a giant evolutionary leap. The complexity of an anemone or jellyfish is incomparable to that of microscopic pioneers of life. What remained the same, however, is the unambiguous rhythm, the archaic pulsation.

As single-celled microorganisms evolved, they grew larger. Having a centralised organisation was no longer enough to withstand the challenges and dangers of the environment. The larger whole was split into smaller parts, each with a degree of autonomy.

A large country with a single central capital can easily take concerted action when circumstances require it. For a decentralised country, this is not a given. It takes time and tact to get everyone on the same page. On the other hand, local autonomy leads to greater sensitivity and a more finely tuned ability to adapt.

An earthworm exhibits a combination of both. Its body consists of a multitude of virtually identical segments, each pulsating around a local centre. An orchestration creates an accordion-like movement of the whole, a rhythmic interplay of all parts.

The segments of the earthworm, or metameres, are separated from each other by thin connecting pieces called septa. These separations enable the segments to pulsate individually and, from there, to produce a collective peristaltic movement.

The septa are permeable to bodily fluids, blood, nerve pathways and the long intestinal system. The latter bears a strong resemblance to the external form of the earthworm. Pulsation of one propels it through its environment – which is also its food source. Pulsation of the other propels that same environment – or more precisely, the part that serves as its food – through it.

Two in one. An outer worm and an inner one hidden inside.

At the front of an earthworm’s body is its mouth. This guides the body’s crawling movement through the soil, which it leaves ploughed. The same mouth allows soil into its intestines, which is then digested and excreted through its anus, located in the very last segment.

One of the renowned masters of the I Chuan 意拳 / Da Cheng Chuan 大成拳 tradition is Guo Gui-Zhi, from Datong, Shanxi, in northern China.

Guo Gui-Zhi started his martial training at an early age and soon proved talented. Due to a serious medical condition, he came into contact with Professor Yu Yong-Nian, who instructed him in the practice of 'zhan zhuang chi kung', the foundation of I Chuan. The 'zhan zhuang' had not only proved itself as a key to martial application but could also be used therapeutically. Professor Yu had been instrumental in introducing it within hospitals in the post-war years. Guo Gui-Zhi's 'zhan zhuang’ practice resulted in a recovery, which motivated him to continue training under Professor Yu. The latter put him in touch with his own teacher, I Chuan founder Wang Xiang-Zhai. After the latter's death, Guo continued training under another top student of Wang Xiang-Zhai, Yao Zong-Xun.

Master Guo Guxi-Zhi's school is based in Datong. He also attracted many foreign students and was invited several times for trainings in Europe and Canada.

As you read this, there is no horizon. The letter your eye now falls on is super sharp, but slightly to the left, or slightly to the right, towards the edges of the screen, the world is already blurring. And still a little further away from the letter your eyes are now gazing intently at, there everything even seems to have disappeared. The space to your left and right, the space behind your back, and those above and below you – towards the ceiling and floor – you lose sight of while reading. The concentration required to catch the letters with your eyes reduces your three-dimensional surroundings to a dot. Spatial awareness contracted into a tiny dot, like the one at the end of this sentence.

With the greatest ease, and often the greatest pleasure, you lose yourself, while reading, in this dot. Like a magnet, it draws your eyes to it, demanding all your attention. The physical spaces behind you and those to your sides come to fallow. Nadir and zenith? Spatial awareness is scaled down as long as you keep peering at the letters.

Losing contact with one's surroundings in such a way was a death sentence in the wild life of our ancestors. Reading in the wild, with all the lurking danger, was like making love and getting drunk without the protection of four walls, a risky activity.

Break away from reading and letters for a while. Look out the window, or take a short walk as a pause. With your eyes freed, the small yellow zone unfolds into a landscape. As if stage curtains are pulled aside. The vision may not be as sharp as reading a letter and a dot, but the view is wide. It extends from the corners of your eyes to diagonally behind you.

And the space all the way behind your back? To look there, you have to turn around. A hare, a pigeon, or a sheep does not have to do that. With eyes on the side of the head, they have panoramic vision. Without having to turn their heads, they are prepared for danger from any direction.

Predators' eyes are at the front of their heads, and their gaze is sharp, seeing prey from a great distance. To hunt or to be hunted – a panoramic vision or a sharp, piercing gaze. Those two traits seem to characterise the division of roles in nature. There are predators with both visual qualities, sharp and wide, but a predator with sideways, sheep-like eyes has not yet been seen.

And humans? Does his vision tell the story of a hunter or a hunted?

However, the hunting instinct and murderous gaze can be reactivated by an irritating fly instantly.

But an opponent with a 360° vision is not easy to outsmart.

A martial art where you only have to deal with one opponent, who is right in front of you and who also acts according to the prescribed rules, is not a martial art; it is a sport. Back and flanks, all directions except those where the eyes are focused, can remain unprotected.

A martial art that reflects daily life, preparing the practitioner to spread his alertness across six directions, requires soft eyes.

‘Soft Eyes’ is a concept used in many sports to relax athletes and increase their peripheral vision. Sally Swift, the founder of Centered Riding, advised riders to relax their visual acuity and pay more attention to the tactile interaction between horse and rider.wikipedia

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Go to a quiet place where you have an unobstructed view. Stand up straight, your arms along your body, or your hands on top of each other on your stomach. Imagine you are standing on top of a dune on a clear day. In front of you see a ship on the horizon. Be aware of the free space in front of you. That is the first of the six directions

TWO AND THREE
Softening your gaze even more, the horizon will widen before you. Straight ahead of you is still the ship – from the corner of your eye, you can see the beach and row of dunes to the right and left. Without turning your head, you can see 180° from the horizon. Be aware of the space in front of you, to your left and to your right: those are three of the six directions.

FOUR
If you turned around, you would see that the horizon continues behind you. But now, without turning your body, your head or your eyes, try to be aware of this territory. Your body is the centre of the compass rose. When you are facing west, your eyes see the semicircle of the horizon, from north to south. The horizon closes behind your back, to the east. The earth is round, the horizon is round, and your spatial awareness is round.

FIVE
Imagine a small cloud directly overhead. This fifth direction. The zenith turns your surrounding horizon into a dome. You are exactly in the centre of the dome, right below its highest point.

Your surroundings are like a huge circus tent. A grand café filled with talking people – close your eyes, and the murmur of their voices surrounds you. A space like the Duomo in Florence, where you stand exactly in the centre of the mosaic floor, under the highest part of the dome. The sound of footsteps and the gentle chatter of visitors will trace the five directions for you.

Five directions within your field of vision – when was the last time that happened to you? With hard eyes, you won't succeed. With softness, you can perceive the whole vault – four cardinal points and the zenith at once.

It is no wonder that in a myopic world, a world where the horizon has been bricked away behind stone walls, words like 'firmament' and 'welkin' have fallen into disuse. While in the 1960s it was chalked on walls that under the pavement was the beach, now is the time to realise that the vastness and the horizon have obviously not disappeared. You just have to learn to see through walls and roofs.

SIX
Finally, let your attention go to the ground on which, the floor on which you stand. The space under your body does not stop at the surface of the floor. If zenith is the fifth direction, nadir is the sixth.

At the front of your body, imagine a two-metre space. Do the same on the left side and on your right side. Then behind your body is a similar space. Also above your head, towards the dome, the zenith, two metres. And finally, a two-metre space under your feet, into the ground, towards the nadir.

Your spatial awareness takes the shape of a perfect balloon. Each of the six directions that define the balloon is equal. The size of the balloon is by choice. Standing under the big church dome, the space in any direction might be 30 metres; standing on the dune top, as much as 100; or even extending to the horizon. In all cases, your body is the centre of the balloon. Or more specifically, the exact centre of the six directions is your belly, the lower dan tian, xia dan tian, 下丹田. Spatial awareness through six directions, the practice of soft eyes and finding and consolidating the body centre are interrelated.