The Ongoing Journey to Inner Peace

[The_Neidan_Master]

Finding Calmness Within: A Journey Through Movement and Stillness

I still remember the first time my teacher asked me to stand on one leg at the edge of a cliff. The wind whipped around me, the ground seemed to shift beneath my single point of contact, and my heart raced like a wild horse. “Find your calm,” he said simply, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Twenty years later, I’m still working on it - and that’s exactly what I want to share with you today.

The Ongoing Search for Peace

As someone who practices qigong, taiji, taiyi, and kungfu, I’ve discovered that the journey toward inner calmness is exactly that - a journey, not a destination. Some days I feel centered and peaceful. Other days, I’m as scattered as leaves in the wind. And you know what? That’s perfectly normal.

I used to think that after years of practice, I’d somehow “arrive” at permanent calmness. What I’ve learned instead is that calmness is something we cultivate moment by moment, and every day offers new challenges and new opportunities to practice.

The ancient Taoist philosophy that underlies these arts teaches us about the interplay of yin and yang, of movement and stillness. But here’s what they don’t always tell you in the classical texts - it’s messy, it’s non-linear, and sometimes you’ll feel like you’re going backwards. That’s all part of the process.

What initially draws you to internal martial arts practice?

1. Stress relief and mental calmness
2. Physical health and flexibility
3. Self-defense capabilities
4. Spiritual growth and philosophy
5. Community and tradition

Qigong: Learning to Stand Still (When I Remember To)

I’ll be honest - I don’t practice qigong every morning like I should. Life gets in the way. Sometimes I oversleep, sometimes I’m traveling, sometimes I just don’t feel like it. But when I do practice, when I make the time to stand in wu ji (the posture of infinite potential), something shifts.

Qigong has taught me that calmness isn’t about perfection. It’s about returning, again and again, to the practice. When I practice zhan zhuang (standing meditation), my mind often races for the first ten minutes. I think about emails I need to send, conversations I need to have, problems I need to solve.

But then, gradually, something settles. The breath deepens naturally. The shoulders drop. The busy mind begins to quiet, not because I force it, but because I simply keep standing, keep breathing, keep returning my attention to the present moment.

One of my fellow practitioners once said something that stuck with me: “Qigong is like water dripping on stone. You don’t see the effect immediately, but over time, it changes everything.” I’ve found this to be true. Even my irregular practice has created subtle but profound shifts in how I handle stress.

Taiji: The Art of Going With the Flow (Even When You’re Stiff)

When I first started learning taiji, I was about as graceful as a rusty gate. My teacher would demonstrate these flowing movements that looked like clouds drifting across the sky, and I’d try to copy them and look more like I was fighting invisible enemies while wearing a suit of armor.

But taiji taught me something crucial: it’s not about looking perfect; it’s about feeling the principle. The concept of dong zhong qiu jing - seeking stillness within movement - sounds poetic, but in practice, it often means wobbling through the form while trying to remember which foot goes where.

What keeps me coming back to taiji is how it mirrors life. Some days the form flows beautifully, and I feel that magical state where movement and stillness merge. Other days, I’m off-balance, forgetting sequences, feeling frustrated. Both experiences teach me about accepting where I am in each moment.

The philosophy of yin and yang in taiji isn’t just theoretical - it’s practical. When life pushes hard (yang), I’m learning to yield (yin). When things feel stuck or stagnant (yin), I’m learning to introduce gentle movement (yang). It’s an ongoing experiment, and I’m definitely still in the lab coat phase.

Taiyi: Discovering Power in Release

Taiyi was a revelation for me because it showed me that calmness doesn’t always look calm from the outside. The practice involves fa jin - explosive power release - which seems contradictory to cultivating peace. But here’s what I discovered: to generate true power, you must first be completely relaxed.

I spent months trying to muscle through the movements, thinking that more tension meant more power. Wrong. My teacher kept saying, “Relax more,” and I kept thinking I was relaxed. Then one day, almost by accident, I actually let go. The power that came through surprised me so much I actually laughed out loud.

This taught me something profound about calmness in daily life. True calm isn’t about being passive - it’s about being so relaxed that you can respond with exactly the right amount of energy when needed. Not too much, not too little. Just right.

I’m still working on applying this principle outside of practice. When someone cuts me off in traffic, my first instinct isn’t always taiyi-like relaxation followed by appropriate response. Sometimes it’s more like immediate tension followed by muttering. But hey, that’s why they call it practice, right?

Which aspect of practice most helps you maintain calmness under pressure?

1. Controlled breathing exercises
2. Standing meditation (zhan zhuang)
3. Flowing form practice
4. Partner exercises (push hands)
5. Explosive release techniques (fa jin)
6. Sitting meditation

Kungfu: The Humble Path of Discipline

I used to think kungfu was about becoming tough, unbeatable, like those masters in the movies. What I’ve discovered is that it’s actually about becoming more human - with all the struggles, failures, and small victories that entails.

When I practice kungfu forms, I’m not always in a state of zen-like focus. Sometimes I’m thinking about dinner. Sometimes I’m worried about work. But the practice itself keeps calling me back. Miss a movement because you’re distracted? The form won’t let you pretend otherwise. It’s honest in a way that’s both humbling and liberating.

The principle of shou xin - guarding the heart-mind - sounds noble, but in practice, it often means catching myself getting frustrated during training and taking a breath instead of pushing through with tension. It means noticing when I’m comparing myself to others and gently returning focus to my own practice.

What kungfu has given me isn’t invincibility - it’s resilience. Not the kind where you never fall, but the kind where you get better at getting back up. And sometimes, on those rare beautiful days when everything clicks, I get a glimpse of what the old masters were pointing toward: a state where effort becomes effortless, where discipline becomes freedom.

Integration: The Messy, Beautiful Reality

Here’s what I’ve learned after years of practicing these four arts: they don’t turn you into some perpetually calm sage sitting on a mountaintop. They give you tools, and like any tools, they only work when you use them. And sometimes you forget to use them. Sometimes you use them wrong. Sometimes you drop them entirely and have to pick them back up.

My daily reality looks something like this:

• Some mornings I do standing meditation. Some mornings I hit snooze.
• During stressful moments, I sometimes remember to breathe into my dantian. Sometimes I tense up and remember afterwards.
• In conflicts, I occasionally manage to apply taiji principles of yielding and redirecting. Other times I meet force with force and remember the teachings later.
• When life demands quick responses, every now and then I achieve that taiyi state of relaxed readiness. More often, I’m somewhere between tense and trying to relax.

And you know what? That’s okay. The path isn’t about perfection - it’s about practice.

Real Stories, Real Struggles

Last month, I had one of those days where everything went wrong. Overslept (missed my morning practice), spilled coffee on my shirt, got stuck in traffic, arrived late to an important meeting. By noon, I was a ball of stress and frustration.

Then I remembered: I have tools for this. I went to the bathroom (the only private space available), stood in a basic qigong posture, and just breathed for three minutes. Was it a magical transformation? No. Did I feel a bit more centered? Yes. Sometimes that’s enough.

Another time, I was in a heated discussion that was escalating quickly. Part of me wanted to “win” the argument. Then the taiji teachings whispered in my mind: “When they push, yield.” I tried it - I actually listened instead of preparing my counterattack. The whole energy shifted. The discussion became a conversation.

These aren’t dramatic stories of martial arts mastery. They’re small moments where the practice seeps into life. And honestly, for every success story, there are probably ten times when I forget everything I’ve learned and react from old patterns. That’s the journey.

How has martial arts practice affected your daily life calmness?

1. Significantly more calm in all situations
2. Better stress management at work
3. Improved emotional regulation
4. More patience with others
5. Still working on transferring practice to daily life

The Path Forward: No Pedestals, Just Practice

If you’re reading this thinking about starting your own journey with internal martial arts, here’s what I want you to know: you don’t need to be special. You don’t need natural talent. You don’t need to practice perfectly every day. You just need to begin, and then keep beginning, over and over again.

Start small. Maybe it’s five minutes of standing meditation while your coffee brews. Maybe it’s one taiji movement practiced slowly before bed. Maybe it’s just remembering to breathe deeply when you feel stress rising. These seeds, planted consistently (even if not daily), grow into something beautiful over time.

The ancient masters discovered these practices not because they were superhuman, but because they were deeply human - they struggled with the same challenges we face. Stress, conflict, uncertainty, the search for peace in a chaotic world. The arts they developed are gifts to us, tools refined over centuries.

But here’s the thing: the tools only work if we pick them up. And when we drop them (which we will), we need to simply pick them up again. No judgment, no grand pronouncements of failure, just a simple return to practice.

Finding Your Own Way

Each of the four arts I practice offers a different doorway to calmness:

• Qigong shows us that stillness is not empty but full of potential
• Taiji teaches us to move with life’s changes rather than against them
• Taiyi reveals that true power comes from deep relaxation
• Kungfu develops the discipline to keep practicing even when it’s difficult

But your journey might look different. You might connect more with one practice than others. You might practice daily for a month, then sporadically for the next. You might feel like you’re making progress, then suddenly feel like a beginner again. All of this is normal. All of this is the path.

What matters is not perfection but direction. Are you moving, however slowly, toward greater awareness? Are you developing, however gradually, more tools for working with life’s challenges? Are you becoming, however imperfectly, more connected to the calm center that exists within you?

These are the questions that guide my practice. Not “Am I good at this?” but “Am I showing up?” Not “Have I mastered calmness?” but “Am I willing to keep exploring?”

The journey toward inner calmness through martial arts isn’t about reaching some final destination where you never feel stressed or reactive again. It’s about developing a relationship with these practices that supports you through all of life’s ups and downs. Some days that support feels strong and clear. Other days you can barely feel it. But it’s always there, waiting for you to return.

So whether you’re standing on one leg at the edge of a cliff or just trying to stay balanced in your daily life, remember: the wobbling is part of the practice. The falling is part of the practice. The getting back up is part of the practice. And somewhere in all of that, sometimes when you least expect it, you touch that place of calm within. And that makes the whole journey worthwhile.

What challenges you most in finding inner calmness, and how might starting exactly where you are - imperfectly, honestly, nhumanly - be the perfect place to begin?