Traditional View of Fa Jin I

[Le Professeur]

In the traditional internal perspective, a powerful punch does not originate from the arm, the shoulder, or even the muscle. It originates from the ground, passes through the legs, is governed by the waist, unfolds through the spine and culminates in the hand, like a whip whose handle is the earth and whose tip is the fist: the root is in the feet, the power flows through the legs, control lies in the waist, and the form manifests in the fingers.

The ordinary practitioner seeks to strike harder by tensing up more, by bulking up the muscles, by putting weight into the shoulder. The practitioner of the internal arts seeks to strike harder by relaxing more, by unifying the body, by removing all internal resistance to the flow of force. The first approach produces a power that is exhausted, that announces itself and that is damaged. The second produces a power that is self-renewing, that arises without warning and which, because it encounters no internal opposition, does not turn against the one who releases it.

The word for this cultivated force is ‘jin’. It is contrasted with ‘li’, brute force, the innate strength of the muscles. ‘Jin’ is a cultivated force: it arises from the alignment of the body, the coordination of the breath, the focus of the mind and the intention that guides the whole. It is not a mysterious substance. It is the result of a long process of unifying body and mind, which is why the masters say that it is transmitted through practice and not through explanation.

There are three levels of Fa Jin, representing the way in which the internal arts understand and develop the power of the fist. It follows an order that mirrors that of the practice itself: first, the doctrinal foundations, because without them the movements remain empty mechanics; then relaxation and structure, which are the prerequisite for any transmission of force; then the central driving force, the dantian and the waist; then the spiral, which gives the jin its distinctive quality; then the fist itself, its trajectory and its point of arrival; then Fa Jin, the actual emission, in all its phases; finally, the breath, intention, the training method and the precautions.

The classics are deliberately elliptical. They provide keys to those who already possess part of the lock. This manual endeavours to explain them as fully as the written word allows, but it is no substitute for living transmission—the fa from master to disciple, oral instruction and the physical correction provided by a skilled hand. It is a map, not the territory. Within the school, we have three progressive courses on building effective fa jin.

The exercises for generating force engage the joints, tendons and the body’s centre. They must be approached with patience, based on a solid foundation of relaxation, and must never be forced. Any sharp pain in the shoulder, elbow, the wrist or the lower back is a sign of a structural error: one stops and looks for the error rather than persisting. The ancients said that a force which finds no outlet turns against its originator, and we shall see why complete, unrestrained emission is both the fulfilment of the movement and its safety.

The entire Taoist philosophy of force is based on a reversal: that which is supple overcomes that which is hard; that which yields overcomes that which resists. The Dao, the Way, does not act through compulsion. It operates through naturalness, ziran—the ‘so-being’—and through non-action, wuwei, which does not mean inaction but action that forces nothing, action that follows the natural course of things. Applied to the fist, this yields a principle of great simplicity: the best strike is one that happens of its own accord, without effort on the part of the ego, because the body has been positioned in such a way that the force simply flows through.

This is not a poetic image. It is a guide to the method. The practitioner does not seek to generate force through an act of muscular will. They seek to remove, one by one, the obstacles that prevent it from manifesting: the tensions that fragment the body, the stiffness of the joints, the restlessness of the mind, and the intention to strike that pulls the shoulders forward. When the obstacles fall away, the force emerges. De, virtue in the sense of effective power, is precisely this: the capacity to act that arises from conformity to the Way.

Wuji, the boundless, is the undifferentiated state from which all things emerge. Taiji, the supreme principle, is the movement that arises from it and divides into yin and yang. Every punch reproduces this cosmogony in miniature. The body begins at rest, in a state of wuji: calm, centred, without any visible intention. From this stillness, movement arises: yin contracts, accumulates, charges; then yang unfolds, emits, discharges. The emission of force is a complete taiji, a breath of the body in which inhalation is storage and exhalation is emission.

This is why the classics emphasise the alternation of emptiness and fullness, of release and emission. A body that is entirely yang—stiff and tense—cannot emit: it has nothing to deploy. A body that is entirely yin—flaccid and scattered—has nothing to deploy either. Power arises from the rapid transition from one to the other, from full suppleness to full connection, and depends on the clarity with which the body distinguishes between its full and empty states.

The internal practitioner does not follow the complete alchemical path, but uses the same sequence. Jing is the physical foundation: the strength of the bones, the suppleness of the tendons, the reserve in the lower abdomen. Qi is the coordination that makes the body a single unit, and the breath that marks the rhythm of the effort. Shen is the attention that remains clear and provides direction. A complete punch mobilises all three. Without jing, strength has no foundation. Without qi, it has no connection. Without shen, it has no direction.

The internal arts require calm. A restless mind scatters one’s intention, and a scattered intention cannot guide the qi. This is why training begins with stillness—the tree stance, zhanzhuang—and with tranquillity: one first learns to gather the mind before learning to direct it.

Tradition warns against two opposing deviations. The first consists of cultivating qi without jin: one is content merely to circulate the breath, to sense energies, and to practise health exercises, in the hope that martial ability will follow naturally. It does not follow, for strength must be expressed through a body that has learnt to bear it. The second consists of cultivating jin without qi: one works on mechanics, speed and mass, without ever unifying the breath and intention, and one falls back into brute force disguised as technique. The internal path requires both, and demands that they be united in a single movement. This is what is referred to, in the teachings of the lineages, as the joint cultivation of nature and life, transposed onto the level of movement.

Li is the strength that everyone possesses from birth: that of the muscle contracting, the arm pushing, the back lifting. It is real, useful, and by no means despised by tradition. But it has precise limits. It is localised, as it is concentrated within the muscle group being engaged. It is slow to take effect, as the muscle must tense before acting, and this tension is visible. It is exhausting, as the contracted muscle constantly consumes energy. Finally, it is vulnerable: when faced with a greater li, it loses out.

Jin is a transformed force. It draws its substance from li, but organises it differently. It is distinguished by four qualities recognised by all schools of thought. It is holistic: the whole body participates in it, from the soles of the feet to the tips of the fingers. It is continuous: the force flows uninterrupted from one joint to the next. It is discreet: it gives no warning, as it requires little visible contraction. It is sustainable: because it is based on structure rather than contraction, it does not tire the person practising it.

The classic comparison is that of the experienced thrower and the beginner. The beginner throws by tensing up as much as possible; they tire quickly, and their movements are heavy. The trained thrower uses only the necessary force, at the right moment, in the right muscle, and thus achieves more with less. This is precisely the idea behind the traditional expression of ‘moving a thousand pounds with four ounces’: the force generated does not multiply muscle strength; it eliminates waste.

Tradition demands clarity here. Jin is not magic. It does not make one invulnerable; it does not enable one to knock someone down without touching them; it does not override the laws of the body. Serious masters have always warned against such fables, which are detrimental to the art and to those who practise it. It is true that well-organised force can produce striking effects: a small movement that unbalances a heavier man, a brief strike that penetrates deeply. But these effects stem from the body’s organisation, coordination and perfect timing, not from any supernatural power.

It is also wrong to believe that jin develops without muscular effort. Every movement, even the most supple, requires muscle, and a rapid movement requires even more. The ‘relaxation’ of the internal arts, however, does not mean a lack of muscle tone. It means the absence of unnecessary tension. The movement must be crisp, not limp; firm, not stiff. A child who has not yet learnt to hold a cup grips it with all their strength; an adult holds it with just the right amount of effort. The muscle has not disappeared; it has been trained.

When it comes to striking with the fist, it is peng that serves as the foundation for all the others. Peng is that quality of internal elasticity, of expansion without stiffness, which enables the body to return the force received from the ground and transmit it, just as an inflated ball transmits an impact. Without peng, jin has no substance. The masters say that peng must remain present in every movement, even when it is not the dominant energy. It is the warp upon which everything is woven.

There is a single qi and many ways to utilise it. The various names that schools give to their jin refer to uses, not substances: the jin that listens, the jin that sticks, the jin that deflects, the jin that emits. The one we are concerned with here is the best known: fa jin, the emission of force in the form of a brief, powerful strike. It is the most visible manifestation of jin, but it is not its only aspect, and it only makes sense if it is grounded in the others: without listening, without structure, without relaxation, it is merely a sudden movement.

The character ‘song’ denotes a state that the translation ‘relaxation’ fails to capture adequately. It is not a matter of slumping, nor of relaxing as one does when falling asleep. Song is a sustained relaxation, a structured suppleness, in which every joint is open, every muscle used to just the right degree, and in which the body maintains its form through alignment rather than contraction. The ancients said that one must be soft as cotton but heavy as iron. Cotton represents the absence of stiffness; iron represents the density that results from a body fully connected to the earth.

The reason why ‘song’ is the primary condition for power stems from a simple observation. Every unnecessary tension is a barrier placed in the path of the force. A raised shoulder stops the force at the shoulder. A stiffened elbow blocks it at the elbow. A clenched wrist breaks it at the wrist. The force rising from the earth encounters these obstacles, collides with them, and is either lost or turns back against the joint. A practitioner who strikes with a tense body delivers a blow of which only a fraction reaches the target, whilst the rest is absorbed by their own body in the form of fatigue, pain, and sometimes injury.

The difficulty with ‘song’ is that it goes against instinct. When one wants to strike hard, the body responds by contracting: one clenches the jaw, raises the shoulder, holds one’s breath, and pulls with the arm. This reflex is deeply ingrained. The work of the internal arts consists of undoing it, patiently, and replacing it with another response: at the moment of exertion, to relax rather than tense, to sink in rather than rise up, to let the force flow rather than generate it.

This is why masters always begin with exercises that seem unrelated to striking: standing still, walking slowly, and performing a sequence of extremely slow movements. These practices do not generate force. They untangle the body’s knots, and it is this that makes force possible. The classical text states that complete relaxation, at the moment of release, is more powerful than muscular strength. This must be taken literally: a perfectly open body is a conductor without resistance.

Experience within the schools identifies the areas where tension most readily hides, and these are released in a specific order.

First, one relaxes the shoulders, which rise reflexively as soon as one thinks of striking: we let them drop and open, until we feel the weight of the arm hanging from the base of the neck. Next, we relax the elbows, keeping them slightly dropped and never locked, as an elbow that locks at the end of a strike cancels out the transmission of force. Then come the wrists, supple enough to receive the force and firm enough to deliver it, without ever buckling. Then the chest, which you relax by allowing the sternum to hollow slightly, enabling the back to round and open up, and the back itself, whose tension connects the shoulder blades to the nape of the neck and which you allow to stretch downwards. We relax the waist and hips, which must be open to allow for free rotation, and the knees, kept supple so that the force from the ground flows through the legs without being held up there. Finally, we relax the face and jaw, as tension in these areas is the first sign of excessive intention.

Song has a counterbalance; without it, it degenerates. The classical texts speak of ding jin, the supporting force, and of holding the head as if it were suspended by a thread. The crown of the head remains drawn slightly upwards, the chin tucked in, the nape of the neck stretched, whilst the rest of the body sinks towards the ground. This dual direction—an upward thrust at the crown of the head and a downward sinking into the pelvis and legs—creates the subtle tension that maintains the axis without stiffness. The body is then like a tree: the crown reaches towards the sky, the roots sink into the earth, and the trunk remains supple.

The practitioner gauges their relaxation by a specific sign: the sensation that the body is heavy, full, as if filled with fine sand or water, and that this heaviness descends towards the feet. When this sensation is present, the body is connecting with the ground. When it is absent, and one feels light, high, as if suspended, it means that the tension has risen into the upper body. The path of song involves a continuous lowering of the centre of gravity, until the entire body is grounded.

The power of the fist arises from beneath the feet. The entire tradition reiterates this: jin originates from the ground, rises through the legs, is directed by the waist and manifests in the hands. Anyone who strikes without a root strikes with the weight of their arm alone, and receives in return a thrust that throws them off balance. Anyone who strikes with a root takes support from the earth itself, and it is the earth that responds to them.

Roots are not achieved by clinging to the ground with the toes or by tensing the thighs. They are achieved by allowing the weight to sink down. The foot is placed as if it were fused to the ground: the sole is broad, the centre of the foot (the point in the hollow of the arch, known as the ‘gushing spring’) remains slightly raised, and the weight is distributed between the heel, the base of the big toe and the base of the little toe, like a tripod. The knees are bent without extending beyond the toes, and they face in the same direction as the feet. The hips open and fold inwards, so that the pelvis sinks between the thighs rather than sitting back.

The ancients say that the ‘root’ can be tested by applying a light push: if the body is truly connected to the earth, the force received travels down through the body and dissipates into the ground, without the practitioner having to resist. If they tense up to resist, they are already unrooted, for tension is what severs the connection with the ground.

The root is not static. It shifts from one foot to the other according to the principle of full and empty, shi and xu. One foot bears the weight: it is full. The other is free: it is empty. When striking with the front fist, the weight generally shifts from the back to the front, and the push from the back foot is what sets the whole movement in motion. But this transfer is subtle: it is not a matter of lunging forwards. The back foot remains rooted; the back heel does not lift, as lifting it would sever the connection with the ground and considerably reduce the force. The body pushes against the ground, and the ground pushes the body.

The central rule is that the weight must always be clearly separated, and that the ‘full’ foot must be truly full. A practitioner whose weight is distributed indefinitely, half on each leg, is ‘double-weighted’, and their force cancels itself out: each leg counteracts the other. Power arises from the clarity of fullness and emptiness.

The spine forms the body’s axis. It stands upright without being rigid, retaining its natural curves whilst lightening them. The crown of the head is suspended, the coccyx is drawn slightly forwards and upwards, as if to touch the dantian, which straightens the lower back and closes the pelvis. This position of the coccyx is essential: it unites the upper and lower body into a single unit and gently compresses the dantian, thereby charging it with energy.

The practitioner takes care never to lean forwards when striking. A body that leans forwards shifts its centre of gravity beyond the base of support and loses its grounding; one that remains upright strikes with its full weight. The classical texts speak of standing upright without leaning or bending, and of avoiding any excessive forward movement or excessive retreat. The verticality of the axis is the condition for force to pass through the body without dissipating.

The tradition summarises the unification of the body in the doctrine of the six harmonies, liu he, which are divided into three external harmonies and three internal harmonies.

The three external harmonies unite the joints in pairs: the shoulder harmonises with the hip, the elbow with the knee, and the hand with the foot. When the right shoulder moves forward, the right hip moves forward with it; when the elbow lowers, the knee bends; when the hand strikes, the foot pushes. The body ceases to be a collection of parts and becomes a single, unified whole.

The three internal harmonies unite the faculties: the heart-mind, xin, harmonises with intention, yi; intention with breath, qi; breath with strength, li, which here refers to the force exerted in the movement by the tendons. When these six harmonies are achieved, the slightest movement mobilises the whole, and the force produced is incomparably greater than the sum of the individual forces.

An ancient oral teaching summarises the path of force through the arm: the shoulder passes through the elbow, and the elbow passes through the hand. The arm is not a single bar extending outwards, but a chain of segments, each of which transmits the thrust from the previous one. The sensation is that the impulse originates in the back, passes through the shoulder as it unfolds, through the elbow as it straightens, and culminates in the fist, just as the crack of a whip ends at its tip. The same logic applies to the legs: the hip passes through the knee, the knee passes through the foot.

This image precludes two common errors. The first is to strike with the arm alone, launching the fist from the shoulder, which deprives the blow of the body’s mass. The second is to lock the elbow too early, which interrupts the chain. The elbow remains slightly bent and drops until the moment of impact, and it is only at the end of the strike that the force passes through the hand.

The dantian, or ‘cinnabar field’, is, in the Taoist tradition, the centre where energy accumulates and is transformed. There are three distinct dantians: the upper dantian, between the eyebrows, the seat of the shen; the middle dantian, at heart level, also known as jianggong; and the lower dantian, in the lower abdomen, the seat of the jing and reservoir of qi. It is this last one that concerns us here. It is situated three finger-widths below the navel and two finger-widths inwards—not on the surface of the skin, as beginners tend to believe, but inside the abdomen, like a sphere situated at the centre of the lower abdomen.

The lower dantian is the body’s centre of gravity and, according to the doctrine, the centre of its energy. Every controlled movement originates from it and returns to it. The classics state that power is controlled by the waist, and that the waist is the envelope of the dantian: when the dantian rotates, the waist rotates, and when the waist rotates, the whole body moves with it. This is why one does not strike with the arm, but with the centre.

The dantian is conceived as a reservoir that must be full for energy to be released. The masters emphasise that storing energy is just as important as releasing it, and an empty dantian prevents any release. This fullness is not achieved by forcing the abdomen to swell through willpower. It is built up patiently through posture, breathing, stillness, and the practice of stillness, during which qi naturally accumulates in the lower abdomen. This is the meaning of the alchemical doctrine according to which one causes the fire of the heart to descend and the water of the kidneys to rise, so that their union produces the elixir at the centre.

The practitioner feels the energy of the dantian as a density, a warmth and a weight in the lower abdomen. When this fullness is achieved, the whole body behaves like a sphere filled with compressed air: it rebounds, it transmits, it resists without stiffness. The ancients say that the dantian must be neither swollen nor hollow, but full and round.

The internal mechanics of emission unfold within the dantian in two stages. In the first stage, that of storage, the dantian contracts: the lower abdomen gently draws inwards, the coccyx tucks in, the perineum lifts slightly, and the whole body folds in on itself like a bow being drawn. The classical texts state that when one closes, one stores the jin, and that what is stored is immediately emitted. In the second phase—that of emission—the dantian expands abruptly, like a balloon inflating at maximum speed, and it is this expansion that propels the force through the body.

This compression followed by expansion is not a visible muscular contraction. It is an internal movement, perceived as a pulsation. The ancients compared it to the beating of a heart situated in the abdomen. The more relaxed the practitioner is, the clearer this pulsation is; the more tense they are, the more muffled it becomes.

The waist, yao, is the junction through which the force from the ground reaches the upper body. It is surrounded by the belt vessel, daimai, which encircles the pelvis like a belt and connects the upper and lower parts of the body. The mingmen, the gate of life, situated on the back at the level of the dantian, is the point where the force of the kidneys gathers. When the waist is free, the force rises unimpeded; when it is stiff, the upper and lower body become disconnected.

The waist does not turn like a door on its hinges. It moves in three dimensions: it turns, it coils, it hollows. The teachings speak of a waist that behaves like a wheel axle around which everything else is organised. When striking with the right fist, the right hip moves forward, the waist uncoils from right to left, the back opens up, the shoulder follows, and the fist arrives last. The sequence is fixed and cannot be reversed: one must never move the fist before the waist. Anyone who throws the fist before the waist has acted strikes with the arm alone.

The masters emphasise that it is not a matter of forcing the waist to turn, but of allowing it to be turned by the thrust from the foot. The force from the ground rises, reaches the waist, which unfolds under this impulse, and the rotation of the waist is the consequence of the thrust, not its cause. This is what gives the internal movements their appearance of ease: the waist does not work; it transmits. A practitioner who feels they must use force to rotate the waist has broken the chain somewhere below, in the feet or legs.

Chan si jin, the force of silk reeling, which we practise on Tuesday evenings, is one of the most distinctive features of the internal arts. The image comes from the silkworm: the thread of the cocoon is extremely fine, yet it possesses remarkable strength, and to unroll it without breaking it, one must pull it with perfect evenness and gentleness. The classics state that one carries the jin just as one pulls silk from the cocoon: without jerks, without stopping, in a single continuous thread. If one pulls too hard, the thread breaks. If one pulls too gently, it slackens and is lost. The correct tension is that which keeps the thread taut at all times without ever breaking it.

Let us apply this image to the body. The force rising from the ground does not travel in a straight line. It follows a spiral, winding its way through the legs, waist, back, shoulder, arm and hand. Each joint adds its own element of rotation, and it is the sequence of these successive rotations that gives the force its distinctive quality: it is expansive, it is connected, it penetrates.

Tradition offers several reasons for this choice of the spiral. The first is that rotation allows more of the body’s mass to be engaged: a linear movement mobilises only the arm, whilst a rotation of the torso engages the back, hips and legs. The second is that the spiral provides protection: a coiled body is one whose angles are closed, offering no points of grip and maintaining stable balance. The third is that the spiral generates power: by slightly twisting the body’s deep tissues—the tendons, fasciae and small muscles surrounding the joints—we put them under tension, just as one twists a rope, and this tension stores energy which is released all at once during the strike.

This is the secret that tradition refers to as ‘the power of the tendon’. Ordinary muscles work by contracting, and this contraction is visible, slow and tiring. Tendons and connective tissues, on the other hand, work by tending: they wind up like a spring and release their tension with vigour. A strike that utilises the spring-like action of the deep tissues is faster, more powerful and less exhausting than a strike that relies solely on muscle. It is this force that the ancients contrast with ‘li’.

Coiling occurs in two directions, corresponding to yin and yang. In inward coiling, the limbs turn towards the centre of the body: the forearm pivots so that the palm faces downwards, the arm draws closer to the torso, and the body closes in. In outward coiling, the limbs open out: the forearm pivots so that the palm faces upwards, the arm moves away from the centre, and the body unfolds. These two movements alternate constantly, like inhalation and exhalation, and it is this alternation that gives the movement its continuity.

The striking fist also follows a rotational path. It begins with the forearm turned in one direction, and as it travels, the forearm pivots until it reaches its final position at the moment of impact. This rotation of the forearm must not be a twist of the wrist. It arises from the rotation of the waist, travels through the back and shoulder, and culminates in the forearm like the tip of a corkscrew.

The development of chan si jin follows a principle of progressive reduction. At the beginning, the coiling movements are broad, visible, almost exaggerated: one rotates the waist widely, traces large circles with the arms, and feels each joint open and close. This is the learning phase, during which the connection between the different parts is established. Over time, the circles shrink. The spirals become smaller and more subtle, until they are almost imperceptible from the outside, whilst remaining very active internally. The power acquired through the large movements is then condensed into the small ones, and this is how the expert can deliver an explosive strike just a few centimetres from the target.

Tradition warns against a common misconception: it is not enough simply to trace spirals with the hands, to draw taiji figures in the air or to shake the body to develop this strength. No external gesture alone can produce it. It is developed only through progressive training that begins with structure and breathing, continues with the engagement of the deep tissues, and is completed only through the release of power. Chan si gong, the ‘silk reeling’ practice, is a discipline in its own right, spanning many years.

The clearest image given by the masters is that of a force which arises from beneath the feet, winds round the body and escapes through the fist. The practitioner must learn to feel this path as a single continuous line, without any break at the knee, waist, shoulder or elbow. The force is not generated by the arm; it is lent to the arm by the earth. Once this sensation is established, a tiny strike, delivered from a distance of just a few centimetres, can contain the full power of the body.

In the internal arts, the fist is not clenched; it is formed. The fingers fold one after the other, from the little finger towards the index finger, following the natural curve of the hand, and the thumb rests on the second phalanx of the index and middle fingers without crushing them. At rest, the fist is hollow in the centre, as if holding an egg whose shell one would not wish to break. This hollow is essential: it keeps the palm supple, the forearm flexible and the wrist free.

The fist is only fully closed at the very last moment, at the point of impact. The classics state that one must clench the fist at the end, not at the start. A fist clenched from the outset tenses the forearm, stiffens the elbow and locks the shoulder, thereby interrupting the chain of movement. A fist that closes at the end of the swing concentrates all the force onto a tiny surface area and releases it immediately afterwards. The contraction is brief, intense and total, then it subsides.

The striking surface is determined by the bone structure. In a straight punch, the impact is delivered by the first two joints – those of the index and middle fingers – in line with the forearm. The wrist is straight: the back of the hand, the wrist and the forearm form a single line, so that the force travels through the bone without encountering any angle. A wrist bent upwards or downwards dissipates the force and exposes the joint to injury.

[Henning]

Thank you Teacher!