The Internal Practice
The Missing Root: Integrating Taoist Meditation into Martial Form
Taoist Mindset is not a martial arts academy. It is a space for cultivating mental clarity, emotional composure, and unforced action (Wu Wei) in modern life. We use the physical framework of internal movement not to train for combat, but because physical structure does not lie. Where you hold tension and how you navigate movement reveals your default state of mind.
Over decades of traditional practice — from the fast, angular trapping of Northern Praying Mantis to the deep spiral mechanics of Chen-Style Taijiquan — training was almost exclusively physical. Forms were drilled until they were etched into muscle memory, yet Taoist internal meditation was never truly integrated into the martial work.
Meditation was kept as a superficial bookend: a moment of quiet before bow-in, or cooling down after class. The movements themselves were performed with great effort, but without the quiet, settling internal engine that gives them real depth. Conversely, modern mindfulness often floats into a passive calm that instantly shatters the moment physical pressure or real-world friction hits.
Bridging this gap is the personal path I am walking now.
To bring meditation into the body, the practice must be simple enough that the conscious mind can let go. The longer sequences — like the 19-form or the combative 13-form — still require me to think. They demand active navigation of space, transition steps, and choreographic intent.
Because of that, my own daily foundation for Taoist meditation rests entirely on the first two practices below: Standing Post and Silk Reeling. Stripped of complex patterns, they allow the thinking brain to go quiet so the nervous system can simply root, breathe, and yield. The forms remain our long-term horizon — the ultimate test of whether that stillness can hold when movement becomes complex.
The Practices: From Quiet Foundation to Dynamic Challenge
Embryonic Breathing
Practitioner Field Note
If you watch a newborn sleep, you will notice their chest barely moves; instead, their belly rises and falls with a deep, effortless rhythm. This is our original, natural state. But as we grow older and accumulate the stress of modern life, our breath creeps upward. We start breathing shallowly into our upper chests, trapping our energy in a loop of anxiety and tension.
Taoist breathing is simply the practice of returning to that original state, fundamentally known as Embryonic Breathing. As Master Mantak Chia explains in the video above, this practice cultivates a profound internal connection where "when the normal breath stops, the true breath begins". It is about taking the frantic, rising energy of the day and sinking it back down to your centre — the dantian, located just below your navel.
You don't need to force the breath or count seconds. Simply place a hand on your lower abdomen. As you inhale, imagine drawing the air all the way down into your belly, allowing it to expand like a balloon. Let your chest remain quiet and relaxed. As you exhale, let the belly naturally deflate. To incorporate the embryonic mechanic Chia demonstrates, gently hold your breath at the bottom of the exhale, creating a subtle internal "suction" to activate the diaphragm before drawing your next breath.
This single shift changes everything. By moving the breath out of the anxious upper body and down into your rooted centre, you send an immediate signal to your nervous system that you are safe. Whether you are caught in gridlock on the Gardiner Expressway or sitting quietly on the shores of Georgian Bay, sinking your breath is the fastest way to dissolve internal friction and restore your equilibrium.
Guided Dantian Breathing
Practitioner Field Note
When I was training in Chen-style Tai Chi under my teacher, Zhang Rongbing, this precise method of sinking the breath was foundational to our practice. To help you physically experience this shift, I recommend this guided video by Jeffrey Chand, which beautifully mirrors the traditional mechanics I was taught. He introduces a very gentle hand movement that helps you physically map the flow of energy — pulling it into the chest, pressing it down toward the dantian, and releasing the tension outward.
The Visualization: As he points out, your physical lungs obviously do not reach your lower abdomen. The goal is to visualize and feel the breath reaching that deep, which inherently forces your shoulders and upper chest to relax.
Release the Tension: Ensure your jaw, neck, shoulders, and knees are entirely relaxed before you begin. Do not stand rigidly.
Do not be misled by the physical simplicity of this exercise. While the movements are minimal, it is an incredibly effective way to become physically rooted, anchor your mind in the present, and enter a meditative state.
Standing Post (Zhan Zhuang)
Practitioner Field Note
This is my primary tool for quiet Taoist contemplation in the body. While many turn to seated meditation, I have always preferred the standing post. Seated on a cushion, it is far too easy for the mind to drift into daydreams, planning, or subtle complacency. Standing permits no such escape — the physical demands force an immediate, uncompromising presence.
It is also where the living interplay of Yin and Yang becomes felt rather than theorized. The lower body is pure Yang: the feet, legs, and rooted hips work quietly and relentlessly, bearing the load and anchoring you into the earth. The upper body must become Yin: shoulders dropped, chest hollowed, spine suspended, and muscles soft and completely yielding.
Think of the seam where the sun-drenched sand meets the incoming tide. There is no struggle between the baking shore and the cold freshwater — only an embrace, a quiet mingling where each gives way to the other. In the post, your body becomes that very threshold: the legs draw up the deep, resolute warmth of Yang, while the upper body rests in cool, effortless Yin, letting breath and stillness wash between them like the surf.
Long before a student develops a master's ability to remain centred inside continuous motion, the mind easily gets lost trying to execute the next move. In the standing post, freed from that chase, you aren't running ahead of yourself — it becomes much easier to settle in and actually sense the qi. Over time, it becomes an exercise in total subtraction: releasing the lower back, sinking the weight through the bubbling spring of the feet, and letting bone structure and gravity do the work. It is where mental stillness (Jing) stops being an abstract idea and becomes a physical root.
Grandmaster Chen Xiaowang — Essential Silk Reeling
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Grandmaster Chen Xiaowang — Essential Silk Reeling
Silk Reeling (Chan Si Gong)
Practitioner Field Note
If the standing post teaches the mind to settle in stillness, Silk Reeling is the next step: learning to carry that quiet awareness into motion. Once stillness is found in the post, this practice introduces the simplest possible movement. Because the stationary spiral repeats without complex footwork, I don't have to think about where I'm going. The mind can stay completely quiet, tracking the spiral as it uncoils from the hips (kua) and spine down to the fingertips. It is my daily practice of dynamic meditation — learning to move with continuous, unforced ease (Wu Wei) while remaining centred.
To the untrained eye, the practice is easily mistaken for an arm movement — waving the hands through space. It is nothing of the kind. The arms initiate nothing; they merely follow. The movement is born deep in the dantian, rooted in the ground, and steered by the rotation of the waist and hips. The arms are simply the outer expression — an extension of that central engine, carrying the internal wave all the way to the fingertips without muscular tension.
The dantian (literally "field of the elixir") is the energetic root of the entire system. Located deep inside the lower abdomen, it is where breath is stored, settled, and transformed. Taoist thought views it not as a static anatomical point, but as an internal furnace — a calm centre of gravity that stores qi during stillness and pumps it through the meridians during motion. By dropping your awareness into the dantian rather than the racing thoughts in your head, the nervous system naturally downshifts, the breath deepens into the belly, and movement ceases to be an act of will.
Grandmaster Chen Xiaowang — 19-Form Demonstration
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Grandmaster Chen Xiaowang — 19-Form Demonstration
Chen-Style 19-Form
Practitioner Field Note
While the short 9-form is easy to learn, it wraps up just as the breath settles and internal momentum begins to build. The 19-form provides the runway needed for genuine circulation, incorporating foundational work like Wave Hands Like Clouds and explosive power releases (fajin).
Do not be deceived by its shorter length — this is not an easy form to learn, and it hides subtle physical complexities. It eliminates many of the redundancies found in the traditional 20-minute Laojia while retaining all the key internal and martial elements. Mastering the 19-form is a solid milestone in its own right for any Chen Tai Chi practitioner.
Here, however, meditation becomes a deliberate challenge. Because it moves through space, it still forces me to think about transitions and footwork. I use it not as an effortless meditation, but as an honest mirror — showing me the exact moments where physical complexity tempts the mind to rush, tighten, or lose its root.
When I eventually shifted my focus from the 19-form to the longer Laojia, I decided to keep the 19-form in my active daily practice because it remains so physically and mentally rewarding. My advice to anyone on this path: do not rush into Laojia. Take the time to truly master the subtle depths of the 19-form first, as it builds the exact structural integrity you will need later.
Traditional Broadsword — Lineage of Sifu Rongbing Zhang
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Traditional Broadsword — Lineage of Sifu Rongbing Zhang
The Traditional Broadsword
Practitioner Field Note
In traditional practice, a weapon is not merely a tool; it is a symbol of trust and transmission. The broadsword I keep was exchanged in a trade with my teacher, Sifu Rongbing Zhang. It serves as a daily reminder of the profound respect between teacher and student — a lineage of knowledge passed down not through force or ego, but through patience, humility, and mutual dedication.
When you practise with the broadsword, it ceases to be a separate, heavy object and becomes a direct extension of your own energy (Qi). You cannot wield it effectively with simple muscular strength. If your mind is scattered, the blade wanders and pulls you off balance. But when your internal foundation is completely still and deeply rooted, your energy flows seamlessly from your centre, through your body, and straight to the tip of the blade.
When life introduces heavy, fast-moving challenges, our instinct is often to muscle our way through them. I help you cultivate the internal stillness and structural grounding required to stop forcing things. When you are truly centred, your actions, your decisions, and your boundaries become natural extensions of your own energy, allowing you to move through life's momentum with clarity, respect, and perfect balance.
If this path resonates, I would be glad to hear from you.
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