Traditional View of Fa Jin II

[Le Professeur]

The strike must be delivered with the elbow slightly bent – never locked – and with the sensation that the force does not stop at the surface. The verbal principle accompanying this instruction is that one strikes behind the target. The intention does not stop at the skin; it passes through the opponent’s body and extends behind them. Those who aim for the surface will see their fist bounce off; those who aim beyond it will drive the strike home.

The path of the fist is not that of an arrow shot from the shoulder. It begins in the ground, passes through the rear foot, travels up the leg, reaches the waist, spreads through the back, extends the shoulder, unfolds the elbow, and culminates in the fist. Each segment waits for the previous one to have done its work before engaging, so that the movement propagates like a wave. This is what the ancients call the order of force: first the feet, then the legs, then the waist, then the back, then the arm, then the hand. To reverse this order is to strike with the arm.

To ensure this order is observed, the fist remains relaxed and stays in the background. A fist that strikes first is a fist with nothing behind it. A fist that strikes last is a fist that carries the whole body. The masters describe a paradoxical sensation: the practitioner feels as though their fist is doing nothing, as though it is merely being carried by a body that is unfolding behind it.

The elbow remains dropped and close to the body for almost the entire movement, as if carrying a weight. It is this position that maintains the connection with the waist and protects the flank. It does not splay outwards, which would sever the connection, nor does it rise upwards, which would raise the shoulder. The shoulder, for its part, is lowered and open. The classical texts state that when the shoulder rises or stiffens, the force becomes trapped there and can no longer flow out; it then comes into conflict with the joint, causing a sharp pain. This pain is a sign that the body is not relaxed enough for the force to pass through.

Tradition speaks of an alignment of the three points: the nose, the tip of the fist and the tip of the front foot are on the same vertical line at the moment of impact. This principle indicates that the body has presented itself in a unified manner, without any twisting that would dissipate the force and without any tilting that would shift the centre. It also expresses the unity of focus: the gaze, the hand and the step all converge on a single point.

Fa jin literally means ‘to emit force’. The character fa, meaning ‘to emit’, originally described the act of shooting an arrow: the bow, the arrow, and the movement that releases one through the other. It has come to denote any release of latent energy. The image of the bow encapsulates the whole principle: one does not shoot the arrow with the arm; one draws the bow—that is to say, one builds up tension in the bow, then releases it, and it is the string that propels the arrow. The practitioner’s body is the bow: the legs and back are the wood, the tendons the string, and the fist the arrow.

The classical texts put it this way: the release is like letting go of the arrow, and the storage is like drawing the bow. There is no release without storage, and the quality of the release is entirely determined by the quality of the storage that precedes it. A strike that arises without having been charged is not fa jin: it is merely a gesture.

In the traditional view, the power of the release does not depend on effort. It depends on the unity of the body, the speed of the release and the relaxation that accompanies it. The ancients noted a paradox: the most yang, the most explosive force arises from the most yin, the most supple foundation. It is because the body is entirely relaxed that the release can be complete, and it is because it is complete that it is powerful. The classic text says no different when it recommends, at the moment of release, to sink down, to relax completely and to aim in a single direction.

There is a profound lesson here. Those who wish to strike hard tense up, and it is precisely this tension that prevents them from generating power. Those who know how to strike hard empty themselves of all resistance at the critical moment, and it is this emptiness that allows the force to surge forth. The master’s answer to the question of power is therefore always the same: relax further.

Fa jin is broken down into five phases, which flow seamlessly into one another but are learnt separately.

In the first phase, the practitioner is calm and centred, in a state of wuji: motionless, rooted, with a peaceful mind, revealing no intention whatsoever. This initial state is essential for the strike to be imperceptible, for a strike foreshadowed by tension in the face, a shrugging of the shoulders or a lifting of the heels is a strike already lost.

The second phase is sinking. The body lowers slightly, the knees bend, the pelvis drops, the weight sinks into the supporting foot, and there is a sensation of connecting with the ground. The classics speak of sinking to reach the root: it is here that one finds support from the earth; without this, there is no force to transmit.

In the third phase, the storage phase, the dantian contracts, the tailbone tucks in, the back rounds slightly, the chest hollows out, and the deep tissues gently twist in a coiling motion. The body is like a drawn bow. This storage is subtle: from the outside it is almost invisible, and the practitioner must learn to achieve it in an instant. Masters describe it as a ‘closing’: by closing, one stores, and what is stored is immediately emitted.

In the fourth phase, the release occurs. The release takes place in a single fluid motion: the push from the back foot propels the leg, the leg propels the waist, the waist uncoils the back, the back extends the shoulder, the shoulder moves through the elbow, and the elbow moves through the hand. The dantian expands abruptly and the fist closes at the very end. All this takes less than a heartbeat and must leave no trace of jerkiness.

In the fifth phase, the return to stillness, the body relaxes completely; the force not absorbed by the target flows into the ground, and the practitioner regains their centre. If this return does not take place, if the body remains tense or if the emission is incomplete, the force remains within the practitioner and may injure them.

Tradition emphasises this point with particular gravity: all the accumulated force must be released. A force that is generated but then held back turns against the practitioner. It rebounds within the body, lodges in the abdomen, shoulder or elbow, and causes nausea, joint pain, and sometimes lasting damage. The elders say that force which has not found an outlet seeks a way out from within. This is why one always practises complete release, right through to the end of the movement, without holding back or restraining it, and why one begins with gentle releases, moving on to stronger ones only once the body has become an unimpeded conduit.

The entire logic of the release follows a principle that the classical texts formulate as follows: within the curve, seek the straight line. We store energy by bending, we release by unbending; we close in order to open; we withdraw in order to advance. Every release is preceded by an opposite movement, subtle but real. To strike forwards, the body moves slightly backwards for an instant, not by retreating, but by loading. This infinitesimal backward movement is the drawing of the bow. A practitioner without this loading phase strikes with the arm; a practitioner who exaggerates this loading phase gives themselves away and loses the element of surprise. Perfection lies in an almost invisible back-and-forth movement, which is the hallmark of the master.

Traditionally, a distinction is made between the long strike and the short strike. The long strike deploys the entire chain over a wide arc: the body charges fully, advances, strikes, and the force has time to rise from the ground. It is easy to learn and serves as the foundation. The short strike, often described as ‘applying force within an inch’, executes the same sequence over a minuscule distance: the fist is almost in contact with the target, yet it is the whole body that strikes. It is the culmination of the gradual reduction of large movements and requires a very subtle internal connection.

The short strike is more difficult not because it requires greater strength, but because it leaves less room for error. Over a long range, a lack of connection can be compensated for by momentum. Over a range of just a few centimetres, the slightest failure in relaxation or alignment completely negates the effect.

Tradition also describes a release that manifests as a sudden vibration throughout the whole body, referred to by an expression evoking a trembling spring. This is visible in ancient forms where the practitioner punctuates certain movements with a stamp of the foot and a tremor that runs through the body. This jolt is not a stylistic device: it is the visible hallmark of total relaxation, and also serves as an exercise, as it teaches the body to release all its tension in a single movement. Masters of the tradition practise it regularly to maintain the sensitivity of the force chain.

Breath is the bridge between body and mind, and it is through breath that intention is translated into force. In all lineages, the basic rule is the same: one inhales whilst storing energy, and exhales whilst releasing it. Inhalation accompanies the closing, the drawing back, and the loading of the bow. Exhalation accompanies the opening, the release, and the shooting of the arrow. This rhythm is not merely a convention. It corresponds to the body’s physiology: exhalation naturally relaxes the muscles, lowers the centre of gravity and allows the force to descend – which is exactly what the release requires.

The breath used for release is deep, drawn down into the lower abdomen, never high in the chest. High breathing raises the shoulders, elevates the centre of gravity and severs the connection with the dantian. The ancients say that the breath must fall into the dantian like a stone into a well. When it descends there, the abdomen fills, the back opens, the ribs expand, and the whole body stabilises. It is from this foundation that the emission can surge forth.

A particular method, described by several lineages, is reverse breathing: during inhalation, the lower abdomen hollows slightly whilst the chest relaxes; during exhalation, the lower abdomen expands outwards. It is called ‘reverse’ because it is the opposite of the ordinary breathing pattern of an adult, where the abdomen swells during inhalation. Its effects are to strengthen the muscular and tendinous connections around the dantian, to stabilise the torso, and to improve the transmission of force from the ground. It is first learnt whilst stationary, in a posture, before being incorporated into movement. It is practised gently: violent or prolonged exertion is counterproductive, and anyone who feels dizzy or short of breath must immediately return to natural breathing.

Advanced teachings refer to a practice of engaging the deep tissues through the breath. It involves, by means of slow and precise breaths, gently inflating the interior of the body, much like inflating a bicycle inner tube, so that the tendons, fasciae and small muscles are filled with a sensation of fullness and elastic tension. This practice makes the body resilient and elastic, and protects against the breath being drawn back. It is done without any tension: the expansion is internal, it cannot be seen, and if it can be seen, it means one is straining.

Sound accompanies the emission in several traditions. Masters recommend emitting a brief sound at the moment of relaxation, from the throat or the abdomen, often described as a dry, low-pitched breath. The sound has three functions. It forces a complete exhalation, so that the body empties at the critical moment. It activates the dantian, causing its depths to vibrate. It synchronises the whole process: everything that relaxes does so at the same moment, in time with the sound. The ancients note that in the emission, one uses a breath of the ‘héng’ and ‘hà’ types—the former deeper and more restrained, the latter more open and released—and that this sound gives the body’s entire energy an upward movement.

The sound must not be a shout. A shout strains the throat, lifts the centre, and wastes the breath. The correct sound is short, natural, and emerges from the abdomen like a restrained grunt. In silent practice, it is emitted in the form of a breath expelled through the nose or through slightly parted lips, which serves the same function.

The sequence of the emission follows an order that never varies. Intention, yi, comes first: it chooses the direction and the moment. Breath, qi, follows intention: it flows where intention directs it. Force, jin, follows the breath: the body unfolds along the path opened by the breath. The masters say that without intention, there is no breath, and that without breath, there is no internal force. The strike is thus first and foremost an act of the mind, and the physical aspect is merely its manifestation.

This is why the internal arts attach such importance to the quality of attention. A vague intention produces a vague strike. A divided intention, wavering between striking and defending, splits the mind and vitality, and the force is dispersed. The classics warn against this division: one who must both attack and defend has a scattered mind. True power requires a unified mind, free from ulterior motives, entirely focused on a single point.

The most subtle level is that of the shen. A mind at peace, free from aggression, is more effective than a mind strained by anger or fear. Tradition holds that the greatest masters were gentle in character, and that their display of force bore this mark: rather than hurling their opponent far away in a spectacular display, they would stop them in their tracks, as if frozen, by cutting short their momentum and intent. Such mastery requires a mind free from any desire to harm, ‘at peace and devoid of aggression’. This is where the martial art converges with the Taoist path: the highest power is that which need not show itself.

The practice of calm, contemplation (guan), and stillness (jing) is therefore not an optional extra. It is the fertile ground for the shen. The practitioner who meditates develops a steady focus, which is then channelled into movement: the mind does not become agitated at the moment of striking, the gaze remains clear, and the centre remains calm. The tradition of internal alchemy expresses this requirement by calling for the ‘turning back of the light’, huiguang, that is to say, bringing the attention that escapes outwards back towards the centre.

Internal strength is not acquired through the accumulation of exercises, but through layering. Each stage lays the foundation for the next, and one only progresses once the previous stage has become second nature. The masters agree on this point: trying to rush through the stages is the surest way to injure oneself and achieve nothing. The process takes a considerable amount of time: it takes several years to master the correct emission, and a lifetime to refine it. The stages that follow form a general framework, which a master adapts to each individual when passing on the teaching.

The first stage is stillness, for everything begins with it. The tree posture, zhanzhuang, involves standing with the feet shoulder-width apart, the knees slightly bent, the pelvis tucked in, the back straight, the shoulders relaxed, and the arms rounded in front of the chest as if embracing a large tree trunk. The crown of the head is held lightly, the chin slightly tucked in, the gaze calm. The posture is maintained without apparent effort, with gentle attention focused on the lower abdomen.

This practice appears deceptively simple. In reality, it accomplishes almost everything: it teaches relaxation, it grounds the body, it aligns the structure, it calms the mind, and it gradually fills the dantian. One begins with a few minutes and gradually increases the duration in stages up to half an hour or more, without ever forcing it. The first few weeks are often uncomfortable: the legs tremble, the shoulders burn, the mind is restless. These are normal signs, indicating that the body is releasing its old tensions. Acute pain, on the other hand, is a sign of incorrect posture, which must be corrected immediately.

The second stage begins once your posture is stable: you loosen up the joints that control the transmission of force. Traditional waist exercises consist of slow rotations of the torso around its axis, with supple knees and arms hanging down, gently tapping against the stomach and back like the strings of a drum. We then work on transferring weight from one foot to the other, slowly, feeling the thrust from the weight-bearing foot propagate through the leg and into the waist. Slow walking, where each step is deliberate and the weight shifts smoothly from one leg to the other, is part of the same practice.

The traditions of circular walking add a valuable exercise to this: one walks in a circle whilst keeping the arms in position, with the waist turned towards the centre, so that the body learns to twist and unfold whilst walking. The exercise known as ‘tea serving’, in which one carries a full cup whilst the waist, back and shoulder perform continuous rotations, develops a subtle mastery: if the arm stiffens, the tea spills.

In the third stage, once the body is open, breathing is introduced. One first learns to breathe deeply into the lower abdomen whilst in the posture, until one feels the dantian filling and emptying with the breath. One then moves on, with caution, to reverse breathing, first whilst standing, then whilst moving. This stage is practised gently: one must never force the breath or hold it in, and one returns to natural breathing as soon as dizziness or tightness occurs.

At the same time, practise contracting and expanding the empty dantian: whilst in the posture, tuck in the tailbone, gently tighten the perineum, allow the lower abdomen to focus, then release suddenly, feeling a pulsation. This pulsation, initially faint, grows with practice and becomes the driving force behind the emission.

The fourth stage focuses on chan si gong, beginning with one-arm exercises: the hand traces a circle, the forearm pivots, the elbow drops, the shoulder opens, the waist leads the whole movement, and the weight shifts from one foot to the other. We then practise with both arms, followed by the coiling of the waist and back, and finally the coiling of the legs. The circles are initially wide and slow. Here we learn continuity: the movement never stops; it changes direction without interruption, like a silk thread.

The masters emphasise that this stage must be built upon several months of prior work on flexibility and posture. Attempting to coil without having opened up the body is like twisting a rope that is not supported by anything.

The fifth stage applies the complete sequence to a punch executed very slowly, taking around ten seconds. The sequence of force is observed at every moment: foot, leg, waist, back, shoulder, elbow, fist. One seeks to feel the path of the force as a continuous thread, from the sole of the foot to the tip of the fist. At the slightest break in continuity, one stops and looks for the point of failure: the shoulder rising, the knee buckling, the waist locking up, the wrist buckling. Slowness is not an end in itself; it is a magnifying glass: it allows one to see what speed conceals.

This slow strike is repeated thousands of times. It is unremarkable work, which puts off those seeking quick results, but it is here that the foundation upon which the entire movement will rest is forged.

At the sixth stage, once the slow strike is correct, power and release are introduced. The practitioner draws the bow slowly, feeling the bow tension spread throughout the body, then releases in one smooth motion, initially at a moderate speed. They learn to recognise the sensation of a complete release, where the whole body empties and the force flows unimpeded, and to distinguish it from a partial release, where an area remains blocked. They accelerate very gradually, as the release remains complete.

This is combined with breathing and sound: inhaling during the draw, exhaling and making a brief sound during the release. If pain occurs in the shoulder, elbow or abdomen, one stops, returns to a slower pace and looks for a structural error. The release is not forced: it occurs when the body is ready.

The seventh stage begins when the release is stable at full range of motion: the range of motion is gradually reduced. One strikes first with the arm fully extended, then at half-range, then at a few tens of centimetres, then at a few centimetres. With each reduction, the force must remain the same. This is when one realises that the power did not come from the momentum, but from the internal connection. The small movements become increasingly precise and concentrated, and the practitioner gradually achieves the short strike.

The eighth stage is that of contact. The strike needs to encounter resistance in order to be put to the test. We therefore practise on suitable targets: a heavy, flexible bag; a thick cushion held by a partner; or a padded surface. The aim is for the strike to penetrate rather than bounce off, and we observe the effect on the target: a bag struck well with internal power moves little on the surface and absorbs the impact deeply, whereas a strike delivered merely with arm strength causes it to swing. Training with a partner, using the ‘hands-together’ technique, also develops attentiveness and a sense of timing, as a strike only has martial value if it is delivered at the right moment, in the right direction and at the right distance.

Contact training requires caution. One begins with very light strikes, increases the intensity only gradually, and never strikes a partner without their consent or without protection. The masters emphasise that true power is controlled: one who cannot project force gently has not yet truly mastered the art.

Finally, at the ninth stage, the release is integrated into traditional sequences. Ancient forms include movements in which force is released, often preceded by a long phase of relaxation and energy storage. By practising them, the practitioner learns to transition effortlessly from gentleness to explosiveness and from explosiveness back to gentleness. The form then becomes a constant laboratory where jin is refined with every repetition.

Regular practice is more important than intense practice. A daily session, however brief, is better than a long weekly session. A sensible routine involves devoting time each day to posture, time to flexibility, and time to breathwork, whilst reserving emission exercises for a few sessions a week, interspersed with rest days, as tendons and joints need time to recover. Traditional lineages recommend a year of physical preparation before attempting full power projection, and continuing this preparation even afterwards.

Tradition does not neglect the hand itself. A powerful yet fragile fist shatters on impact: the metacarpals, the joints and the wrist must be able to withstand the force they transmit. Conditioning takes place slowly, over months and years, based on the principle that bones and tendons are strengthened through increasing and measured stress, never through a sudden impact.

One begins with soft surfaces: striking the air with correct form, then a thick pad, then a soft bag. One then moves, very gradually, to firmer surfaces, as the skin, bones and joints adapt. Striking sessions are always alternated with rest days. The different lineages combine this with specific care routines: massaging the hands and forearms after practice, warm herbal baths or lotions to stimulate circulation, and regular stretching of the wrists and fingers. Traditional Chinese medicine regards this as a means of maintaining the flow of energy and blood to the extremities.

The practitioner also strengthens the wrist and forearm through slow twisting and extension exercises, suspension training, and holding fist postures. But the primary focus remains alignment. A fist that strikes straight, with a well-supported wrist, experiences evenly distributed stress; a fist that strikes at an angle will cause injury, however hard it may be.

Over the years, the work on the actual striking technique becomes solely a matter of conditioning, as the movements themselves are already ingrained in the very essence of the practitioner.

General preparation always precedes the strike. It includes stretching the shoulders, back, hips, thighs and wrists, slow rotations of all the joints, and a gradual warm-up. Tendons do not load properly when cold, and delivering a strike without preparation is the main cause of injury. Tradition advises warming up the body through gentle movement before asking it to make any explosive effort.

Internal power depends on the quality of life. Sleep restores the tissues and replenishes the jing. A simple, regular diet, without excess, nourishes the qi. A calm mind protects the shen. The ancients warned against exhaustion: excessive wakefulness, alcohol, fatigue or dissipation deplete the reservoir in the lower abdomen, and an empty dantian prevents the emission. One should not practise the emission when exhausted, ill or agitated, nor should one practise immediately after a heavy meal. One waits until the breath is calm and the body rested.

Tradition also emphasises the moral dimension of the practice, jie. Unrestrained power is a danger both to the one who possesses it and to others. The master who teaches the art of emission only teaches it to pupils whose character he has assessed, for power belongs to the Way, not to the ego.

Difficulties in the practice are always indicated by the same symptoms, which masters can recognise at a glance.

The first mistake is to strike with the arm: the fist leads the way, the shoulder pulls, the waist remains motionless, and the blow, though swift, lacks weight. The remedy is to return to a slow strike and to initiate the movement from the foot.

The second is to raise the shoulder: the upper body tenses, the force becomes concentrated in the joint and pain sets in; one then relaxes, lets the shoulder drop and ensures that the elbow remains lowered.

The third is to lock the elbow at the end of the stroke, which causes the force to impact the joint; maintain a slight bend and aim behind the target.

The fourth is to lift the back heel, which breaks the connection to the ground and eliminates the push from the ground; keep the back foot planted until the end of the stroke.

The fifth is to lean forwards: the centre of gravity shifts beyond the base and the body loses its balance; maintain the vertical axis and move forwards with the step, not with the torso.

The sixth mistake is to hold back the force: the release is incomplete, the force remains within the body and causes discomfort, nausea or pain; you project right to the end, with breath and sound, and then resume at a lower intensity. The practitioner becomes fragile and is constantly unwell.

The seventh is to constantly tense the abdomen, so that the dantian becomes rigid instead of pulsing; you alternate between tensing and relaxing and return to the tree posture.

The eighth is to seek strength before structure, by performing a multitude of spectacular exercises without having established relaxation, the root and the axis; one returns to the fundamentals, without shame, as often as necessary.

The ninth is to give oneself away, for a receding shoulder, a fixed gaze or a visible inhalation alert the opponent; we work on maintaining a calm expression and a discreet application of force.

The tenth is to confuse strength with tension, believing that power is proportional to the effort felt; we remember that the correct sensation is one of unusual ease.

The practitioner knows they are making progress when their body sends them constant signals. The weight feels heavier in the legs and lighter in the shoulders. Warmth settles in the lower abdomen and in the hands. The breath lengthens and deepens effortlessly. Strikes, for the same amount of effort, become more powerful. Fatigue sets in later and dissipates more quickly. And above all, a sense of ease takes hold – that of a movement happening of its own accord. When this ease is present, strength is present.

The traditional view of the power of the fist can be summarised in a few words, but it takes a lifetime to live out. Strength arises from the earth, not from the arm. It flows through a body free of tension, organised by its structure, controlled by the waist, and nourished by the dantian. It coils like silk to gain depth. It is stored like a bow being drawn, then released in a single, continuous motion, carried by the breath and directed by intention. And it culminates in a fist that merely receives what the whole body has entrusted to it.

But this vision does not stop at mechanics. In the spirit of the Dao, the exercise of force is an exercise in self-transformation. To strike accurately, one must relax, and thus let go of tension. To release fully, one must empty oneself, and thus let go of the fear of losing. To direct intention, one must calm the mind, and thus let go of restlessness. Every technical advance is also an inner advance, and the two are inseparable. This is why the tradition asserts that the one who truly possesses inner power is the one who no longer needs to display it.

The practitioner who embarks on this path would do well to bear three principles in mind. The first is patience: no stage is to be skipped, and time spent on the foundations is never wasted. The second is the truth of the body: every pain is a sign, every stiffness a teacher, and it is better to take a step back than to persist stubbornly. The third is transmission: what is written is merely a guide, and the correction of a qualified master, with a hand on the body, is worth more than a thousand pages.

The ancients liked to say that the softest triumphs over the hardest, and that water, which has no form, hollows out stone. The fist of the internal arts is this water: it lacks the hardness of iron, but it carries the weight of the earth behind it. He who has understood this ceases to seek to strike hard. He seeks to make himself perfectly receptive, and the strength comes of its own accord.

This vision is in every respect superior to modern theory and allows for unlimited development over time and in the pursuit of knowledge.

[Henning]

Thank you Teacher!