It began as a simple experiment: detecting a subtle bodily sensation with the mindset of an engineer chasing a faint signal. I had no idea that this experiment in mapping inner energy would lead me to question the boundaries between mind, energy, and consciousness.
First steps
The first time I felt the sensation, it appeared spontaneously in specific areas — the tailbone, sacrum, and L4 vertebra. Curious, I decided to explore further to see if I could detect it elsewhere.
My initial step was obvious from an engineering perspective: to detect a weak signal, you must first reduce background noise.
At this early stage, I didn’t think of it as meditation. I simply adopted the most favorable position to minimize other sensations: lying on my back, completely relaxed, until all muscular tensions and pressures faded away. This allowed me to focus exclusively on the specific “signal” I was trying to detect.
Later, when I looked for advice in online forums, everyone insisted that “proper” meditation had to be done sitting in the lotus position. I saw no reason for it beyond tradition. My practical experience showed that the physical strain on my knees and back only created more noise — precisely what I was trying to avoid.
The only objection that made sense was that I might fall asleep. But by that time, the sensation of this inner energy had grown so intense that falling asleep during the practice had become unthinkable.
I continued using my chosen stance, which I later learned is a recognized yoga asana: Savasana, the corpse pose.
Focusing the Signal
The next step was equally straightforward: I needed to focus my attention on specific points. But where? And how wide or narrow should my focus be?
After some experimentation, I found the optimal area to be about the size of a ping-pong ball. I began with the locations shown in chakra diagrams, but soon realized they didn’t fully match what I was experiencing.
When I discovered Daoist energy maps—with their channels running up the spine (Du Mai, the Governing Vessel) and down the front (Ren Mai, the Conception Vessel)—I began exploring both pathways.
I found the same sensations on the front side of my body, directly opposite the points I had felt in the back. Part of this exploration was already familiar territory: through Tantric sexual practice, I had previously experienced strong sensations at the frontal points corresponding to the first three that had arisen spontaneously in the back.
The Role of Intention
The next question was about mental attitude. In Tantric sex, I had learned to let the feeling flow outward—yang—creating a continuous, radiating orgasmic sensation rather than a sudden release.
When I applied the same gentle “letting go” approach in my solo practice, the same thing happened: a mild orgasmic wave that grew stronger the longer I maintained my focus.
This led to a practical decision: should I stay at one point until the feeling reached overwhelming intensity – requiring surely some weeks of training – or move on once a moderate sensation confirmed that a point was active?
Given that the feeling could expand seemingly without limit—and that my primary goal was to map the sources in my body—I chose the latter: to chart the territory before going deeper in any single location.
The Nature of Attention
But the most important discovery came not from spatial focus or physical technique—it came from observing the nature of attention itself.
For most of my life, being “attentive” meant focusing on a task and thinking about it: analyzing, planning, evaluating. Here, that mental activity turned out to be totally counterproductive.
Of course, I had to think and decide where to focus. But once that decision was made, any thought that followed—“This is fantastic,” or “Maybe I should try something else”—instantly made the sensation vanish.
The feeling was so compelling that whenever a thought arose and killed it, I would immediately dismiss the thought just to feel it return. Without intending to, I was practicing meditation — the art of awareness without thought.
In this practice, the sensation itself became both the driver and the anchor of meditation.
Recognizing the Practice
Later, I discovered that this is a core principle of what’s called dual cultivation in internal alchemy — the blending of energy work with meditative awareness.
Looking back, I realize that what began as an engineer’s curiosity about an unexpected inner ‘signal’ turned into something far deeper. This process of mapping inner energy was not just about technical systems—it was leading me straight somewhere I had no category for yet.
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