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Author: juan

  • The Huiming Jing (慧命經) – On weaving consciousness and vital energy

    The Huiming Jing (慧命經), written by Liu Huayang in 1794, is a rare synthesis of Buddhism and Daoism. It bridges the cultivation of awareness and the refinement of the body, proposing that weaving consciousness and vital energy is the primary ‘warp’ of human realization.

    The meaning of 慧命經

    A literal translation of 慧命經 (Huì Mìng Jīng) would be The Canon of Wisdom and Life. However, as is often the case in classical Chinese, a deeper meaning is hidden within its characters—each carrying layers of symbolic and philosophical nuance.

    • 慧 (Huì) means “wisdom,” equivalent to prajñā in Buddhist terminology. In this context, however, it does not refer to intellectual understanding but to transcendent, non-conceptual awareness—the Primordial Spirit (元神, Yuánshén). To cultivate Huì is to purify and stabilize Shén (神), which in practical terms refers to consciousness itself.
    • 命 (Mìng) is usually translated as “life,” “destiny,” or “vitality.” In neidan (internal alchemy), it represents the vital aspect of being—the manifestation of our essential energies, rooted in Essence (精, Jīng) and Vital Force (氣, Qì). To cultivate Mìng is to strengthen, refine, and preserve these energies—the life of the body and its animating principle.
    • 經 (Jīng), commonly rendered as “classic” or “scripture,” originally meant “warp,” the fixed, lengthwise threads in a loom upon which the weft is woven. Its later use to denote canonical texts is metaphorical: these teachings are the warp onto which the threads of practice are interwoven.

    Thus, the title Huiming Jing could also be understood as “Weaving Consciousness and vital energy.” Interestingly, the Sanskrit word Tantra (तन्त्र) literally means “loom,” “warp,” or “weave.” Tantra, too, is defined by integration—of the mundane and the sacred, the masculine and the feminine, wisdom (prajñā) and method (upāya). These are the “threads” woven into a single fabric of realization.

    This bold integrative vision—uniting body and spirit—was the path championed by Liu Huayang, who called it “dual practice.” It stood in contrast to the prevailing Chan orthodoxy of his time, which, although rooted in the Mahāyāna ideal of non-duality, often emphasized an ascetic, mind-only approach reminiscent of Theravāda.

    The Historical Context: A Banned Practice

    The Huiming Jing was published in 1794, sixty-two years after the Yongzheng Emperor’s edict of 1732, which banned what he termed the “Dual Practice of the Mind School and the Law School” (心智雙修 / 宗教雙修). The emperor—himself a devout Buddhist—favored a highly orthodox form of Chan. He argued that dual cultivation led to “disregarding the monastic rules and neglecting the teachings of the patriarchs,” framing it as a moral and spiritual corruption that threatened both religious and social order.

    Liu Huayang’s Response and Vision

    In response, Liu Huayang composed the Huiming Jing to demonstrate that both the Chan and Daoist paths ultimately aimed at the same realization, and that dual practice was in fact the more effective means. In his introduction, he cites his teacher Hu Yun:

    “The dual cultivation of Buddhism has now been severed and extinguished. You must continue its lifeline, in order to ferry across those who have affinity.”
    (佛教雙修，今已斷滅，子當續其命脈，以度有緣)

    He then openly criticizes the degeneration of Chan orthodoxy:

    “I have observed that those who seek the Dao mostly take the Recorded Sayings (Yulu) as their authority. Yet within these records, there are truthful words and reckless words. Those of shallow learning, not knowing the Tathāgata’s Dao of Huiming, mistakenly cling to slogan-Chan (taoyu Chan), becoming the lowest of fools and harming themselves through these recorded sayings.”
    (余見世之求道者，多宗語錄，而語錄中有實語者，有妄語者，彼下學不知如來慧命之道，誤入套語禪，終為下愚，轉受語錄之害)

    Revealing the Secrets of the Ancients

    Declaring his purpose, Liu Huayang writes:

    “I have drawn diagrams and established images, opening the secrets of the ancient Buddhas and revealing the primordial pivot of the patriarchs. It is truly a ladder and a raft to receive and guide later learners.”
    (故纂集是書，命曰慧命經，畫圖立相，開古佛之秘密，洩師祖之元機，洵接引後學之梯筏也)

    He even goes so far as to claim that his book alone is sufficient for enlightenment:

    “Using simple and direct words, I have taken the treasure of the Buddha and laid it all out completely. Learners who encounter this慧命經 will feel as though it were a personal transmission. They need only to strengthen their will, refine their energy, and practice diligently; it will not be necessary to seek other teachers. Thus, Buddhahood can be realized immediately.”
    (今以淺率之言，將佛寶流傳，和盤托出，俾世之學者，睹此慧命經，即若親口相傳，只須勵志精勤，不必他山求助，則佛果可以立証，此余苦心求師悟道之本願也)

    In other words, Liu claims that the Huiming Jing contains all the necessary teachings for realization—an assertion both bold and controversial. Personally, I find this unlikely, much more for those who have not directly experienced (rather than merely imagined) the energy dynamics he describes. Still, it is a remarkable and audacious statement of spiritual autonomy.

    Finding the Text Today

    I first encountered the text through James Michael Nicholson’s 2000 master’s thesis, The Huiming Jing: A Translation and Discussion (University of British Columbia), available through UBC Library Open Collections. The full classical Chinese text is also accessible on ctext.org, where it can be read online, machine-translated, or copied into an AI translator for study.

    Unfortunately, the ctext.org version omits the eight essential diagrams with their handwritten annotations, which illustrate the key stages of the alchemical process:

    • Path of the End of Leakage
    • Chart of the Six Phases of the Dharma-Wheel
    • Chart of the Two Meridians: Conception and Governing
    • Chart of the Embryo of the Tao
    • Chart of Sending Forth the Embryo
    • Chart of the Transformation Body
    • Chart of Facing the Wall
    • Chart of Dissolution into Empty Void

    Liu’s claim that a text can replace a teacher is a bold statement of spiritual autonomy. While I remain skeptical of literalism, the process of weaving consciousness and vital energy described in these eight diagrams remains a remarkable ladder for the independent practitioner.

    I plan to reproduce and discuss these figures in future posts.

     

  • Annotated Sources: Reading Spiritual Texts Through Experience

    The classic texts and symbols gathered here are reference points, not foundations. This section approaches them as an exercise in reading spiritual texts through experience. Some resonate closely with what I have perceived; others do not. Where ancient metaphors overlap with direct experience, I take note. Where they fail, I note that too. These annotations represent an ongoing attempt to map correspondences and discrepancies — not to validate tradition, but to understand what, if anything, these teachings still reveal about lived phenomena.

    The Three Treasures: How Taking Classic Texts Literally Leads to Catastrophic Results

    What was originally a subtle map of transformation has sometimes turned into a field of superstition and fear.

    The Huiming Jing (慧命經) – On weaving consciousness and vital energy in Liu Huayang’s alchemical scripture

    This text is a rare synthesis of Chan Buddhism and Daoist internal alchemy. This post explores the text’s historical context, its symbolism, and the author’s daring attempt to reconcile body and mind within one path of realization.

    The Buddhist Cartography: What Fit My Experience and What Didn’t

    A personal reflection on how traditional chakra maps both guided and misled my experience — and why energy work must be lived, not just read.

    The Ten Ox Diagrams: A Zen Map of the Path to Awakening

    A contextual commentary on the Ten Ox Diagrams, a classical Zen series depicting the stages of awakening through a mind-only contemplative framework.

    These annotations remain part of an ongoing experiment in reading spiritual texts through experience, where agreement and disagreement are equally informative.

     

  • Lightning in the Dark – Tantric Awakening and Dissolution

    A recollection of the first glimpses of perceptual shifts—moments like lightning in the dark. These reflections capture the raw astonishment of discovering how tantric awakening and dissolution intertwine, written during the early years of my exploration.

    First Flashes

    When I managed to keep thoughts at bay, I began to glimpse something different—brief flashes that slowly shifted my perception. These glimpses were like lightning in the dark: brief illuminations of a reality I hadn’t known, previews of what was to come. My first insights were always confirmed by later experiences, as the intensity and quality of the feeling deepened.

    This was my perception in 2015, only three years after my epiphany in August 2012.

    On Dilution and Death

    The first departure from ordinary experience was a sense of dilution—long before I felt the energy flowing out of my body—and of connection with something much larger. The feeling was like dying, yet instead of fear it brought a quiet hope. Death was no longer perceived as an end, but as a new beginning—like going back home.

    “Imagine that you are in total darkness. Then, for a moment, there is a faint light—and back to the dark again. You try to reconstruct in your mind what you barely perceived. This is what I will try to do now. Not easy, because what I dimly saw, through the windshield and the rearview mirror, looked very much like Death.

    For us, tantric sex means spending ten, fifteen, twenty minutes being traversed by this energy. And I mean it—we both feel the same thing. It feels like a vast and eternal wave of bliss, not the ‘simultaneous orgasm’ where two private experiences happen to coincide. We clearly experience the same flow, with its highs and lows.

    This is a huge departure from any normal experience. Our minds, our whole beings, are connected. And this communion has deep consequences. We dissolve into each other. And we feel dissolved into something immense—like two drops of water merging into one, and then thrown into a river.

    In those moments, when I can drink from that fountain without being pulled toward physical release, I glimpse the real nature of my thirst—the drive we call sex. What I was seeking in the arms of my lovers was this: dissolving into the other, breaking free from the prison of my ego. And through the other, dissolving into… God? If I were Saint Teresa, my cultural lens would surely point to that as the logical answer. As an atheist, I don’t know what to think. This dissolution feels like death—but under that light, the word loses its sting. It feels more like going home. So what I wanted through sex was dying—going home.”

    On the Self

    Being aware without thoughts, even for a short time, made me realize that what I had always understood as “me” was only a bundle of thoughts—memories and desires. My real self was this awareness, silently watching thoughts arise and fade away. The idea—perhaps just wishful thinking—that this “deep self” was the one going back home slowly began to take shape.

    “But who’s going home? Again, I’ll try to describe another dim and strange perception.

    Tantric sex with a partner requires some attention to the body—movement, balance, physical awareness. But when I lie back and I’m alone with this energy, the mind truly stops, or nearly so. It has to, or the energy will not flow. In that silence, thoughts are perceived very differently. Our hands and feet are useful tools, but we don’t see them as our ‘self.’ With a still, or nearly still mind, I perceive my thoughts the same way—as tools, but not as me. And that changes everything.

    I dimly perceive that this thing I’ve always called ‘me’ is nothing more than a bundle of thoughts, memories and desires. Yet now they feel like a house I once lived in—a space full of memories, most of them good, but no longer home. The melancholy of those empty rooms is mixed with the excitement of moving on.

    That’s how I feel when I look at that old ‘me’ that no longer feels like me. What I really am is that which moves to a new home. The old self must be left behind; it can’t be carried forward. It cannot survive death—that’s impossible. But then, what is this new ‘me,’ and where is it going? Even considering the possibility of transcending death is a Copernican shift for someone like me—an atheist.”

    On God

    If the real self was free of desire, what could we expect from God—if there was one? A god enslaved by his own desires? I was still deeply skeptical about the very existence of anything we could call “God.” But if such a being existed, it would surely give its grace as the sun gives its light: expecting nothing, asking nothing, shining for all who choose to join it.

    “After all, the trees are not worshipping the Sun—they simply stay away from the dark. And the Sun gives life to the trees by burning herself, but not because she receives any worship. What else could she do? She is the Sun!

    So I don’t see myself praying or worshipping any god. But I’ll try to find a little place under this Sun—she who gives without asking—where I can lay my towel.”

    Even for an atheist, these states suggest a Copernican shift. By observing the process of tantric awakening and dissolution, I found that the ‘old self’ is merely a house I once lived in, while the sun shines regardless of our labels.

  • States of Mind: Perceptual Shifts in Awareness

    This section describes perceptual shifts in awareness as they appeared in my own experience — not as doctrines or universal truths, but as changes in the way reality seemed to organize itself. The dissolution of bodily boundaries, the blending of masculine and feminine qualities, and the fading of dualities such as self and other, inside and outside — all pointed to a different mode of awareness. I can only describe what unfolded; interpretation remains provisional.

    Lightning in the Dark | Tantric Awakening, Death, and Dissolution

    A recollection of the first glimpses of perceptual shifts—moments like lightning in the dark, illuminating the path before I even knew there was one. These reflections, written in 2015, capture the raw astonishment of discovering how love, death, and dissolution intertwine.

    Energy Practice and Mystical Experience

    Mystical experiences arise naturally in energy practice. A sober reflection on why they do not justify grand metaphysical claims.

    Beyond the Narrative Self

    A reflective exploration of the narrative self, awareness, and the tension between scientific skepticism and contemplative experience.

    Tinkering with My BIOS: Basic Instructions for Survival

    A speculative exploration using the BIOS metaphor: how identity, space, and survival instincts may persist beyond thought and perception.

     Together, these reflections attempt to describe perceptual shifts in awareness without fixing them into conclusions, leaving meaning open to interpretation.

  • The Macrocosmic Orbit

    After completing the Microcosmic Orbit, I began searching for signs of a broader circulation—the Macrocosmic Orbit described in Daoist alchemy. This post documents how that expansion unfolded through direct experience, moving from controlled loops to spontaneous activation.

    From Microcosmic to Macrocosmic: The Question of Full-Body Flow

    The Microcosmic Orbit was a highly efficient tool for building a critical mass of Qi. Yet for a long time, I could feel its flow clearly only along the Du Mai and Ren Mai. I discovered mentions of a “Macrocosmic Orbit” that promised a circulation encompassing the entire body, but unlike the well-documented Microcosmic Orbit, references to it were scarce and cryptic.

    In hindsight, I see two likely reasons for this absence of clear instruction. The first is simple: once the Microcosmic Orbit does its job, the pressurized Qi begins to move on its own, automatically filling the whole body. At that point, the practitioner’s role shifts from doing to allowing.

    The second reason is more historical and perhaps protective: this knowledge was often considered too powerful and too easy to misunderstand, reserved for direct transmission from teacher to student. And inevitably, the question arose: This secrecy is meant to protect the inexperienced practicioner or to keep the sway of the master over the disciple? While this preserved the teachings, it also placed a veil over the process for the independent practitioner. 

    Faced with this veil, I was left with a simple question: if Qi is meant to fill the whole body, how does it actually happen?

    The Missing Instructions and the Role of Confluent Points

    I already felt soft, diffuse sensations in my extremities, with hints of flow lines along my arms, legs, and torso. But the key that fully unlocked these circuits came from a friend on a forum — a practitioner of Traditional Chinese Medicine. She told me about the Confluent Points (交会穴, Jiāohuì Xué), or Master Points, which are unique acupoints where two or more of the Eight Extraordinary Vessels intersect with the twelve primary meridians. She suggested I try focusing on them, just as I had with points on the Microcosmic Orbit.

    “Just check it out,” she said. “If it’s not interesting, drop it! But you’re so good at focusing and activating — I’m very curious what you’ll get.”

    Confluent point LU-7, opening the front of the arms
    Confluent point SI-3 opening the back of the arms
    Confluent point P-6 opening the inner side of the arm
    Confluent point SJ-5 opening the outer side of the arm

    What I got was a noticeable jump in intensity that made the flow lines appear with much greater definition. For instance, focusing on LU7 revealed channels running along the front of my arms, from my thumbs to my chest and neck. SI3 sharpened a channel along the back of my arms, from my pinky fingers to my shoulder blades and neck. Similarly, P6 traced a pathway on the inner arm, while SJ5 defined a line on the outer arm.

    A similar phenomenon unfolded in the legs, revealing four distinct lines. Crucially, these channels didn’t terminate at the limbs but continued along the torso all the way up to the neck. Suddenly, in this central region, I didn’t just have two channels — I had eight. If the Ren Mai and Du Mai were my North and South poles, I now perceived lateral lines to the East and West, and four more running diagonally between them.

    I mapped them as straight lines, following a simple geometric logic, and began running “orbits” using the same technique I had mastered with the Microcosmic Orbit — applying intention to ignite these new channels.

    From Flow Lines to Gates: When Qi Spills Beyond the Body

    Soon, I stumbled upon the crucial difference between the two orbits. While the Microcosmic was a closed, regenerative loop, the channels I had activated were open-ended, terminating at my fingers and toes. When I focused on these terminal points, the Qi seemed to overflow, projecting beyond my physical limits into an external space devoid of any spatial reference. It simply dissipated into a boundless field.

    I later learned these points are the “gates” (關口, guānkǒu), interfaces connecting the internal Qi to the external Qi of the universe: Laogong in the palms, Yongquan in the soles, and Baihui at the crown. The key realization was that no single gate is privileged — they are equally vital.

    The Moment of Dissolution: When Channels Merge into Space

    This network was the foundation. But eventually, I glimpsed something beyond it. As the practice deepened, the very concept of distinct “channels” and “gates” began to soften. The openness I felt at the extremities started to permeate the entire surface of the body. The container itself was becoming universally permeable.

    So, the answer to the question I faced from the very beginning: What this energy wants to do? seemed to be that the energetic body had to be perceived as a whole, and not as a set of incoherent parts. As individual structures merged, by stabilizing the macrocosmic orbit and full-body flow, the ‘individual’ and the ‘cosmos’ no longer met at discrete points—they interpenetrated completely and simultaneously. The end goal was becoming clearer: a laminar flow of energy, without turbulence and therefore without spatial reference.

     

  • The Microcosmic Orbit: A Training Tool for Refining Internal Energy

    Building on earlier experiments, this post recounts how the classical Microcosmic Orbit became a structured tool for refining internal energy—revealing new centers and teaching that precision is essential to avoid blind spots

    From Channels to Orbit

    My discovery of the Du Mai and Ren Mai—the two channels running along the spine and the front of the torso and head—led me to the practice known as the Microcosmic Orbit (MCO). This is a key technique for refining internal energy: strengthening its flow and improving its smoothness.

    Although once a closely guarded secret, the method is now widely discussed in books and online forums about energy work. The practice involves moving energy upward through the Du Mai and downward through the Ren Mai, focusing on specific points along the way. Of course, to do this one must first be able to feel the energy—something I had already learned to do—and I knew that to move the energy, I simply had to move my attention to the desired spot.

    One of the many diagrams of the MCO
    My own interpretation, based on the supposed location of the chakras

    Many diagrams of the MCO exist, from classical scrolls to modern interpretations. However, I chose a different approach for my own practice. Rather than cross-referencing the often-inconsistent point locations shown on various charts, I applied the method that had served me well so far: focusing on the areas where the chakras are traditionally placed, but exploring both the spinal and frontal aspects.

    The Detected Spots

    This revealed an unexpected pattern. Instead of the seven chakras found in most New Age diagrams, I identified ten pairs of perceptible spots across the torso and head. The three lowest ones—already detected through tantric practice (front) and spontaneous kundalini activity (back)—corresponded closely with the first three chakras: Muladhara, Swadhisthana, and Manipura.

    However, an additional pair appeared between Manipura and Anahata, roughly aligned with the diaphragm — a kind of “Manipura 2.” Upon checking the sources, I noticed that some systems place Manipura either at the navel or the diaphragm, yet these sensations clearly belonged to distinct locations.

    Continuing upward, the next pairs aligned with Anahata and Vishuddha, and the two uppermost with Ajna and Sahasrara. Later, though, two previously uncharted chakras emerged. One connected the base of the nose (front) with the junction of the skull and first vertebra (back). The other linked the tip of the chin with the second or third cervical vertebra.

    I had overlooked these at first because my attention habitually jumped directly from Vishuddha to Ajna, leaving the intermediate nodes underdeveloped. When I came across the Neijing Tu (內經圖)—an ancient Daoist diagram depicting the energy body as an inner landscape—I noticed that it features a twelve-storied pagoda in precisely this region. The symbolism felt accurate: the passage from Vishuddha to Ajna is not a single leap but a gradual ascent, requiring steady refinement at each level.

    The twelve-storied pagoda in the neck

    The Buildup of Energy and its Risks

    The goal of the Microcosmic Orbit is not merely to detect energy and consider the task complete. It is to circulate the orbit repeatedly—like training on a treadmill. This repetition is what refines the flow, making it stronger and more coherent. In my view, this is analogous to training the neural circuits that generate the sensation, progressively engaging new neurons and creating new synapses.

    I committed to this practice, and the result was what Daoist texts describe as a “buildup of energy.” The metaphor fits well: once there is enough pressure, the energy begins to move on its own, like a gas expanding to fill all available space. This was almost certainly what happened when the sensation spontaneously rose up my spine after three years of unintentional training during Tantric sex.

    However, this self-propelling quality can also be risky. The energy flows easily through well-conditioned pathways but meets resistance in less-developed areas. The result is a feeling of pressure that, depending on intensity and the “conductivity” of the tissue, can become painful—or even harmful. This was precisely how the two uncharted spots first revealed themselves to me. I’m still working to make those areas as smooth as the rest. The lesson was clear: skipping regions in attentional training creates energetic blind spots. By consistently refining internal energy through the orbit, the pathways become smooth and conductive across the whole circuit.

  • Energy Work: Refining Energy Through Attention and Intention

    Energy management - from first feeling to integration

    This section traces a progressive refinement in energy work through attention and intention — from early, intuitive sensations to a more structured form of energetic modulation. It explores how focused attention shapes internal flow; how conscious intent, at first essential for directing that flow, eventually yields to its own self-regulation; and how symbolic anchors — mental constructs and visualizations — help stabilize complex energetic patterns.

    Each post marks a phase in this unfolding: the sensing, channeling, and eventual integration of currents once experienced as separate. Classical models are revisited through direct observation, and traditional sources are referenced not as authorities, but as resonant confirmations of a path discovered empirically.

     

    The Nature of Prana or Qi — The Hidden Sensation Behind Energy and Awakening

    Exploring the nature of Prana or Qi — the subtle, orgasmic-like sensation that underlies Tantric and Daoist energy practices.

    Chasing the Sensation: An Engineer’s Approach to Mapping Inner Energy

    An engineer’s first encounter with a mysterious bodily sensation becomes an unexpected journey into the nature of attention itself. A methodical exploration where analytical curiosity meets the language of energy and awareness.

    The Microcosmic Orbit: A Very Efficient Training Tool to Refine Energy

    How the classical Microcosmic Orbit became a structured training tool—revealing new energetic centers and teaching that precision and patience are essential to avoid blind spots in inner work.

    Yin and Yang – Embryonic Breathing

    A sober, experiential reflection on how subtle bodily sensations revealed a Yin–Yang dynamic of radiating and absorbing Qi, eventually leading to an intuitive understanding of what Daoist texts call Embryonic Breathing.

    Mapping the Macrocosmic Orbit: When Qi Fills the Body and Dissolves

    This post explores what happens when the circulation of Qi extends beyond the Microcosmic Orbit and begins to fill the whole body. What started as a technical experiment in mapping internal flow gradually turned into an experience of dissolution — where the boundary between self and space grew thin.

    Cartography – Mapping the Energy Nodes

    After tracing the Microcosmic Orbit, I began exploring the broader network of energy lines—the Macrocosmic Orbit. What started as a simple extension of attention soon revealed a far more complex geometry, with multiple nodes forming rings around the body.

    Widening the Focus – From Points to Lines and Segments

    A personal exploration of widening the focus in energy practice, moving from isolated points to continuous lines and integrated segments through attention, polarity, and embodied perception.

    The Rules Change: From Forceful Intention to Effortless Awareness

    The transition from forceful, directed intention to effortless awareness—from “commanding” to “listening.”

    My First Yidam Experience: Imagery as Energetic Interface

    After internal architecture dissolved into a permeable field, a new form of practice emerged through what Tibetan traditions call a yidam.

    Yidam Practice – From Discovery to Fusion and Beyond

    How even the most compelling internal figures eventually exhaust their function — and must dissolve for the process to continue.

    Yin–Yang Fusion: From Breathing to Immersion

    An experiential analysis of Yin–Yang fusion in energy work, exploring how alternating Qi breathing evolves into energetic simultaneity.

     

  • Chasing the Sensation: An Engineer’s Approach to Mapping Inner Energy

    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.

    .

  • The Nature of Prana or Qi — The Sensation Behind Energy Traditions

    This post explores the nature of Prana or Qi — the subtle nervous-system-based sensation that would later become central to my practice — and how ancient Tantric and Daoist sources helped me decode its anatomy and function.

    The Initial Sensation

    The sensation described in the Timeline posts had a precise anatomy worth examining. It all began with a distinct physical feeling that started at the tailbone, rose through the sacrum, and settled around the lumbar vertebra aligned with the navel. When I tried to describe it, the only words that came to mind were: “A ball of light rising up my spine.” I still wonder why light seemed the right word for something happening entirely inside my body.

    It was no ordinary experience, yet it felt not alarming but oddly joyful. I was filled with energy and optimism; my visual field seemed wider, more vivid. I stood at the balcony for several minutes, simply looking at the landscape with new eyes.

    At that time, I had no idea what it could be. But returning to the area with focused attention, it became clearer: this was the same type of sensation I had felt with my partner when practicing — unknowingly — what is known as Tantric sex. It was orgasmic in quality, but localized in unfamiliar regions of the body.

    The feeling coincided precisely with the first three chakras described in Buddhist and Hindu traditions — Muladhara, Swadhisthana, and Manipura. Moreover, it resembled the so-called kundalini experience, often described as a serpent rising along the spine. Skeptical but curious, I decided to test it: I directed my attention to the other chakra points described in the texts, to see if the same sensation appeared there. When the same feeling appeared in the neck and between the eyebrows, I realized I had found a subject worth investigating — one that would occupy me for years to come.

    The First Clue: A Tantric Sutra Confirms the Mechanism

    Suspecting that what I had been practicing aligned with Tantric methods, I began searching for textual confirmation. One of the first texts I turned to was The Book of Secrets, Osho’s commentary on the Vigyan Bhairava Tantra. While not a literal translation, his version of sutra 69 was unexpectedly helpful:

    “At the start of sexual union keep attentive on the fire in the beginning, and so continuing, avoid the embers in the end.”

    “To ignite the fire” meant to awaken the orgasmic energy; “and so continuing” — to sustain it without interruption; “avoiding the embers” — to prevent its dissipation through ejaculation. That, precisely, was what I had been doing — and now it had a clear precedent.

    A Deeper Map: Daoist Physiology and the Three Treasures

    While the Tantric texts provided an initial framework, the Daoist writings offered a more detailed, though sometimes contradictory, physiology. Their language differed, yet the principles were remarkably similar. Central to their model were the Three Treasures — Jing, Qi, and Shen.

    In simplified terms: Shen refers to consciousness, Qi to the subtle energy or sensation, and Jing to vital essence — traditionally identified with reproductive fluids.

    Here lies, in my view, the core confusion. Qi is not an abstract “life force” — it is that very sensation, the same one described earlier, inherently orgasmic in nature. Daoist practice seeks to direct this flow upward rather than outward, since downward flow is considered “leakage.”

    The first diagram in the Hui Ming Jing illustrates this vividly: a schematic male torso with energy rising along the spine, while a side branch diverts downward to the genitals — the point of leakage to be prevented.

    Chapter 9 of the same text states it directly:

    成佛作祖，是本性靈光，不得慧命漏盡，不能了道，直入於如來之太空
    To become a Buddha or a Patriarch is a matter of the spiritual light of one’s inherent nature. Without the exhaustion of leaks through Wisdom-Life (慧命漏盡), one cannot complete the Dao nor enter the Great Emptiness of the Thus-Come-One.

    Here “Wisdom-Life” (慧命 huì mìng) refers to the union of Shen (consciousness) and Ming (vitality). The key phrase, “the exhaustion of leaks” (漏盡 lòu jìn), defines the goal: to seal the outward flow and redirect that energy inward, transforming it into the fuel for awakening. This passage struck me not as poetry, but as an exact description of what I had felt — the moment the energy reversed and began to rise.

    Modern Interpretation of Qi and Jing

    Of course, these texts were written by and for men — a topic that deserves separate treatment. Observing that ejaculation seemed to extinguish the sensation, they assumed the two were causally linked. The diagram reflects this logic: to prevent energy loss, one must prevent seminal release.

    From a modern perspective, we can reinterpret this. What they described as Qi corresponds to a subtle, nervous-system-based sensation; Jing (semen) is a distinct biological product. The correlation between the two is real but not causal. It seems the ancients observed the phenomenon accurately, even if their interpretation of the mechanism differed.

    For me, this distinction clarified much of the confusion: when the classics speak of Qi, they are describing that specific internal sensation.

    A Playful Confirmation

    One line from the Hui Ming Jing adds a touch of humor:

    “If the plum has not yet blossomed, it is too early; if it has already blossomed, it is too late.”

    For those unfamiliar with the sensation of Qi, this metaphor invites endless speculation. But for me, the meaning was quite literal: the “plum” represents the male organ, and the text points to a narrow window of opportunity — between the first stirring of orgasm (which must be sustained) and the moment of release (which ends it). The metaphor, plum tree (ciruelo in Spanish), carries a double meaning even in modern slang.

    A Tentative Conclusion

    All of this led me to a conclusion — or, more precisely, a working hypothesis: when the classical texts spoke of Qi, they were referring to that very sensation. It is a perceptible flow that can move in two directions. Outward, it manifests as the familiar male orgasm. Inward, it produces a new experience — equally pleasurable, yet operating in an entirely different physiological and perceptual domain. Whether described as yin and yang or absorption and emission, these appeared less like metaphysical forces than different expressions of a single perceptible process — one still under investigation.

    That inward movement aligned with sensations described by my partners, who spoke of something absorbing and enveloping. Radiant and outward in one case, receptive and inward in the other — the correspondence was unmistakable.

    The polarity mirrored the traditional attributes of yang (radiant, emitting, masculine) and yin (absorbent, enveloping, feminine). In that light, the classical references to yin qi and yang qi began to make practical sense: they described not abstractions, but two complementary modes of the same energetic process — absorption and emission.

  • Fusion, Solo Practice, and Dilution — The Dissolution of Self

    The third stage of the journey — from shared fusion to solitary practice. The merging of polarities deepens, dissolving even the distinction between self and other, until consciousness itself begins to fade into spaciousness.

     

    Fusion

    The next significant milestone came in the autumn of 2016. Reversing the flow had already intensified our connection, but this time the energy grew beyond anything we had known—surging again and again, masculine, feminine, masculine, feminine—until we reached the limits of what our bodies could bear.

    Then came a question: Why alternate between one kind of pleasure and the other? What would it be like to experience both at once?

    Against all expectations, it was possible—to emit and absorb simultaneously.

    Abstract representation of yin and yang

    That cryptic Daoist phrase, yin within yang, yang within yin, which I had long dismissed as metaphorical, proved to describe a tangible physiological phenomenon. The result was an overwhelming sense of fusion with my partner — not symbolic, but literal and physiological.

    Inner Tantra: The Partner Within

    Eventually, we had to stop. Not from disinterest, but because the intensity became too much for her body to handle.

    At that time, a friend from an online forum mentioned a Tibetan visualization practice known as Yidam, in which one merges with the essence of a deity. The hint came at the right moment, as if the process itself were orchestrating the next step.

    Coming from this physical experience of fusion, I tried to reproduce it through imagination alone – and the result was unexpected.

    I realized I no longer needed a partner to evoke the same feminine sensations I once thought depended on her presence. Even more surprising: I could now experience that same state of fusion within myself — first in the belly, then in the chest, and finally in the head.

    It was more intense than anything I had ever shared with another person — and yet, I was alone.

    Each stage of fusion reshaped perception. It became clear that I was interacting with the very architecture of consciousness.

    Retreat into Emptiness

    In 2018, we parted ways.
    I moved to a quiet coastal village — no obligations, no dependents, no noise. Just silence and the sea.

    When the pandemic arrived, solitude became total. The conditions were ideal for continuing the experiment. It felt as though the same process that had driven the inner changes was now shaping the outer circumstances.

    With the ability to merge emission and absorption — yin and yang — I resumed the internal exploration, allowing sensation to guide the process. Once that current begins, it cannot be directed. It follows its own logic. My role seemed limited to removing resistance.

    Over time, its purpose revealed itself. It was no longer a nourishing current but a cleansing force, sweeping away everything it touched — until nothing was left.

    The Dilution of Perception

    The male–female polarity had already vanished during the first fusion — in the belly, the seat of desire. It seemed that this body of energy has no gender, that consciousness is neither male nor female.

    The next fusion, in the chest — the domain of affection — brought an expanded awareness, a sense of vast connectedness where “inside” and “outside” lost meaning. Spatial rules didn’t apply, and love was seen as an inevitable consequence of the inextricable connection between “me” and “other”.

    Finally, the fusion in the head brought joy — not personal joy, but a quiet, objectless ecstasy: the recognition of being inseparable from everything. The distinction between “me” and “other” went beyond spatial connection, “me” and “other” seemed to be the same thing.

    Final Reflection

    What remains now is the final boundary:

    The inner self — the one aware of this energy body — still feels like an “I.”
    It is unbounded, genderless, fused with all things… yet it still is.

    This seems to be the last polarity to dissolve: Being versus Non-Being. “I” versus Nothing.


    At first, that prospect feels disquieting. But, as before, opposites tend to converge — as male and female, in and out, self and other once did — into a single, self-consistent reality where all distinctions fade.

    “To fuse is to vanish, and to vanish is to know what remains when nothing is left to dissolve.”

    Seen in retrospect, the path appears less like progress than a gradual movement from fusion to spaciousness, where experience becomes wider while the sense of ownership diminishes.