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Tag: reinterpretation

Revising or questioning inherited explanations

  • Detecting Inner Energy: An Engineer’s First Steps

    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 detecting inner energy would lead me to question the boundaries between mind, energy, and consciousness.

    First Steps in Detecting Inner Energy

    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 something that resembled what meditation traditions describe: sustained attention without discursive 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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  • 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:

    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 appears to correspond to a subtle sensation, plausibly mediated by the nervous system; 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:

    圓通禪師曰，梅花未發太早生，梅花已發太遲生

    “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.