A sandy trail winds through tall dune grass, whispering secrets to the wind. I follow it barefoot, the grains warm and fine beneath my feet. The distant sound of waves grows louder with each step.
Then, the dunes open to the sea. Endless blue. Foam curling onto wet sand. A single white sailboat drifts far on the horizon, barely moving.
I walk to the edge and sit, letting the waves touch my toes. The horizon stretches without question. The sky breathes.
Nothing interrupts this view—no chatter, no plans. Only the ongoing rhythm of sea and shore.
I watch for a long while, until the tide begins to turn. Then I rise, not because I must, but because the sea has already said what it came to say.
The Morning Market
Before the town fully wakes, I find the market being set up in the square. Crates are being unloaded, stalls are unfolding like flowers, and the scent of bread is already in the air.
I buy a handful of warm apricots and a cup of mint tea. I sit by a stone fountain, watching the bustle grow.
A vendor arranging bundles of thyme catches my eye. “Best time of day,” he says. “Before people get busy with their thoughts.”
He’s right.
In the cool of the morning, the world hasn’t rushed ahead yet. It remains soft, unformed, waiting.
I finish my tea slowly. For now, there is nowhere to go.
A Firefly Evening
The day retreats, and a warm dusk settles across the fields. I wander the edge of a meadow, the tall grasses brushing my legs. The sky glows pale orange near the horizon, slowly deepening into lavender and blue.
Then, from nowhere, the lights appear—soft and scattered at first, then more and more.
Fireflies.
They drift between the stems, their glow pulsing gently, almost shy. I watch in stillness, feeling the hush of the hour wrap around me.
Their light is not to show the way, not to dazzle, but simply to be. Small, gentle, sufficient.
Not every truth needs to arrive with thunder. Some truths float in the dark, asking nothing but presence.
The Singing Bowl at Dusk
We sit on the wooden deck as the last rays of sun fade behind the hills. The world has grown quiet, as if holding its breath before the dark arrives.
A friend of mine, serene and wordless, places a small brass bowl before us. She strikes it gently with a padded mallet.
The sound expands like light—clear, ringing, full of space.
We sit without movement. The bowl sings into the fading light, and then the sound begins to fade… and fade… and fade… until it is gone, and all that remains is the space it left behind.
She turns to me, finally, and says, “Even sound teaches us how to let go.”
We remain in that stillness long after the stars appear.
The Heat and the Hammock
The sun is unrelenting. Even the birds take cover in the olive trees. I find myself in a sleepy coastal village, walking slowly between stone houses whose shutters are drawn closed. The scent of fig and dust drifts in the air.
A woman watering her garden offers me a slice of melon. It’s the sweetest thing I’ve tasted in weeks. She points to a hammock under two olive trees. “It’s too hot to think,” she says, “so don’t.”
I lie down. The canvas cradles me like a slow-moving wave. Cicadas buzz around me, weaving a song with no beginning and no end.
Above, the sky is so blue it seems solid.
I close my eyes, not to sleep, but to feel more. The weight of the air, the shade dappling my face, the drift of time as it slows and softens.
In this heat, nothing can be forced. Everything comes by surrender.
A Walk Through the Lavender
Between two low hills lies a hidden valley that few know. I descend its slope in the morning light, the sun just warming the soil beneath my feet. All around me, rows upon rows of lavender stretch out like soft waves, their color muted but deep.
The air is thick with the scent—floral and sharp, almost electric. Bees move from flower to flower with the slow, steady rhythm of something ancient.
A sign at the entrance reads: “Walk slowly. Let the scent find you.”
So I do.
The ground is uneven in places, and I let each step sink in, feeling the earth beneath me. I stop every so often just to breathe. Not in, not out—just to notice.
In the distance, I see a woman kneeling among the plants, clipping bundles with care. She glances up, nods, and returns to her work. She doesn’t speak, and she doesn’t need to.
This place doesn’t require speech. It asks for stillness.
And in stillness, everything becomes more fragrant, more vivid, more real.
The Lake at Noon
It is midday, and the lake is so still that the sky lies upon it like a second world. I sit at the edge of an old wooden dock, legs swinging freely, toes brushing the water’s surface. A distant loon calls once, and then silence returns.
The dragonflies flicker past, shimmering blue and green. They skim the surface, dipping like dancers, never staying in one place. I try to count them and fail.
The world feels paused, held in place by sun and heat and quiet.
Behind me, the pine trees creak with gentle wind. The dock beneath me groans, old and worn, like a companion who no longer minds the weight.
I let my hand slip into the water. It’s cold at first, then soft, as if accepting me.
There are no answers here, but no questions either.
Just the water, the sky, and the subtle awareness that for now, nothing more is needed.
The Sudden Rain
It begins with a change in the wind—subtle, but sure. The leaves shift tone, a hush rolls through the streets, and then the first drop strikes my forehead like a cool fingerprint. I look up and smile as the sky opens wide.
I run for shelter beneath a stone archway at the edge of a quiet plaza. Across from me, others gather: an old man with an umbrella, a couple pressing close, a boy with a paper boat in his hands.
Then she appears—barefoot, laughing—a girl no older than ten, stepping out into the middle of the square. She spins, arms flung wide, the rain soaking her hair and dress. Her joy is unshaken by the cold.
A dog barks from somewhere, and thunder answers in the distance.
“Come in!” the old man calls.
But she doesn’t. And neither do I.
I walk out into the downpour, slowly, arms lifted just slightly. The rain is warm, more like a balm than a chill. In moments, I am drenched—but in another sense, I am clean.
Moments like this remind me: not everything is meant to be avoided. Some things are meant to be felt fully.
The Remarkable History of Xingyi Quan: From Merchant Roads to Martial Mastery
Xingyi Quan (形意拳) (also spelled “Hsing-I”), one of China’s four great martial arts, is a style deeply intertwined with the rise and fall of Shanxi’s merchant class and the unique history of the region. Its story is not just one of martial prowess, but also of commerce, innovation, and the meeting of minds from different walks of life. Here’s how this extraordinary art came to be.
A Martial Art Born from Commerce
Unlike most martial arts, Xingyi Quan’s roots are inseparable from the world of business. Its modern form was born in Taigu, a bustling hub in Shanxi Province. During the Qing Dynasty, Taigu was a key stop for merchants transporting valuable goods – especially tea – across thousands of miles, even reaching the border city of Kyakhta for trade with Russia. This strategic location made Taigu a center of commerce, so much so that American writer Robi Yen dubbed it the “Wall Street of China”.
As trade expanded, the challenge of moving silver and goods safely over long distances led to the creation of security escort agencies (biaoju). These agencies required highly effective martial skills to protect shipments from bandits and other threats. The resulting demand for practical, decisive self-defense techniques played a crucial role in shaping the Xingyi Quan we know today.
The Rise of Shanxi Merchants and the Need for Martial Arts
Taigu’s merchants were pioneers not only in trade but also in finance, inventing draft banks that allowed funds to be deposited and withdrawn across vast distances. This innovation reduced the risks of transporting physical silver but increased the need for reliable protection, further fueling the local martial arts culture.
The region’s martial spirit was legendary. Generations of talented individuals excelled in both civil and military examinations, making Taigu renowned for its achievements in both literature and martial arts. In this fertile environment, a new style of boxing – Xingyi Quan – began to take shape.
The Birth and Evolution of Xingyi Quan
The art’s early form was known as Xinyi Quan or Xinyi Liuhe Quan. The transition to the name “Xingyi Quan” reflected both linguistic shifts and philosophical refinements, emphasizing the unity of external form (xing) and internal intent (yi).
A pivotal moment came in 1856, when the renowned martial artist Li Luoneng (also known as Li Nengran, “Divine Fist Li”) was invited to Taigu by the powerful Meng family to serve as their security chief. Li’s interactions with the local martial artists and the demands of escorting goods led him to recognize the need for a more efficient, practical fighting style. With the support of Meng Furu – a well-educated merchant and martial artist – Li and his disciple Che Yizhai refined and codified the art, introducing technical innovations such as new footwork and structure.
Meng Furu’s unique combination of business acumen and martial skill was instrumental in the development of Xingyi Quan. He not only contributed to the art’s theoretical foundation but also played a key role in selecting and supporting students, ensuring the style’s growth and transmission.
Key Principles and Training
At the heart of Xingyi Quan is the Santi (Three-Body) posture, the foundational stance that aligns the body according to the art’s core principles. All techniques in Xingyi Quan are rooted in this posture, ensuring consistency and power. The art is further distinguished by its “seven-star” footwork and the principle that all movements stem from Santi, regardless of the variation in technique.
The philosophy of Xingyi Quan is succinctly captured in its classical texts: “The intent must be true internally for the limbs to externally manifest the form.” This reflects the art’s emphasis on the unity of mind and body, internal intent and external action.
Legacy and Modern Challenges
Xingyi Quan reached its peak during the late Qing and early Republican eras, gaining fame through the exploits of its masters. However, today the art faces the challenge of declining transmission, with fewer practitioners inheriting its rich legacy. Its history remains a testament to the unique interplay of commerce, culture, and martial spirit that defined Shanxi and gave birth to one of China’s most respected martial arts.
YouTube Special Series: The SECRETS of XINGYI QUAN
Watch this special originally a TV broadcast in China about the History of Xingyi Quan and now translated by Byron Jacobs:
In summary: Xingyi Quan is more than just a fighting style – it is the product of a vibrant commercial culture, the ingenuity of merchant families, and the relentless pursuit of martial excellence. Its story is a reminder that the greatest innovations often arise at the crossroads of necessity and creativity.
Source: Byron Jacobs translation via the above mentioned YouTube Series.
Dragon Body, Tiger Spirit by Byron Jacobs
Dragon Body, Tiger Spirit encapsulates a careful presentation, translation and extensive commentary of the classical texts of Xingyi Quan. These texts aimed to document and preserve the principles and techniques at the very heart of this traditional Chinese martial art. Dragon Body, Tiger Spirit is an invaluable resource for martial arts practitioners looking to gain insight into the essence of authentic, traditional Xingyi Quan as codified and handed down from one generation to the next by previous masters of the art. This carefully researched and written reference reflects a decade of painstaking work, backed up by decades of dedicated martial practice by the author Byron Jacobs, a disciple of Master Di Guoyong.
** the link presented above is an affiliate link: While you do not pay a penny more, it helps me maintain and grow this website. Thank you.
The Long Day’s Golden Edge
By June, the days are stretching to their fullest. The sun lingered long into evening, casting a golden edge on everything it touched. I found myself walking an old gravel path at dusk, following a line of swaying grasses and buzzing crickets.
The warmth of the day still hung in the air, though night approached. Fireflies began to rise from the undergrowth, blinking slowly like thoughts trying to form.
A child sat by a wooden fence, watching them with open awe. I sat beside her in silence.
After a while, she asked, “Why do they shine?”
I smiled. “Because it’s how they talk to each other.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “I think the night listens.”
In that simple exchange, I felt the teaching arise: the light we carry within doesn’t need to be loud or big. Even a soft flicker matters in the great conversation of the world.
The Threshold of Summer
It is the final day of May, and the air carries the subtle weight of the coming season. I walk a familiar trail through the old forest, where spring’s green has deepened, and the birds grow quieter, as if conserving their song for warmer days.
The trees stand tall in stillness, their leaves stirring only faintly. I pause at a moss-covered bench and sit without intention – no goal, no destination, only the soft unfolding of the afternoon.
A small squirrel darts past, then freezes mid-step, its tiny form alert and poised. A butterfly drifts lazily between shafts of light. Everything in the forest feels neither hurried nor idle – just perfectly placed in its own time.
As the sun lowers, casting long golden shadows, I realize I am watching the season breathe.
The forest is neither spring nor summer now. It is simply between – a pause, a moment of pure balance. I stay until the first stars become visible above the canopy, and then, quietly, I make my way home.
The threshold has passed. Without effort, the season turns.
The Quiet Garden Before Dusk
At the edge of a monastery was a small walled garden. I entered just before dusk, when the shadows grew long and bees made their final rounds. Peonies bloomed in one corner, heavy and still, while a frog croaked once at the edge of the pond.
A monk sweeping the stone path paused to greet me. “This is a good time to sit,” he said. “Not much to do, and nothing left to want.”
So I stayed. I watched the golden light fall over every leaf and stone, softening the edges of everything.
“May is when the world opens,” the monk said quietly. “But it opens in silence.”
As the light faded, the stillness deepened. Not empty of life – but full of it, in a quiet way.
