One Hundred Days of Darkness and Night

An excerpt from The Master Key: Qigong Secrets for Wisdom, Love, and Vitality

Chapter 1. The Mysterious Mr. Tan

The Legendary Monk Xiao Yao

Sometime around the year 1889, a baby boy was born to a poor family in a small, long-forgotten village in southern China. The facts surrounding his early years remain vague. Both his parents died while he was still a child, and the orphaned boy was entrusted to a duty- bound relative who couldn’t afford another mouth to feed. The boy’s future looked bleak. After some deliberation, the relative decided to present the boy to the abbot of Jiuyi Temple, a Buddhist monastery several days’ walk away. He packed a few belongings for the child and ventured warily with him into the forest. Despite gangs of bandits stalking the woodlands, the pair trekked to the base of Snowy Peak Mountain safely and began their arduous ascent to the monastery.

The monastery was built high up near the summit, where it seemed to float among the clouds and snowy peaks. The serenity of the com- pound appealed to individuals seeking refuge from the whirling chaos of life, and the spiritual aura of the temple it housed attracted souls looking for spiritual enlightenment and timeless wisdom. Although Jiuyi Temple was a small monastery that accommodated only a few dozen monks, it was venerated by the local villagers as a sanctuary that produced remarkable sages with extraordinary powers. Locals often hiked the treacherous five-hour trail that led to the monastery to receive a blessing or a healing.

The man and the boy now followed that trail, weaving through lush foliage and snaking up a series of vertiginous outcrops that overlooked the lowlands below. The view was both dizzying and dazzling. Finally, they arrived at the main gate. The monastery radiated an atmosphere of mystery and power. The dormitories and the dining hall formed the walled perimeter of the quadrangle. The pine trees growing in the inner courtyard softened the bricks and stones and exuded a pleasant fragrance that blended harmoniously with the sweet mountain air. The focal point of the monastery was the temple that stood in the middle of the courtyard—an elevated building made of sturdy timber with a curved roof covered by jade-green tiles.

Inside the temple was a twenty-foot-tall gold-lacquered Buddha seated cross-legged on a lotus flower, smiling peacefully past the spiraling wisps of incense that shrouded him and gazing dispassionately at the vaporous skies that flowed like a celestial river beyond the distant treetops.

The two weary travelers crossed the main gate reverently, and the man asked to speak with the abbot. He explained the orphan’s dire situation to the abbot, who agreed to take charge of the little boy. The man bid the child farewell and quickly returned to his village.

Over time, the boy adapted to his new home. The older monks became his parents and the younger monks his older brothers. He was a sprightly child with an easygoing disposition, and he was given the nickname Xiao Yao, which means “free flowing.” He learned the martial arts, healing arts, and meditation. He prayed, studied, and trained hard. When he was older, he visited other monasteries to learn special skills from other masters. For several years he lived in a cave, meditating for months without interruption. Xiao Yao mastered the most advanced practices and attained the highest levels of enlightenment.

Many years passed. Xiao Yao’s teachers died, as did the older monks who raised him. He climbed up the hierarchy and gradually became one of the senior monks at Jiuyi Temple. He was highly respected by his peers for his wisdom and revered by the villagers for his healing powers. The local mountaineers often repeated stories they heard about Xiao Yao, and his reputation became legendary.

One popular story was about an incident that took place in 1948. A cruel bandit and his gang hid out in the forest, attacking travelers and robbing farmers. On one occasion the bandit raped a young girl, and terror spread. The local authorities were too weak to subdue them, so a group of villagers sent a representative to Jiuyi Temple to plead for help. Xiao Yao was dispatched to handle the matter. No one knows for sure what happened, as Xiao Yao went into the forest alone, but the gang disbanded and some of its former members became his students.

Another story about Xiao Yao was told to me by an old man who claimed the incident was witnessed by many people. One day a farmer was tilling his field when his bull suffered a nervous break- down. It bucked madly, kicked away the farmer, rampaged through the village, and gored several people. The villagers wanted to kill the bull, but the farmer’s family depended on it for their survival, so he pleaded that they refrain. The villagers agreed only after he told them he would go to Jiuyi Temple to ask for help.

Xiao Yao returned to the village with the farmer. The bull was grazing quietly in a field as a group of men watched from a safe distance. No one had dared to approach the beast. Xiao Yao calmly walked toward it. As he neared, the bull reared its huge head and snorted. With lightning speed, Xiao Yao slapped his palm on the bull’s fore- head before it could charge him. The animal froze. It looked dazed. Its knees buckled and it thumped to the ground.

The villagers cautiously gathered around the fallen bull. It was moaning, and gobs of frothing saliva dribbled from its mouth. The farmer began to panic, believing that his bull was dying. Xiao Yao reassured him that the bull would be fine. He knelt down and massaged the area around the bull’s forehead, and the bull regained consciousness. The monk instructed the farmer to let the bull rest for two days before harnessing him.

As news of this incident and others spread throughout the county and beyond, Xiao Yao’s reputation became legendary. Streams of people ventured up Snowy Peak Mountain year-round seeking his healings, blessings, and counsel.

The Boiler Room Attendant

On May 16, 1966, the Cultural Revolution was launched in China. Within a few years new policies called for the shutdown of religious institutions, and local authorities notified the monks at Jiuyi Temple that they needed to vacate the monastery so it could be converted into an administrative center. The temple was boarded up and the Golden Buddha was padlocked inside. The monks put on civilian clothes and returned to their former homes. Xiao Yao, however, had no family, so there was no village awaiting his return. Now nearly eighty years old, he had no place to go. He spent a stretch of time living in the mountains as a hermit and then decided to leave Snowy Peak Mountain. He wandered hundreds of miles east along the bank of the Xiang River until he reached Xiangtan.

Xiangtan was an industrial city with a large steel production plant that employed tens of thousands of workers. The factory had been built during the 1950s with the help of Soviet engineers. A luxury resort the locals called Yi Suo had been constructed to house the foreigners who managed the factory. After the Soviet engineers departed, Yi Suo hosted Chinese government officials. Flower gar- dens and sweetly scented fruit trees lined the walkways. There were a swimming pool and a restaurant that served gourmet meals. The compound was surrounded by an imposing tall brick wall that shielded it from curious onlookers.

Xiao Yao applied for a job at Yi Suo and was offered the least desirable position: boiler room attendant. A boiler room attendant is always on call. He lives in the boiler room and feeds the boilers three times a day, every day. His work is solitary, ongoing, and thank- less, and the pay is very low. But despite these shortcomings, Xiao Yao accepted the job and moved in right away. He slept on a flimsy mattress in the corner opposite three fiery ovens. He cooked his own food and shoveled coal diligently an hour before each mealtime. The employees at Yi Suo were unaware of his background. They knew him simply as “Mr. Tan,” the affable, kindhearted boiler room attendant who mostly kept to himself.

My family lived across the street from Yi Suo on the first floor of a modest three-floor brick walk-up. My father was an onsite construction manager for the factory, and my mother worked as a cook in the factory restaurant. I was the youngest of four children. In 1972, around the time of my eighth birthday, I began to suffer from acute chest pain. My mother took me to the hospital, where the doctor prescribed some medicine, but the pain grew worse. She brought me back to the doctor, who increased the dosage and suggested I stay home and rest for an indefinite amount of time. Although the notion of skipping school thrilled me, the reality of staying home all day alone was distressing. After the first few days my restlessness became unbearable, so I snuck out of the house while my mother was at work.

Our building was located near the edge of town, so I ventured into the countryside. It was early spring. I munched unripe wild berries growing in the bushes. They tasted sour, but I relished them. I was fascinated by bugs and watched worker ants labor for hours. After a few days of these solitary adventures, I grew bored and decided to sneak into Yi Suo to see the fruit trees and flowers. I scaled a back section of the wall and jumped. As I landed, a sharp pain shot through my heart. I ignored it. The compound was so beautiful compared to the drab streets of Xiangtan that it seemed otherworldly. I explored the grounds carefully, avoiding adults.

The following day I returned, venturing even farther in. One building in particular caught my interest. It was made of red brick with thick red elbow pipes jutting out from its sides like metal arms. It looked like a big red bug. The door was cracked open, so I poked my head inside. A man dressed in a navy-blue uniform was standing in front of a boiler. I could see a roaring fire through its thick glass plate. The boiler room attendant looked at me and smiled.

“Do you want to watch the fire?” he asked.

I could have run away, but he had a friendly face and spoke in a soft, reassuring voice. He did not look like a typical boiler room attendant. His hands were clean and his clothes were not stained black.

“Do you like fire?” he inquired. I nodded.

“Don’t be frightened. Come in and have a look.” I hesitated.

“I promise not to tell anyone.”

I entered the boiler room cautiously.

“What is your name?”

“Jihui Peng,” I answered.

“I am Mr. Tan,” he said in a strong provincial accent, and then asked, “How old are you?”

“Eight.”

“It’s almost lunchtime. Why don’t you sit down and watch me feed the boilers?”

He slipped on a pair of thick canvas gloves, opened the heavy plate-glass door, and began to shovel coal into the burner. The fire surged. He continued for a while and then sat down beside me. We both watched silently as the boiler chewed its lunch.

“Why aren’t you in school?” he asked, finally breaking the silence.

“I’m sick, and the doctor told my mom I should stay home,” I told him.

“What’s wrong?”

“My heart hurts.”

Mr. Tan looked at me for a long while as I scrutinized him. Up close, he looked even friendlier. He had thick eyebrows and big, fleshy ears. His hair was cropped short and black. He looked my father’s age, around forty-five. After a while he stood up and I rose with him.

“Feel free to come back anytime you like,” he said.

My face lit up. “Really? Thanks, Mr. Tan.”

I eagerly returned the following day. Watching the fire with Mr. Tan was more fun than watching ants alone. But I had to time my visit carefully. My mom returned from the dining hall to feed me during her lunch break, so I waited until she left and then went out the back way unseen. I brought two sweet buns from lunch as a gift for my new friend.

“These are for you,” I said, giving them both to him.

“These buns are delicious with spicy pickles.” He appeared genuinely delighted. “Would you like to share one with me?”

“Yes, please.” I loved spicy pickles.

Mr. Tan stood and walked over to a small cupboard. He opened the lid to a ceramic jar he used to ferment radishes and scooped some onto each bun. We chewed them heartily.

The next time I saw Mr. Tan, he said, “Today I have a surprise for you.”

He pulled out two sweet potatoes from his shirt pocket. “Wow—they’re my favorite!” I responded.

“Shall we roast them in the boiler?”

“Yes!”

Mr. Tan washed the potatoes and placed them under the raging heat emitted by the furnace.

While they were roasting, he asked, “Do you like to hear stories about the Monkey King?”

“I love stories about the Monkey King!” I exclaimed.

“Well then, do you know how the Monkey King was born?” Mr. Tan’s eyes widened.

“No.”

“The Monkey didn’t have a father and mother like you do.”

“He didn’t?”

“Oh, no. There was an ancient stone resting on the slopes of a faraway mountain that was covered with flowers and fruits. This stone stuck out and was huge—bigger than all of Xiangtan.” Mr. Tan widened his arms to demonstrate.

“Wow.”

“One day the stone exploded—BOOM!” He startled me, then calmly added, “When the dust settled, there was the Monkey King. But this was no ordinary monkey. He had special powers. Do you want to hear about them?”

“Yes,” I said, chewing a hot mouthful of sweet potato.

“The Monkey King was very, very strong, and he could lift heavy objects like cars and buses as if they were empty cardboard boxes. He could leap from one place to another and travel across all of China in the blink of an eye.”

Mr. Tan hopped around the boiler room like a leaping monkey as I chuckled.

“But his greatest power was this—the Monkey King could become anything he wanted to. He could become a teensy-weensy ant.” Mr. Tan knelt down on the ground and imitated the insect. I giggled at his pantomiming. “He could become a tree.” Mr. Tan stood up straight and held his arms out at weird angles so they looked like branches. “And he could even become a chicken.” Mr. Tan puffed his chest out, puckered his lips, folded his arms into wings, and bobbed his head.” This time I laughed heartily. He was a very animated storyteller. As the days passed, I spent as much time with Mr. Tan as I could, and each time I visited he amused me with the Monkey King’s adventures.

About a month after we first met, Mr. Tan asked a curious question as we watched the fire and ate our potatoes together. “Do you want to learn the martial arts, Jihui?” he asked.

“Oh yes! I dream about it,” I answered. “I can teach you.”

I stopped chewing.

“You know martial arts?”

“I do. And I’ll teach you, but only if you agree to these two conditions. First, you must get here every morning by five o’clock and practice for two hours. Second, you have to promise to keep your training a secret. Do you agree?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“Good. We’ll begin tomorrow morning.”

I left the boiler room brimming with excitement. I ran back home imagining myself fighting and defeating everyone I passed. I was so thrilled that I failed to notice that my chest pain was completely gone.

That night I had trouble falling asleep; I wanted morning to come. Finally I dozed off, and when I awoke it was five minutes to five. I dressed quickly and quietly crept out of the house. I flew across the street, leaped over the fence, and made it right on time.

Mr. Tan was waiting for me and led me to a small wooded area behind the boiler room. “Your first lesson is Horse Stance,” he said, then demonstrated the posture. His feet were two shoulder widths apart, his knees were bent at a ninety-degree angle, and his spine was straight. He made it look easy.

“Now you do it,” he instructed.

I assumed the posture. Instantly my legs tensed, and after only a

short while my thighs began to burn.

“One minute has passed,” he said. “Today you’ll hold the position for ten minutes.”

I began sweating. My legs started shaking.

“Focus on your Lower Dantian,” he said, pointing to the area located below my navel. I did. The pain eased a bit.

“Five minutes.”

My legs were ablaze.

“Eight minutes.”

My backside sagged and he kicked it, saying, “Don’t cheat.” My whole body was shaking.

“Nine minutes.”

My teeth started to clatter.

“Three . . . two . . . one. Stop!”

I collapsed to the ground. My lungs felt as though they were about to explode. It took me a while to recover. “Are you all right?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Martial arts training is a long, hard journey. If you want, you can

stop right now.”

“No,” I protested.

“Today we practiced Horse Stance for ten minutes. Tomorrow I will increase the time. Are you sure you want to continue?”

“Yes, Shifu Tan.” To emphasize my determination, I called him by the traditional title used to address a master.

“Good.” he seemed pleased. “Horse Stance training is the foundation of the martial arts. Whether you punch or kick, you need a solid base. A strong root gives you power and mobility. And now I will teach you the first three moves of Tiger Fist Form, an exercise that will develop your grip strength.”

I spent the rest of the morning passionately practicing those three moves.

The following day I returned to the boiler room with mixed feelings, dreading Horse Stance and excited about Tiger Fist Form. Holding the position was unbearable, and as promised, Mr. Tan increased the duration by one minute. Over the next few mornings my enthusiasm waned steadily. I dreaded the short trip to the boiler room and I no longer ran there. I was losing heart, and in the back of my mind I began to wonder whether Mr. Tan was really a martial arts master or just a cruel prankster.

Then one morning Shifu Tan changed the regular routine and asked me to follow him inside the boiler room. There was an axe leaning against the wall, and he told me to pick it up. Then he took off his shirt.

“Swing the axe with all your strength and hit me right here,” he said, pointing to his chest.

At first I thought he was kidding, but he looked at me seriously. I didn’t know what to do.

“Don’t worry. You won’t hurt me,” he assured me.

I lifted the axe in the air and squeezed the handle.

“Hit me hard,” he instructed.

I waited for him to change his mind, but he didn’t. Finally, I swung down hard. The blade hit him squarely in the chest. I felt as though I had struck a hard object, not soft flesh. The axe was wedged into his breastbone. He stood calmly but I was terrified. I quickly pried the axe loose to minimize any damage. But there was no blood. Only a white mark remained, disappearing after a few seconds, leaving no trace of the impact.

 “Do it again,” he said.

I lifted the axe incredulously, and this time I swung harder. The results were the same.
“Go ahead, again, as hard as you can.”

Without fear, I swung the blade again with all my power. “Do it one last time.”

I did. Afterward, he put his shirt back on. “Come with me,” he said.

I followed him outside, and he led me to a sandalwood tree in the garden behind the boiler room. He pointed to the trunk. There were four blunt axe marks on the bark. Fresh sap was dripping down.

“Practice with sincere wholeheartedness, and miracles will happen,” he said.

After that day I practiced Horse Stance with renewed enthusiasm. Shifu Tan gradually increased the duration to twenty grueling minutes. He placed two bowls of water on my thighs, and he lit an incense stick under my bottom to keep my body from moving out of position. I learned to endure the agonizing pain.

About three weeks later I arrived as usual for my morning practice and assumed the Horse Stance position. After ten minutes I experienced a pleasant sensation building around the area on my midriff that Shifu Tan had asked me to focus on, the Lower Dantian. The feeling spread down my legs and negated the burning sensation. My body grew lighter and lighter. I felt as though I were riding effortlessly on an invisible horse. The tingling sensation in my Lower Dantian intensified, and I slipped into a trance.

When I emerged from it, the sun was shining high up in the sky, and Shifu Tan was standing in front of me.

“Jihui, you’ve been standing in Horse Stance for four hours,” he said, genuinely pleased.

From that day on I could stand in Horse Stance for long periods of time without tiring. The pleasant sensation now spread throughout my body each time. I enjoyed holding the posture for an hour or longer.

The part of my daily routine I had hated most had become my favorite. Around this time my mother grew suspicious.

“Where do you disappear to so early every morning?” she asked.

“I go jogging and exercise,” I answered, remembering my promise to Shifu Tan about keeping the training a secret.

“What about your—?”

“Mother, I feel fine now. My heart doesn’t hurt anymore.”

She didn’t quite believe me.

The following day I mentioned the conversation to Shifu Tan.

“Ask your parents to visit me tonight at the boiler room. And come with them.”

After dinner my parents curiously followed me to Yi Suo. We entered through the main gate. I led them to the boiler room and knocked on the door.

Shifu Tan opened it.

“Please come in,” he said warmly.

My parents entered. “Jihui, you wait outside,” he instructed.

My father and mother spent two hours with Shifu Tan. When the door opened again, they were all smiling.

“Jihui, keep training with Shifu Tan, and make sure you don’t slack off!” my father exhorted. Then they bowed reverently to him.

Two weeks later Shifu Tan formally initiated me as his disciple. I dedicated tea to Heaven and Earth, knelt down, and swore my loyalty to him as the fiery boilers watched. On that day my teacher became my master.

Chapter 2. At a Crossroads

My Adventures with Shifu Tan

The fruit trees at Yi Suo were ripe, and the flower gardens were in full bloom. I had been practicing daily for three months now.

“Today I will test your internal strength,” Shifu Tan announced.

I stood in Horse Stance. He grabbed a sledgehammer and swung it hard, aiming for my Lower Dantian. My belly bounced it off like a rubber tire.

“Your guardian Qi is strong,” he said, swinging again. “Normal punches won’t hurt you anymore.”

Summer break ended and the fall term began. I returned to school eager to see my classmates. Shifu Tan demanded that I give my schoolwork the same level of commitment I gave my martial arts practice. He inspired me to excel, and I surprised my parents with high grades. None of my friends were aware of my training. I led a double life; I woke up before dawn, scurried over to the boiler room with my schoolbag, and practiced martial arts until I heard the ring of the first school bell. I then had five minutes before the second bell rang and class began. The school was a three-minute run from Yi Suo, so I sprinted there with my schoolbag bouncing behind me and sat down at my desk with a minute to spare. When the school day ended, I reversed my steps, and within five minutes I was back in the garden behind the boiler room practicing martial arts.

Over time my training intensified. I completed Tiger Fist and learned more advanced fighting sets. I sparred with Shifu Tan regularly and he was content with my progress. My arms and legs became more resilient and much stronger. I experienced explosive power flowing through my body whenever I practiced. Each time I mastered one exercise, Shifu Tan taught me another that was more challenging. I became proficient at three-, two-, and one-finger push- ups and did sets of fifty without tiring.

Shifu Tan could do all the drills he taught me with graceful ease. When he demonstrated handstand pushups, he rooted his hands to the ground and his inverted body bobbed up and down effortlessly. He explained the proper breathing method as he performed a dozen

repetitions without straining. I fumbled at first. But my master’s pres- ence motivated me to train hard, and eventually I mastered it.

Three years passed in this fashion.

“Let your parents know you’ll be sleeping over in the boiler room tonight,” Shifu Tan informed me one morning after practice.

That evening my master and I ate an unusually early dinner. When I was finished Shifu Tan said, “Time for bed.”

I was surprised. I had anticipated some exciting late-night activity.

“Where shall I sleep?” I asked.

“Over there,” he answered, pointing at a rope. One end was tied to a window bar and the other end was tied to a pipe halfway across the room.

“That rope is my bed?” I said in disbelief.

“Jihui, you’ve mastered basic rooting and balancing skills while standing up and awake. Tonight you’ll learn to develop those skills while lying down and asleep.”

“But Shifu, I can’t even lie down on a rope when I’m awake. How will I sleep on it?”

“I will show you how.” Shifu Tan climbed on the rope as if it were a mattress and folded his arms behind his head. One of his feet bal- anced on the rope and the other was crossed over his knee.

“Swing the rope,” he instructed.

I pushed the rope back and forth like a hammock. He looked very comfortable swinging, and half a minute later he sprung off.

“It’s your turn. Focus on your Lower Dantian and relax,” he said.

I sat on the rope, leaned back, lifted my legs in the air, and instantly plopped to the floor.

“Try again,” Shifu Tan insisted.

I concentrated harder, but had the same results.

An hour later I still hadn’t made any headway. I was frustrated and exhausted. I looked helplessly at Shifu Tan.

“Now that you’ve tried a hundred times, I’ll teach you the secret. Simply visualize your center of gravity dropping halfway between the rope and the floor. See yourself balancing in the air.”

I positioned myself carefully on the rope.

“Bring your attention to the Lower Dantian and sink your Qi

there. Feel your weight slide under your body.”

I lifted my legs in the air slowly and envisioned my body weight

dropping. I managed to hang on for a few seconds before falling off the rope again.

“That’s much better,” he encouraged. “Let me try again,” I said optimistically.

I climbed back on the rope. My second attempt lasted longer, and within ten minutes I was lying on the rope swinging back and forth, hands behind my head with one leg crossed over the other.

“Shifu, I made it!” I exclaimed triumphantly.

“Good,” he acknowledged, then gave me a spoon. “Hold on to this and go to sleep.”

By now I was tired, so it didn’t take me long to fall asleep. But the spoon slid from my fingers and when it clanked to the ground I woke up—still balancing on the rope!

Shifu Tan picked up the spoon and handed it back to me.

“This time chant song jing zi ran as you fall asleep. Open up to peace, tranquility, and acceptance and you will remain aware and balanced even in restful sleep.”

I woke up the next morning still holding the spoon. I continued to practice rope sleeping regularly until it become as easy as sleeping on a bed. When Shifu Tan was confident that I had mastered the skill, we slept on tree branches. At first I slept on thick boughs only a few feet off the ground. But gradually we climbed higher and slept on slimmer limbs. We spent many warm summer nights twenty feet above the ground slumbering under the stars.

One night we set out for the countryside.

“Tonight we won’t be sleeping in a tree,” Shifu Tan said.

 “Where will we sleep, then?” I asked.

“We’ll be spending the night in a graveyard.”

I shuddered.

“Every human being has a spiritual essence,” my master explained, “and that energy hovers around a body that has recently died.” I knotted up. “You mean their ghost?”

“In the transition between life and death, powerful energies are released. We are going to meditate on that energy. The spirits of the dead are no different from the spirits of the living, and there is nothing to fear,” he answered calmly.

We entered the graveyard. The silence was unnerving.

Shifu Tan sat cross-legged over a freshly dug grave. I sat beside him. The ground felt soft and warm, like a cushion.

“I have chosen to bring you here in the springtime when the Earth’s energy rises most strongly,” he explained. “Earth Qi mixed with the spiritual essence of the recently dead creates a powerful elixir. The energy around us is potent. Tonight’s meditation will be memorable. Jihui, when you close your eyes, focus on the Lower Dantian until you see a light glowing there. Then allow that light to float through the core of your body straight up to your third eye. When it arrives there, you will feel your midbrow light up like a screen. Keep looking at it and you may see some friendly spirits.”

I closed my eyes and brought my attention to my Lower Dantian as instructed.

Shifu Tan continued, “You might feel the sensation of a hand touching you. If that happens, don’t be alarmed. That’s a sign that a spirit is communicating with you. Breathe deeply into your Lower Dantian and allow the spirit’s energy to flow there. No matter what happens, don’t open your eyes. If you panic chant song jing zi ran and shine the light of your heart on the darkness in your mind.”

After meditating in inner darkness for a while, I saw a light glowing in my Lower Dantian and it floated up to my third eye. My forehead expanded energetically and then it brightened. I could “feel” someone looking at me. The sensation startled me, and my heart was racing. A face came into clear view. It was an old woman. We just looked at each other. She didn’t say anything, and after a few moments she vanished. Then more faces appeared, some younger and some older, but each of them seemed friendly enough, so I relaxed until suddenly a ghoulish, negative presence disturbed my pleasant, peaceful meditation. The negative energy latched on to my lower back and began to crawl up my spine like a slimy reptile.

“Song jing zi ran, song jing zi ran, song jing zi ran,” I chanted. “Keep chanting,” Shifu Tan whispered. “Don’t be afraid. Keep chanting.”

I focused the light of my heart on that dark energy and it melted away. We meditated until dawn without any further unpleasant incidents.

My time with Shifu Tan wasn’t always spent doing grueling exercises, daunting acrobatics, or spine-chilling feats. The playful side he had shown me when we first met resurfaced whenever he wasn’t instructing me. On our off hours my stern teacher became an amusing clown. He liked to entertain me with colorful facial expressions, and, to my delight, he made me laugh a lot.

On one occasion my master visited a close friend who had a five- year-old son, and I tagged along. Shifu Tan picked up one of the boy’s tiny shirts that was lying around and asked, “Can I borrow your shirt?” The little boy nodded yes.

Shifu Tan slid his hands into the narrow sleeves and wriggled his arms until they also slid in. He wriggled his shoulders, and his body seemed to deform as he buttoned up the shirt. His head and legs appeared to be their normal size, but his upper body looked as if it had shrunk in half. The boy, his father, and I all watched in awe. Shifu Tan made some comical faces and waved his disproportionate arms. He looked like a puppet. We all laughed.

“How did you do that, Shifu?” I asked after we left.

“The connective tissue that sheaths your whole body is called fascia,” he explained, “and through special practice you can learn to control your fascia and dislocate your joints at will. I dislocated my shoulders and passed my arms through the sleeves.”

My master rarely displayed his Qigong abilities in public, but he made an exception one day when we visited the zoo and his mischievous side came out.

It was hot and humid. The lions were lying around their cage like big, lazy house cats. One of the visitors was yelling at them to get up and start acting like lions.

“Watch this,” Shifu Tan whispered to me.

He extended his index and middle fingers and curled his other fingers together to form a gesture called Sword Finger. Then he discreetly projected energy from his two extended fingers toward the backside of the biggest lion. About twenty seconds later the lion leaped off the ground with a loud roar and began running around in circles chasing his own tail. A crowd of people gathered around the cage. The lion continued to act wildly. I giggled. A few minutes later Shifu Tan discreetly waved his hand back and forth, sending energy toward the lion’s third eye, and the lion calmed. It yawned, lay down, and was asleep within seconds.

Then we walked over to the monkey pit and saw twenty chattering monkeys running around.

“Should we bring a little order to the monkey cage?” Shifu Tan asked. “Okay,” I agreed.

Shifu Tan pointed his fingers at the largest, loudest monkey. All of a sudden it stopped, stood still, and looked puzzled. Then my master directed the monkey to one side of the pit. Shifu Tan waved his hand again, and soon another monkey joined the first one. Then, one by one, all the monkeys lined up quietly against the wall.

“On the count of three let’s wake them all up,” he said.

We counted down together. He waved his hands, and the monkeys snapped out of their trance. All at once the whole bunch screeched and jumped up and down simultaneously. We had a good laugh.

My master always amazed me with his Qigong skills, but his most extraordinary demonstration took place on July 16, 1975. People traditionally gather every year on that date at the Xiang River Bridge in my hometown to celebrate summer and swim across the half- mile-wide river. Two of my master’s older disciples came to visit him that day. I had never met them before and I never saw them again afterward. Shifu Tan was overjoyed to see them, just as they were to see him. It was a blisteringly hot day, and the three men shielded themselves from the sun with red paper parasols. We all walked past the crowd cheering on the throng of swimmers and strolled farther down the bank, away from all the commotion. I lingered a few paces behind my master and his disciples.

After continuing for about twenty minutes, we were finally alone near the river’s edge.

Shifu Tan turned to me and said, “It’s lunchtime and we’re hungry, so we’re going to cross here. You go back, walk over the Xiang River Bridge, and meet us at that noodle house on the other side.”

“Yes, Shifu,” I answered obediently.

I wondered how they planned to cross the river. There were no boats around. The area was deserted. I wondered if they would swim across, like the others. They were wearing short blue pants and white shirts. I watched curiously as they took off their cotton shoes and slipped them into their pant waists. Shifu Tan headed for the water, flanked by his disciples. They stepped ankle deep into the water and waded farther out. They kept on walking, but they didn’t sink. The water reached just below my master’s knees and just above the disciples’ knees.

The three men were walking on water!

I stared incredulously until they were halfway across. They were still chatting and spinning their parasols. Then I sprinted back to the bridge, ran across, and rejoined them. They were sipping tea, waiting for me. Shifu Tan ordered noodles for all of us. The combination of the delicious, fresh noodles and the mind-blowing feat I had just witnessed made this my most memorable meal ever.

From the Martial Arts to the Healing Arts

When I was thirteen an incident took place that forever altered the course of my training as a martial artist. It began when I met my best friend, Jianqing, on the street and noticed his face was badly bruised.

“What happened to you?” I asked.

“Zhang Gong beat me up,” he replied.

“Why?”

“Yesterday I wore the soldier’s cap that my uncle gave me as a gift, and Zhang Gong grabbed it from me. I tried to get it back and he attacked me, as did his whole gang.”

In those days a soldier’s cap was a valuable fashion item for a teenager. As my friend recalled the altercation, his blackened, swollen eyes moistened and I became enraged.

“Where did this happen?”

“On the street corner where they’re always hanging out.”

I marched there in a fit of rage to confront Zhang Gong, who was there with three of his hooligan friends. They were each three years older and at least one head taller than I, but that didn’t stop me. I stepped right into the middle of their circle.

“You stole Jianqing’s cap yesterday and I want it back!” I barked. The biggest thug in the group taunted me. “Or else what?” he asked, winking at the others.

My martial arts instincts took over. Without warning I smashed him in the chest with a devastating punch. He flew backward. After a moment of stunned silence, the rest of the gang members jumped me. I moved with blinding speed and struck one of them to the ground. Another pulled out a knife and sliced my lower back. I smashed his ribs with a vicious strike and punched his face. He fell to the ground unconscious. Zhang Gong jumped on me, but before he could hit me I snapped and broke his arm, then continued to pummel him mercilessly while he lay helpless on the ground. Within seconds the fight was over. Each gang member was either disabled or unconscious.

I quickly ran away to hide in another part of our neighborhood. As I calmed down, fear grabbed me. I began to wonder if I had killed Zhang Gong. My short-lived feeling of triumph suddenly turned into bitter anxiety that stalked me for the rest of the day.

That evening Zhang Gong’s parents came to our building and banged on our door. My parents let them in. His mother was livid. She told my parents that her son was lying in a hospital bed, and she threatened to have me thrown in jail. My father berated me in front of Zhang Gong’s parents while my mother cried. They made me apologize.

The following day I visited Zhang Gong in the hospital with my mother. We brought him dried lychees and apples. His face was badly disfigured and his right arm was in a cast. He was in pain and unusually timid. He didn’t look like an arrogant bully, but like a weak and cowardly boy. To my surprise, I felt heartfelt sympathy, and I apologized to him.

Later that afternoon my master greeted me with a cold, unfriendly stare. My mother had paid him a visit earlier.

“You lost control over your emotions,” he said sharply. “I’m sorry,” I replied. “I’m very disappointed in you.”

I could handle my mom’s disapproval, but my master’s reproach was unbearable.

“Today your lesson will be the washboard,” he said.

Shifu Tan leaned his wooden washboard against the wall at a forty-five degree angle and made me kneel on it. After five minutes my knees ached badly. He made me face the wall for two punish- ing hours.

Not long after the fight, Shifu Tan had an unusually serious, straightforward conversation with me.

“Jihui, you are standing at a crossroads, and you must choose only one way forward. You can continue training as a martial artist and fight in competitions to establish your reputation. At the end of this road you’ll become an accomplished fighter, and you’ll be able to open your own martial arts school someday. But down the other path lies a different destiny. I can train you to become a Qigong healer.

This journey requires developing your healing abilities, refining your inner vision, and greatly empowering your Qi. Though it might not seem apparent, the training for the second path is far more rigorous and demanding than the first. Take your time and decide which path you want to follow.”

Over the years I had witnessed Shifu Tan heal many people with Qigong. His reputation as a healer had quietly spread around our neighborhood. Strangers often knocked on his door at odd hours, and Shifu Tan never turned anyone away. Sometimes he even let me watch him treat a patient.

Just a few weeks before I fought with Zhang Gong, a woman had limped into the boiler room on crutches asking for help.

“A steel beam fell and crushed my toes,” she winced. “The doctors gave me painkillers but they no longer work. I’m in constant agony. I was told you are a healer.”

“Show me your foot,” Shifu Tan said. He massaged her leg and directed his Qi into the wound. He blended some herbs, mixed them with medicinal liquor, and sprayed the concoction on her foot. Then he bandaged it.

“Come back in a week,” he instructed.

A week later the woman returned. Her pain had diminished considerably. He repeated the same procedure. The following week she knocked on the door one last time and walked in without her crutches.

“My foot doesn’t hurt anymore,” she said, beaming.

My master examined the foot. It looked almost normal. The woman burst into tears. “Thank you.”

Her gratitude touched me, and each time I recalled her apprecia- tion I became more interested in following the path of healing.

I gave Xiao Yao my answer on the spot. “Shifu, I want to become a Qigong healer.”

“Good.” He seemed pleased with my choice.

The transition from the martial arts to the healing arts unfolded gradually. I continued to practice the same martial art forms Shifu Tan taught me as well as the same meditations and breathing tech- niques, but he stopped teaching me new forms. Instead my master asked me to join him in the boiler room whenever someone came in for a treatment. At first I merely watched him work while he explained the techniques he was using, and eventually I began to assist him by pressing various energy points during a healing session.

A month before my fifteenth birthday, Shifu Tan announced, “Today I will be giving you a special empowerment called Guan Ding. This experience is the first of several empowerments intended to awaken your healing powers.”

I sat down on the floor in the boiler room. Shifu Tan touched my third eye with his index finger. A powerful vibration jolted from his fingertip into my head. It felt like an electric current that flowed steadily from his arm straight into my brain. As the intensity of the energy increased, the electrical impulse began to flow down my neck and chest into my arms, my torso, and down my legs. Every energy channel inside my body was aglow. I was growing lighter and brighter until I felt myself dissolving. An invisible hand suddenly seemed to lift me higher and higher. I lost awareness of the outer world. I was like a cloud of sweet bliss riding across a vast, illuminated inner sky. Then even that sensation melted away. The cloud dissipated and I merged into the blissful sky. There was love everywhere. Nothing else, just love.

When I opened my eyes, Shifu Tan was there. “Jihui, I have planted a spiritual seed in you. Over time it will sink deep roots and grow stronger. When you are older there will be a second, more powerful empowerment, a practice called Biguan. I will let you know when the time arrives. For now, just continue to meditate as before.”

The Guan Ding empowerment transformed me. I felt blissful cur- rents of Qi flowing through me all the time. I basked in the sweet afterglow of my newfound happiness until a few months later when Shifu Tan broke some bitter news that rattled me to the core.

The Rainbow Tree

“I received a letter last week informing me that Jiuyi Temple has reopened,” Shifu Tan said. “I have to return.”

The news stunned me. Although the Cultural Revolution had recently ended and people everywhere were celebrating the social changes, I never imagined that the newfound freedoms would separate me from my master.

“Ten years have passed since I left,” he continued, “and the boiler room has become my second home, but as a senior monk it is my duty to go back and rebuild. It is not your destiny to follow me to the monastery and become a monk. I know you would come if I asked you to, but I want you to stay in Xiangtan. All my disciples are uneducated mountaineers and monks, and I would like you to pursue a university degree. China is going to go through many changes. The world is transforming quickly. Doors will open for you and your des- tiny lies through them. So it is essential for you to stay here, study diligently, and strive to pass the university entrance exam.”

I heard Shifu Tan’s words, but they didn’t register. I had spent time with him every day for the last seven years. He was like a second father to me. The boiler room was our sacred temple. I couldn’t envision my life without him.

“While I am gone you will meditate regularly and keep practicing the techniques I’ve taught you. During winter breaks and summer vacations you will rejoin me at the monastery, and I will continue to teach you.”

“Yes, Shifu,” I said. My voice was hollow and flat.

“In the monastery I will be known by my monk’s name, Xiao Yao, but I will still be your Shifu. I realize that many things will change for both of us, but in the end it will all work out fine.”

On the way back home that day, I cried.

A month later my entire family accompanied Xiao Yao to the train station. I spent all of the little money I had saved on a gift, a diary. I inscribed the front page: To My Beloved Master. Have a good journey, Jihui.

My sister and mother knitted him a brown wool sweater, and they gave him a basket of food for the trip.

Xiao Yao’s eyes moistened. The conductor announced the train’s departure. My master boarded. The whistle blew. He waved good-bye from the window, and moments later the train was gone.

A few days later I returned to the boiler room and saw the new boiler room attendant shoveling coal into the burners. That’s when it really hit me. My master was gone. After that I hardly ever returned to Yi Suo.

After my master left I became more involved at school. I joined the track team and discovered that I excelled as a hurdler. I was relatively short for the sport, but my martial arts training compensated for my size. I also focused more energy on my studies. That year I took English as my second language. The teacher was an inspiring man named Li Yuntao. He was passionate about the subject and enchanted us with classical stories like Hamlet and The Prince and the Pauper. I decided that if I were ever accepted to a university, I would major in English literature.

Three days after the semester ended, I set off on my first visit to Jiuyi Temple. I climbed aboard the same train Xiao Yao had taken. I carried a small canvas backpack containing two pairs of underwear, a T-shirt, a toothbrush and toothpaste, a hand towel, and a bag of dried lychees to offer my master as a gift. The train ride took a full eight hours and then I traveled by bus for two more hours and got off at a makeshift stop near a remote village. I asked a local farmer for directions to the monastery. He pointed the way.

In the forest I met another farmer, who asked me where I was headed.

“I’m going to Jiuyi Temple to visit my Shifu,” I answered.

“Who is your Shifu?” he asked.

“The monk Xiao Yao.”

“You are a disciple of Xiao Yao?”

“Yes.”

“Then please allow me to invite you to have lunch with my family.

We are poor, but it would be an honor to host you in our home.”

I accepted. Lunch consisted of rice mixed with sweet potato bits. One of the farmer’s relatives was an old mountaineer who shared many endearing stories about my master. While listening to him I realized that Xiao Yao had touched many people’s lives before he became a boiler room attendant. These kind people made me appreciate his humility even more. We drank tea together, and then I thanked them for their hospitality and continued my trek to Jiuyi Temple.

I hiked for several hours along the steep path. Parts were covered by a ceiling of thick foliage, and others snaked along the bare, narrow edge of the mountain. I paused a few times to admire the valley below.

When I finally saw the main gate of Jiuyi Temple, I ran toward it and entered the courtyard. Neglect and bad weather had taken a toll on the monastery. The grounds were in need of maintenance, and the structures were in dire need of repair.

A young monk greeted me with his right hand in the traditional prayer position against his chest. “E mi tuo fo—Buddha bless you,” he said.

I wasn’t familiar with the religious formalities.

“Uh, hi. E mi tuo fo. I am Jihui, and I’m looking for Xiao Yao,” I replied.

“Oh yes, I know who you are. He told us you’d be coming. Follow me. I’ll take you to him.”

My master was in the dining hall. His head was shaven and he wore a chocolate-colored robe. I nearly walked right past him.

“E mi tuo fo. Jihui, did you have a good journey?” he asked me.

His new look startled me. It took me a few moments to regain my bearings.

“Yes, Shifu,” I answered.

“Good. Let me show you around.”

Xiao Yao gave me a brief tour of the temple and introduced me to everyone. There were about a dozen monks living on the premises. Most of them were new to monastic life. Only a handful of the older monks had returned. I met the abbot in charge of administration, who was a veteran monk named Liu Bo. The monastery was under- staffed, and everyone was overloaded with work. Xiao Yao was in charge of reconstruction as well as training the new monks.

Next, Xiao Yao showed me the main hall that housed the Golden Buddha. We stood on the veranda and looked out. The far view of the mountains was spectacular. The near view of the courtyard was less inspiring. Piles of bricks and stacked lumber were strewn throughout the temple grounds.

“As you can see, the monastery is a mess,” my master explained. “We are busy with major repairs that must be completed before winter arrives.” He ushered me inside the temple. The dilapidated walls desperately needed patching and a fresh coat of paint, but the space still radiated a high spiritual vibration. The open-air room exuded the musty scent of sandalwood incense, which mixed pleasantly with the scents of summer in bloom. The Golden Buddha sat peacefully on a lotus flower and appeared unperturbed by his cracked skin of faded-gold paint.

He was flanked on either side by two life-sized standing Buddha statues. Beyond him dozens of smaller Golden Buddhas were illuminated by seas of red candles on two long tables that ran alongside the walls.

A silky red curtain hung down from the ceiling, framing the Golden Buddha and his retinue. Xiao Yao led me behind the drapery and quietly showed me the beautiful, radiant, kind-faced, golden statue of Guan Yin, the goddess of compassion. She was twice my height and stood graciously on a stack of lotus flowers, facing the back of the temple.

We returned outside, and Xiao Yao said, “Jihui, you’ll be staying with me. I have to get back to work now. Settle down and walk around the grounds if you’d like. I will see you later.”

Then he asked a young monk to show me to his room.

Xiao Yao’s room was set into the perimeter wall of the monastery just across the courtyard from the main temple. The quarters were neither small nor large. There were two narrow beds on opposite ends of the room shielded by mosquito nets. On the far wall was a small window and a wooden desk with a kerosene lamp and a few candles on it. Two chairs were tucked away in the corner. I placed my back- pack down on one of them.

“Our daily routine is simple and it never changes,” the monk explained before he left. “We pray and chant three times a day, we work two shifts, and we eat once, at lunchtime.”

I followed the daily routine and the next day, after morning prayers, Xiao Yao led me outside the temple grounds while it was still slightly dark. We walked for twenty minutes through the early morning mist in dreamy silence. The path narrowed as we walked along the edge of the mountain overlooking a deep ravine. Then the path widened and the Earth became grassy. We stopped in front of a pine tree that had put down roots at the very edge of a steep cliff. Half its branches overhung the rock and extended into the void. From here the neigh- boring mountain peaks, which were suspended like celestial islands in the swirling, curling morning mist, were an awesome sight to behold.

“I practice Qigong here almost every morning,” Xiao Yao said. “The mountain Qi is powerful and it is peaceful and quiet.”

We practiced a set called Four Golden Wheels Exercise and medi- tated under the tree, facing the majestic sky.

Two otherworldly hours passed and my master said, “Jihui, take a look.”

By now the sun had risen and its heat had chased away the morning mist. The sky was blue and clear. Xiao Yao was pointing above the pine tree at a double rainbow that seemed to bridge Heaven and Earth.

“These rainbows appear here almost every morning,” he said, his face reflecting the golden sunlight.

We practiced Qigong by the “Rainbow Tree” daily. After morning practice my master usually went back to work and engaged in various activities. Sometimes I helped the monks with construction. At other times Xiao Yao instructed me to read old manuscripts that were stored in a large wooden chest in a small reading room. Some of them were hundreds of years old. I was amazed to discover that many described the same practices that Xiao Yao had taught me. I read them with care, realizing that Xiao Yao and his masters had read the same scrolls when they were my age.

Whenever a villager came for a healing, my master would call for me. I would set aside whatever I was doing and assist him with the treatment in a room near the main temple, just as I had done in the boiler room.

And when I wasn’t meditating, working, reading, or assisting Xiao Yao, I explored the sleepy mountain trails and swam in the gurgling streams. The summer passed at a leisurely pace, and I grew attached to the pleas- ant simplicity of monastic life. When it was time for me to return home, I was sad to leave peaceful Jiuyi Temple for the lively streets of Xiangtan.

Chapter 3. One Hundred days of darkness and Light

Biguan in the Dark Chamber

The following summer I returned to Jiuyi Temple expecting to enjoy another idyllic vacation. However, three days after my arrival my master informed me, “Tomorrow you’ll start Biguan practice. This empowerment practice consists of a one-hundred-day fast in a dark stone chamber. Biguan is extremely demanding, but the spiritual transformation it brings about is unparalleled.”

The announcement thrilled me. All day long my energy level was unusually high, and it took me a long time to fall asleep that night. The next day began like all the others. Xiao Yao and I practiced by the Rainbow Tree. After lunch I went to the temple to meditate beside the Golden Buddha, but I couldn’t concentrate because worrisome thoughts began to surface. One hundred days without food? One hundred days in the dark? Am I ready for this challenge? As I continued to think about Biguan, my excitement increased—but so did my anxiety.

A monk tapped me on the shoulder. “Shifu is waiting for you in his room.”

I walked across the courtyard, knocked on my master’s door, and entered.

“Are you ready?” he asked. I nodded.

Xiao Yao stood up and grabbed the kerosene lamp sitting on his desk along with some matches and a stick of incense. “Then let’s go.” I followed Xiao Yao to an inconspicuous door hidden all the way in the back of the temple that I hadn’t noticed before. Xiao Yao lit the kerosene lamp. He opened the door, and I followed him into a narrow corridor slightly wider than the width of our shoulders and slightly taller than the tops of our heads. The lamplight cast a warm glow on the cold stones. The walkway spiraled downward, and I trailed behind him deep into the underground. The sound of our shoes sliding against the uneven stone floor broke the heavy silence. Eventually the floor flat- tened and we reached another door. My master pushed on the handle. It creaked open and we passed through. I shut it behind us.

We were standing in a small rectangular foyer.

Xiao Yao pointed to a wooden bucket resting on the floor.

“This is your toilet,” he said. Beyond the foyer there was another door. He opened it and I followed him in. “And this is your room.”

Xiao Yao’s lamp illuminated the space. My new “home” was a stone chamber built directly under the Golden Buddha and Guan Yin. It was about fifteen feet wide and twenty-five feet long. Large granite slabs covered the walls, ceiling, and floor. I stepped inside. To my left was a two-foot-tall ceramic water jug partially covered by a wooden lid. A ladle made from half a dried squash rested on top of the lid. Farther down, a narrow, three-foot-long wooden table leaned against the wall. A flat-bottomed porcelain pan sat on top of it. The pan was white with a blue geometric design, and it was filled to the top with grains of rice.

Directly across from the table was a small cot with a mattress made out of dried straw and covered by a thin sheet of cotton. A gray woolen blanket lay folded on the bed. On the floor beside the bed was a round yellow meditation cushion.

“Your eight years of practice have prepared you for this day.” Xiao Yao’s soft voice filled the chamber as his shadow covered one of the walls. “I am confident that you will complete Biguan successfully and discover paradise.”

My master used the kerosene lamp to light a stick of incense that he planted in the rice in the porcelain pan.
“I will visit you daily and each time I will light one stick of incense,” he explained.

Swirls of fragrant smoke curled toward the ceiling, and the pleas- ant smell of sandalwood spread throughout the chamber. “Between my visits you will meditate and practice the exercises I have taught you. Do you have any questions?”

“No, Shifu,” I responded.

“For the first twenty days of Biguan practice you will get three mountain dates each day. Savor them slowly and chew with whole- hearted mindfulness.” Xiao Yao reached into the folds of his robe, retrieved the fruits, and handed them to me. “Chew slowly, slowly, slowly,” he repeated.

“Yes, Shifu.”

“You may drink as much water as you like. Are you ready to begin?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He left the room and the stone chamber plunged into near dark- ness. The tip of the incense stick was still burning and it cast a dusky orange glow. I watched it grow shorter. Soon the amber tip dimmed and faded away. The room turned completely black. I made my way to the cot and sat calmly in the dark until a sobering thought finally shook me. This is really happening!

I stood up and walked over to the wall, bumping into the table along the way. I used my hands to guide myself along the wall back to the door. I went outside and felt my way to the second door, beyond which lay the spiral staircase that led to the outside world. I put my ear to the door, but I couldn’t hear anything.

To regain my sense of normalcy I used the toilet. Then I returned to my room and explored it again, tracing my way by feeling the walls with my hands. I lay down on the mattress for a few minutes. It was comfortable. Then I got up and walked around the room for a third time.

I returned to the bed and remembered the dates. I popped one into my mouth and wolfed it down. Mmm, that was good. I played with the pit for a little while, placed it on the tabletop, and I reached for another, but stopped myself before biting down on it.

“Chew slowly, slowly, slowly.” I remembered Xiao Yao’s words and decided to save it for later. I got up and had a drink of water. It tasted sweet and fresh. The air was also fresh. There must be a ventilation shaft somewhere. I tried to find it but couldn’t, and after a while I gave up.

I took a nap. When I woke up, I was disoriented. How long have I been here? An hour? Two? Maybe more? Is it dark outside? I had no way of knowing. I was already losing my sense of time. But since I wasn’t tired, I got out of bed and began to practice Qigong.

As promised, Xiao Yao returned to visit me the next day. I heard the outer door open and close. Then the door to my room opened and closed. He entered, this time with no lamp, holding only a lit stick of incense.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

“Yes, Shifu,” I replied.

“Is there anything you would like to ask me?”

“No, Shifu.”

He probed my head with his fingers to check my energy level, and then he empowered me with his Qi by pressing on my Midbrow Point. The buzzing energy flowed into me like an electric current.

Then he empowered a few of my other energy points. By the time he was done working on me, the incense stick was almost completely burned out.

Xiao Yao pulled out three dates from under the folds of his robe and handed them to me.

“Keep on practicing,” he instructed.

“Yes, Shifu.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he added, and walked to the door.

“Good-bye, Shifu.”

The door shut behind him, and after the incense stick was extinguished, I was plunged into pure darkness again.

We repeated the same routine every day, but each time Xiao Yao visited he empowered different energy points in me. Once he placed his hands on my shoulder blades for a long time. Another time he empowered two energy points on the soles of my feet. On a different occasion, Xiao Yao pressed hard on two very sensitive points along the upper ridge of my eye sockets for a long time with his thumbs. I almost cried from the intense pain. But when he released the pressure the inside of my head brightened like the daytime sky.

I suffered occasional pangs of loneliness during the first week, especially right after Xiao Yao left. But those feelings quickly sub- sided, and after a while I didn’t feel them at all. Surprisingly I didn’t feel hungry after the third day, not even once. I discovered that fasting alone in the dark without any tantalizing distractions was quite easy. My master’s Qi, the dates, and my Qigong practice nourished me sufficiently.

As the first week melted into the second, my sensory awareness began to unravel. I became a point of consciousness floating through the darkness, materializing a body whenever I needed to move, materializing a psyche whenever I experienced a feeling, and materializing a mind whenever I produced a thought.

On one occasion I was lying in bed holding one of my precious dates. It smells so savory . . . I probed the fruit with my fingers. It feels so smooth . . . I sunk my teeth into the flesh and slowly sliced off a small chunk. It tastes delicious . . . My mouth became a pool of sweet saliva. I swallowed and took another bite. When I finished eating the fruit, I played with the date pit in my mouth, chasing it around with my tongue like a cat romping around with a ball of yarn.

Then I rested with the date pit still in my mouth, and suddenly I had a vision. I saw the date I had just eaten bunched with other dates on the branch that spawned it. My sense of time began to flow backward and I envisioned the sunlight, rainwater, and minerals that created the fruit returning to the sky and the ground as the date shrank away and dissolved.

Then I saw the tree that produced the date begin to shrink until it became the pit of the date that originated it. The backward flow of time sped up, and I saw countless date pits becoming date trees that, in turn, became date pits until I saw the primordial date—the first date that ever existed—disintegrate and return its elemental energy into the void. Then there was absolutely nothing.

In a flash I realized that what had happened to the date in the vision also applied to every other living thing that ever existed, including me. Ultimately, every living being is a thread stitching through a different part of the tapestry of the universe, but originating from the same mysterious, fathomless source. I instantly understood with lucid clarity that I shared the most fundamental aspect of my being with everything else alive: all life is one.

After this realization, my experience of the dark chamber changed in a very surreal way. The room became a three-dimensional stage on which vivid visions manifested constantly, one after another. Multi- colored, otherworldly, swirling skies displaced the solid, dark ceiling.

The stone walls crumbled and I found myself in a lush evergreen forest carpeted with ferns and wildflowers. Then that scene would vanish and another one would appear. Next I’d be in a stunning golden meadow by a gurgling stream, gazing up at geometric pat- terns parading across the sky like neon-colored falling stars. These visions filled me with gleeful joy, and soon I completely forgot about the world above ground, the one dressed up in duller colors and coarser textures.

At about the same time these visions began, Xiao Yao announced, “Jihui, twenty days have passed. You have completed the first stage of the practice. From this point onward you won’t be eating any more dates, but you may continue to drink as much water as you want.”

A few days later he informed me, “Today I am going to empower your Central Meridian.

” I sat down on the yellow meditation cushion, and Xiao Yao stood behind me. The incense stick cast its orange glow over both of us. As my master touched the top of my head, I closed my eyes. Almost instantly I felt a very powerful current of energy shoot into the core of my brain and continue right through the central axis of my body, all the way down to the base of my pelvis. I shook as though the ground under me were quaking.

“Focus on your Lower Dantian,” Xiao Yao instructed.

The force intensified, and the current of energy expanded like a powerful, gushing waterfall of light roaring right through me.

“Breathe deeply,” he said.

Xiao Yao placed a finger on the midpoint between my eyebrows and put his other palm on my back directly behind my navel. He shot another bolt of Qi into my spine. That current flowed upward to my neck and then a warm, tingling feeling spread throughout my face. My nose, lips, tongue, ears, and eyes were electrified. Dazzling light filled my head, radiated back down toward my spine, and then cascaded down each vertebra to my kidneys, which became two luminous little suns.

Xiao Yao empowered me again. This time his energy flowed in deeper. It penetrated my bone marrow and filled every bone in my body with extraordinary bliss. As I inhaled, a groundswell of indescribable love washed over me. As I exhaled, I was swept far, far away by euphoric ecstasy.

“Keep meditating,” Xiao Yao whispered.

That was all I could do. That was all I wanted to do. My entire being was consumed by the experience, which was drawing me further in. A fireball shot up from the base of my spine to the top of my head and beyond. Brilliant light flooded my whole being. The luminosity was blinding. It was as though the sun had risen inside the dark chamber.

A blue light began to vibrate at the top of my head. It settled into my Upper Dantian, the area at the center of my head. The light expanded and spread indescribable joy as I “sipped” a little oxygen. Breathing became intoxicating and the pace of my breath slowed down to a trickle.

The blue light flowed down into my Middle Dantian, the area at the center of my chest. My heart opened up like a delicate, million- petaled flower. I would have screamed, but I was hardly breathing. My only escape from the overwhelming bliss was to slow down my breathing even more. But even so, the wave of ecstasy continued to carry me further and further in, and I completely melted into the sea of light.

The next time I saw Xiao Yao, he said, “Jihui, two days have passed since the empowerment. You have been sitting motionless and in deep meditation that whole time.”

The experience had felt timeless, and it took a while for my sense of self to return. When it did, I observed that I had undergone yet another transformation. My psychic sensitivity had greatly expanded, and I could “feel” the presence of all the Qigong masters who had meditated in the dark chamber before me. I could perceive their thoughts and feelings imprinted in the stones. The walls began to speak to me. They imparted the collective wisdom of the masters. I listened and learned from them. They looked over me as I practiced. They became my teachers.

At this stage I left my body and journeyed beyond the dark chamber virtually every time I sat down to meditate. I soared high above the monastery like an eagle, and from there I flew wherever the whimsical winds carried me.

Once they led me down the Xiang River, and I visited my home- town. I flew over Yi Suo and the boiler room, my apartment building, my high school, and the stadium where I ran hurdle races.

Another time I hovered high above a different town. Although I had never seen it before, it was vaguely familiar, and I flew down to take a closer look. I landed near a stone bridge covered by a wooden roof near a small river. Women in wide-brimmed bamboo hats scrubbed clothes and linen by hand against flat stones. The wheat in the nearby fields was turning yellow. It was autumn. I entered the town through the main gate.

The streets were narrow, and the buildings were constructed in a style that was popular a thousand years ago. I walked along a bustling street lined with stalls. Merchants peddled cackling chickens and col- orful fruit. I stopped by a little noodle shop and peeked in. It smelled good. A few men with white turbans on their heads sat on low stools.

They slurped noodles and chatted in a strange dialect, but I could understand them perfectly.

Then I heard some commotion and I turned around. A palanquin shouldered by four strong, wiry men headed down the street. They carried a young, dignified nobleman. Pedestrians moved to the side of the road and bowed their heads. I looked closely at his face. Though we looked utterly unalike, I instinctively knew that he was me.

The townspeople, the streets, the bridge, and the river all suddenly vanished and I was back in the dark chamber seated on my cushion. I stretched my limbs, walked to the water jug, dipped the ladle into the jug, and drank. I returned to the cushion and settled down again. The dark chamber vanished, and I was soon flying high above the monastery again, departing on another adventure.

At this stage of my Biguan practice, I spent at least half my waking hours exploring mystical realms. I encountered strange, nonhuman dimensions and met all kinds of intelligent beings. The rest of my waking hours were spent in deep, blissful meditation nourishing my Qi. Sometimes a whole day slipped by in one sitting that felt like only a few minutes. Xiao Yao’s visits passed in quick succession.

More than fifty days had passed when my master said, “You are ready to take the next step. I am going to teach you an advanced meditation called Bu Jing Guan Gong. This is a dangerous practice that shouldn’t be performed until all your energy channels are fully open and your Qi is highly refined. You have reached that stage. From now on when you meditate, gather into yourself all the filth, evils, negativity, and hideous darkness in the world. Become a container for everything that is ugly, revolting, and loathsome.

“Draw into your soul all the woes suffered in the hearts of all suffering beings. Become a magnet for grief, depression, anguish, sorrow, and all the darkest shadows hiding within. Invite rage, terror, panic, lust, and cruelty into your meditation. Fill your soul with the vilest blackness. Keep on inviting all this malevolence relentlessly.

There are no limits to the vices you should invoke. And whatever arises, continue. The practice won’t be complete until you move through all the fear you encounter. You must overcome whatever challenges darkness throws your way. Transform your heart into a sword of purity and slay any fear you experience. And whatever you do, don’t retreat.”

This meditation was unlike any other my master had ever taught me, and as soon as I began to practice it, I sensed an ominous shift. The blissful light I had experienced when I meditated previously began to fade. At first I experienced a gray, murky energy forming around me like a gloomy cloud. Then the cloud darkened. The light and bliss vanished and instead dreary, troubling emotions surfaced. I tried to insulate myself from the growing negativity, but it over- whelmed me, and soon the chamber became completely black again.

On one occasion in that state, I sensed another presence in the room. I opened my eyes, and what I saw startled me. No more than three feet away, right in front of me, was a skeleton. I didn’t know what to do, so we simply stared at each other. The skeleton was completely still. I moved slightly and it also moved slightly. Its bones were translucent. I could see straight through them to the bone marrow inside. As I inhaled, I noticed a pair of lungs appear under its expanding ribcage. When I exhaled, the spongy sacks deflated. After taking another breath, I realized that the lungs were mirroring my exact breathing pattern.

Those are my lungs!

The skeleton I was observing was my own. I was no longer afraid. My inner sight had been awakened. I looked at “my” head. The cranium became translucent. I examined the folds of my brain. Then I looked through my eye sockets to the back of my skull. I scanned my heart. It was beating fast. I was excited. My stomach was empty. I saw the scar on my lower back from the knife cut I received when I fought Zhang Gong and his gang. I spent the next few days exploring the most fascinating world I had encountered so far—my own body.

A few days after experimenting with my newfound psychic ability, I returned to the practice of Bu Jing Guan Gong. Over a period of several days I continuously invoked the ills of the world with renewed enthusiasm, and the thick, gloomy darkness returned quickly. The walls became silent, and the heaviness around me grew increasingly oppressive.

Suddenly a chill invaded the room. I ignored the cold at first, but the sensation gradually became intolerable. The iciness penetrated through all the layers of my body. The frosty sting penetrated my skin and chilled my blood. My teeth chattered. The chill sank into my internal organs. I am going to freeze to death, I thought. Then I recalled my master’s words, “Don’t retreat!” I tried to keep my resolve, but I panicked and opened my eyes. Within seconds the cold sensa- tion stopped.

I began practicing again. And this time I made a vow: I’d rather die than open my eyes. The cold sensation returned quickly and assaulted me mercilessly. I felt as though my whole body was submerged under freezing, arctic water. I shook uncontrollably. I’m going to die . . . I nearly panicked again. Then let me die . . .

I withstood the relentless pain for an indefinite time. My resolve was steadfast and unwavering. The torture became worse. There was nothing for me to do but press on. After surviving the most bitter moment of hellish anguish, I felt a tingle of warmth. A pulsation of glorious heat began to build between my kidneys and radiate out.

Next a fireball surged from the base of my spine. It shot up from my tailbone along my spine into my brain and then all the way up to the top of my head. That energy spread warmth and pleasure wherever it went. Mmmm . . . Another fireball shot up. My internal organs began to defrost. Every warm cell in my body began to vibrate blissfully. The ecstasy continued to build to an inconceivable level of rapture. I remained in that state for a long, long time.

After my energy settled, I began to practice Bu Jing Guan Gong once again. The ominous darkness returned as I focused harder than ever, eager to gather more negativity. Soon another uncomfortable sensation manifested: itchiness. I felt as though an army of ants had invaded the dark chamber with marching orders to parade all over my skin. I touched my face and scalp for an instant just to make sure there were no insects. There weren’t.

I allowed the itchiness to spread into my mouth, down my throat, and into my internal organs. The itchiness crawled into my nose and up my sinuses into my brain. Every part of my body was extremely itchy. The prickly sensation was maddening, but I didn’t scratch myself. The experience was even more intolerable than the cold, but I controlled myself and plowed through the agony.

Soon the sensation subsided and the same fireball surged up from the base of my spine into my brain. I was hurled into an ecstatic state, but this time my body felt more deeply purified and the energy washing through me was even more refined.

This same pattern repeated itself several times, only on each occasion I suffered a different kind of energetic “torture” before experiencing blue light and bliss. The next affliction was heat. I thought I was going to burn alive. After that I couldn’t breathe and became convinced that I would suffocate to death. I braved both challenges and was rewarded on each occasion with more blue light and even more exquisite, long-lasting bliss.

Soon it became harder for me to dredge up any negativity. After a while there was no darkness left for me to invoke. I continued to practice Bu Jing Guan Gong, but since there was no more dark- ness to be found, I remained steadily anchored in the blissful light. I waited patiently for the next wave of torment to arrive, but it never came. Instead an utterly ineffable event took place.

Perfect Peace

I was meditating cross-legged on the yellow cushion. Suddenly I had the sensation that I was in an ascending elevator, and I rose higher and higher and higher . . . There was no top floor, and the higher I soared, the brighter it became. I felt like a tiny flame hurtling toward the sun. The brilliance spread through me and intensified. I merged completely with this boundless ocean of blazing light until I was extinguished.

My mind ceased to function. Nothing stirred my consciousness. There were no thoughts, no feelings, no movements, no shapes, no sounds, no textures, no desires, no fear, no divisions, and no edges. There was absolutely nothing, nothing, nothing. There was nowhere to go and nothing to do. All activity ceased, yet this formless radiance brimmed with its own fullness and completeness.

As I became this vast, spacious openness, an indescribable stillness set in. It was a restfulness that transcended all the bliss and ecstasy I had experienced in all my meditations combined. And from this self- radiant serenity emerged one exalted quality: perfect peace.

“Jihui . . .” An incoherent sound rippled through the tranquility . . .

“Jihui . . .” The voice reverberated through the unwavering silence . . .

“Jihui.” The sound coalesced meaning. My master was reeling me back in.

I opened my eyes and suddenly the stone chamber materialized in the midst of the brilliant luminosity. The physical darkness and the spiritual light coincided.

“E mi tuo fo—Buddha bless you,” Xiao Yao said.

I was lying on the mattress; my master was seated on the floor beside me. A long time passed before I spoke.

“Shifu . . .” I uttered softly.

“I’ve been here at your side for the last eight days.”

“Eight days?”

“I found you slumped over on the floor. I called out your name.

You did not respond. I checked your breathing. You had no discern- ible breath. I checked your pulse. You had no discernible pulse. I picked you up and put you down on the mattress.”

“No breath? No pulse?”

“This experience is called xiao si er da huo—Small Death, Big Life.”

“Was I dead?”

“Yes and no. It was a controlled death. I remained at your side to make sure you did not cross over for good.”

“The light is so beautiful . . .”

“In Buddhism we call it Kong, the void. The Daoists call it Wuji, uncreated infinity. This realm is ever-present, but it is only revealed when a soul is purified and all mental activity ceases. It is the condi- tion the Buddha realized while meditating under the Bodhi Tree. It is nirvana.”

“. . . so peaceful.”

“It is your true nature. Perfection is who you really are.” “Somehow I feel completely different than I did before.” “Much karma has been lifted.”

“Shifu, you sound tired.”

“During the Small Death your Qi flow can become stagnant. The presence of an experienced master is critical. I watched over you day and night to make sure that your meridians remained strong. But don’t worry,” he reassured me, “I can recover my Qi quickly.”

We sat silently in the darkness. The room radiated an aura of pure love and compassion. After he left, I remained on the mattress. Even though the room was physically dark, I could still perceive the brilliant inner light shining throughout. It didn’t matter whether my eyes were open or closed. The dark chamber was bathed in clear white light. I couldn’t see the actual contours of the chamber with my physical eyes, but I could sense the walls and even the position of the furniture.

The stone room felt like a dreamy apparition floating in brilliant emptiness. The peaceful spaciousness was still present, only now it permeated the walls, my body, and even my thoughts. The finite world of form was arising in formless infinity, and despite being holed up in a small, dingy space, I experienced complete freedom.

I was thirsty. I stood up. My body felt incredibly energized. My Lower Dantian was as warm as a stove and bursting with Qi. I was supercharged with energy. I felt like jumping around, and I leaped across the room to the water jug. I took a sip. The experience triggered an explosion of sensual delight. Immeasurable force moved through my limbs, and I spontaneously began to roll around on the floor. I leaped to my feet and ran around the room, bouncing off the far wall as I slapped the ceiling with my palm. I darted back and forth like a rubber ball. I kicked my legs up in the air and walked around the room doing a two-finger handstand. I was light as a feather and possessed the strength of a tiger. These spontaneous, explosive body movements continued for hours.

“Shifu,” I remarked the next day, “I’m feeling a new, strange sensation.” “What are you feeling?” he asked.
“Energy buzzing from my fingers. The Qi is very potent. If I put my hands in prayer position, I feel a cloud of energy forming above my head, and then energy shoots up from my fingertips into the cloud like bolts of lightning.”

“The Small Death has awakened your inner power, Jihui. You have developed the ability to discharge the same electric Qi I used to empower you. You must be very careful with this energy. It is very powerful and precious. You must not abuse it, especially now. You are still young. It takes time to master this power. I will train you. Experiment on yourself, but promise me that you won’t use it on anyone for the next ten years.”

“I promise.”

After three more visits Xiao Yao announced, “Eighty days have passed. You have completed the second phase of Biguan. You must prepare for the journey back into the physical world. The final phase begins tomorrow.”

The next day my master brought me a bowl of thin rice milk sweetened with honey. I touched the liquid with my tongue. It unleashed a tidal wave of sensual pleasure. I spent hours relishing just a few drops. When I took another sip, I cried with happiness. It took me the entire day to drink the full bowl.

Each time Xiao Yao visited, he brought me another bowl. The rice milk became thicker until it had the consistency of porridge. Then one day he brought me a peach. It made me delirious. The following week he brought me cucumbers, then fried lettuce hearts, bok choy, and finally leafy greens sautéed in ginger.

Every time he came, Xiao Yao also brought an additional incense stick to get my eyes accustomed to the light. I liked staring at the glowing embers. He also began spending more time with me in the dark chamber. Occasionally he did energy work on me, but mostly we just talked about trivial matters. We were both very happy.

On each of the last three days of Biguan, he brought me a steamed sweet potato, which I relished. The last day Xiao Yao brought a kerosene lamp. He placed it on the tabletop and gave me a peach.

“This is your last day in the dark chamber. Eat the peach and meditate. I’ll be back for you in a few hours.”

My master returned holding another lamp.

“Gong de yaun man—the task is fulfilled,” he said, handing me the lamp, and then added, “This time we leave together.”

I took one last look at the dark chamber and closed the door behind me. I followed my master upstairs. As he opened the door, the first sounds I heard were the monks chanting in the temple. They were reciting the Great Compassion Mantra. The night sky was clear and the stars glistened. We sat at the feet of the Golden Buddha and joined them in prayer. After we were finished, I followed my master back to his room and lay down on the bed. Within minutes I was sound asleep.

Follower of the Truth

When I awoke, the sun was already up and the room was awash with light. The small window softened the impact of the dazzling bright- ness, which was nonetheless an awesome sight. It looked as though someone had repainted the world during my stay underground. Even the drab colors inside the room were exceedingly vibrant.

Xiao Yao’s bed was already empty, and I was overcome with the urge to go for a walk. The fresh air was drenched with the musky scents of summer. My nose reveled in the medley of smells. The sight of a small flower brought dizzying delight. Its delicate fragrance melted my heart. As I ventured farther, I couldn’t help touching every tree trunk I passed.

I bent down, scooped up a handful of soil, and scrunched it in my fingers. I saw worker ants scurrying on the ground. I blessed them. The breeze caressed my body, and I stood back up and admired the sky. The outer world was exceedingly beautiful. Overwhelmed by the glory of nature, I screamed out in ecstasy. The sky screamed back. When I heard the echo, I swelled with deep love for the world and my heart shattered into countless shards of adoring gratitude. Then a surge of energy shot through me, and I ran up and down steep moun- tain trails and along the gurgling creeks until lunchtime.

When I saw Xiao Yao in the dining hall, I was speechless. In his presence my heart became an ocean of love. As usual, I ate my lunch in silence. Temple food was simple and bland, but my first meal out of the dark chamber was a wild culinary adventure. The flavors were magnified a hundredfold. I could even distinguish the different tastes between two grains of rice. As I chewed, I closed my eyes and returned to the clear white light. I was so happy that I could have stayed at Jiuyi Temple for the rest of my life, but my summer holiday was about to end.

Xiao Yao was extremely busy; apart from our morning practice by the Rainbow Tree, I barely got to spend time with him. But the night before I left, he set aside some time and we had a serious conversation.

“Tomorrow you return to fan shi—ordinary society,” he stated. “Worldly life is not like monastic life. The monks up here have it easy. Our life is simple. We know our routines in advance, and there are few surprises. Secular life is much more challenging. There are plenty of attractions and distractions to pull you in many directions.  

Obligations and responsibilities will drag you one way, then the other. Leading a spiritual life in the secular world requires great strength of character. There is a saying: the lesser sage lives in the mountains while the greater sage lives in the city. ”

He looked at me with deep compassion. “Strive to be good.”

“Yes, Shifu,” I replied.

“You have awakened extraordinary powers this summer, Jihui, but you have only begun your journey as a healer. Behind the sky there is another sky. There is much more for you to learn. Don’t imagine that you are special or better than anyone else. Despite your abilities, you are an ordinary human being. Keep your heart open. Practice com- passion whenever you can. Practice modesty. Jie jiao jie zao—avoid arrogance, impatience, and coarseness. Be kind and loving all the time to everyone.”

“Yes, Shifu.”

“When you return, focus your energies on school work. The next two years will be demanding. You must make every effort to get into a good university. Only a small percentage of students who apply are admitted, but I am confident that if you devote yourself to your studies you will succeed.”

“I will study diligently, Shifu.”

“With a university education and your Qigong training, many doors will open and you will make a mark on the world. Your destiny is bright. Wherever you end up, always remember that you are xiu dao zhe—a follower of the truth.”

The next morning we practiced by the Rainbow Tree, chanted in the main temple, and ate lunch together. Then I packed my bag and he accompanied me to the main gate.

“Buddha bless you, Jihui,” Xiao Yao said. My legs froze. I didn’t want to leave him.

“Okay, go on now. Good-bye. See you next winter break.” “Good-bye, Shifu,” I said affectionately, and left.

Walking down the mountain, I cheered up again and began to sing. Along the way I met two mountaineers. They were carpenters. Each one was carrying two wooden doors on his shoulders, and they were heading to the market to sell them. We walked together for the rest of the way. I bid them farewell at the bus station. I boarded the bus and then the train.

The view thickened with cars, buildings, and factories. I arrived at the Xiangtan railway station and walked home. My mother and father greeted me warmly. They prepared a delicious feast that included all my favorite dishes. We talked for a little while and then I went to my room. I lay in bed wide awake, staring at the ceiling. The thoughts now occupying my mind were those of a teenager contemplating the upcoming school year. But they evaporated as the ceiling fell away, and I dissolved into the peaceful light.

Chapter 4. University Days

Becoming Robert Peng

The school term began. I focused on my academic studies and completed my sophomore year with top grades. I also trained hard for the track team and ended up winning the regional hurdling champion- ship. Xiao Yao’s presence was with me each time I took a test or ran a race, and I partially attributed my success in both endeavors to him. During winter break and the following summer break I returned to Jiuyi Temple to further my spiritual and healing training.

My junior year was a repeat of the previous one. I did well academically, won the regional hurdling championship again, and continued to visit Xiao Yao during my breaks. The following year, after I graduated from high school, I did not visit the temple. Instead I stayed home, studied, and took the national entrance exam in July. Then I applied to various universities.

In mid-August I received an acceptance letter from the admissions department of Zhongnan University in Changsha, the capital of Hunan province.

I wrote Xiao Yao immediately:

Dear Shifu,

Good news! I was accepted to the four-year program at the Foreign Languages Department at Zhongnan University in Changsha. I’ll be majoring in American and English Literature.

—Jihui

On registration day my father accompanied me to Changsha, which was a one-hour bus trip from Xiangtan. We were given directions to my room and found it easily. Three bunk beds were evenly spaced across the room.

I chose the top bed nestled in the far corner, which I figured would give me a little more privacy. Six small hardwood desks lined the wall between the beds. My father made my bed and set up a mosquito net while I unpacked my suitcase.

“Study well, Jihui, and come home whenever you miss your mother’s cooking,” my father said tenderly before he left.

My roommates were from all over China. We each talked Mandarin with different accents, but we shared a common love of the English language, the subject we were all majoring in. We ate dinner together and prepared ourselves for our first class the following morning.

All the English classes were held in the Foreign Languages Department, a white three-story building on a small hill in a quiet section of campus.

“Good morning and welcome,” our professor said the first day. “My name is Professor Zhou. Since you are all English majors, I won’t ask you to introduce yourselves by your Chinese names, but instead I’ll begin by giving you your first homework assignment. Each of you must come up with an English first name by tomorrow morning. Take some time to think about it—it’ll be your name for the next four years.”

I was so enthralled by the excitement of that first day that I forgot to come up with a name. So on the second day of class when Professor Zhou asked the first student his English name, I broke into a cold sweat. I was the third student he called on.

“And what is your name?” he said, pointing at me.

“Robert.” The name popped out spontaneously.

The name stuck.

My daily routine developed quickly. After class I’d eat lunch with my friends, go back to my room for a short nap, and then go off to a secluded park behind the Foreign Languages Department to practice Qigong. There was a grassy area there where couples would sneak away to steal a few hours of private time. In the early nineteen eighties Chinese society was still very conservative—even holding hands in public was considered improper behavior. I looked for an inconspicuous patch of grass and meditated while a few couples snuggled under the protective cover of trees and bushes.

A short time after the semester began Coach Chen, the head of the track team, was notified that the two-time hurdling champion from Xiangtan was enrolled as a freshman. He dispatched one of the team members to my dorm room to welcome me.

The team member knocked and entered, declaring, “I’m looking for Jihui Peng.”

“Hi,” I said. “What can I do for you?” He was two heads taller than me.

“Are you joking?”

“No, why?”

“Never mind—I must be mistaken. I’m looking for a Xiangtan hurdling champion by the last name of Peng.”

“Well, you’re talking to him.”

“But that’s not possible,” he insisted. “You’re too short to be a hurdler.”

The boy reported back to Coach Chen and I was invited to pay him a visit. When we met, he had the same reaction.

“No offense, but it’s hard to believe that you are who you say you are,” he said with his brow scrunched. “There’s only one way to settle this. I want to see you run.”

I joined a few members of the team on the track. We raced and jumped hurdles. I came in third, beating the tall fellow who had come to my room.

“Unbelievable!” Coach Chen exclaimed as he extended his hand. “Jihui, welcome to the track team.”

Despite becoming close friends with the members of the track team and spending much of my free time with my classmates, I still managed to keep my Qigong practice a secret the first year of school, with one exception. After practicing in the secluded park one after- noon, I saw a brick lying on the walkway. I was buzzing with Qi and couldn’t resist. I didn’t see anyone around, so I picked up the brick and chopped it in half like a block of tofu.

“You know Qigong?” A voice said from behind me.

I turned around and recognized Dr. Zhu, one of the heads of the

university’s medical department. I nearly panicked.

“Umm . . .” I stammered.

“Answer me, young man.”

“I’ve studied a little.”

“Well, that was remarkable.” He noticed my consternation. “Don’t worry. I’m a big fan of Qigong. I believe traditional Chinese medicine has much to teach Western health care. Do you do energy healing?”

“I have some training.” Despite his enthusiasm, I remained cautious.

“That’s exciting. You must come visit me. I’d like to hear more about your training, and don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone what I saw. Not everyone shares my high regard for Qigong, you know.”

“Yes, sir. I know.”

The aura of intolerance that began during the Cultural Revolution

still permeated most of society, despite the greater freedoms that were beginning to creep into our daily lives. I desperately wanted to keep my practice of Qigong a secret for fear of being socially ostracized, or even expelled.

Fortunately Dr. Zhu kept his word, and we became friends. But despite my best efforts to keep my Qigong training private, news of my healing abilities spread during my junior year when I was faced with a moral dilemma that required me to divulge my secret to Coach Chen.

The star of the track team was a dashing sprinter named Cheng Feng. He was a talented athlete with a bright future when halfway through the fall semester he developed an infection in his big toe. At first he ignored it and continued to compete with the infection, but his condition worsened. The toe turned black and oozed a vile-smelling fluid. The pain became intolerable and Cheng Feng went to the infirmary. The university doctor gave him antibiotics, which didn’t help. Coach Chen accompanied him to the hospital to consult with an expert.

“We’re worried the infection will spread to your blood,” the doctor warned. “I strongly suggest we amputate the toe.”

Cheng Feng was devastated. And when Coach Cheng shared the news with the team, he was on the verge of tears.

“I think I may be able to help,” I told the coach privately. “How?” he asked.

“I have some Qigong training.”

Coach Chen was a modern man with a scientific outlook. He did not hold traditional Chinese healing methods in high regard. Under any other circumstance, he would have laughed in my face, but he was also a practical man. “I guess there’s nothing to lose at this point,” he said.

Cheng Feng agreed.

I removed the bandage from around his foot. The infected toe looked horrible.

I directed white-colored Qi directly into it for fifteen minutes. The following day Cheng Feng looked slightly less pale. The noxious discharge had stopped. Two days later I treated him again as Coach

Chen looked on. The next day the toe was turning pinkish.

“It’s looking much, much better,” Coach Chen said, sounding surprised. “It doesn’t hurt as much,” Cheng Feng added.

After the third treatment I could sense energetically that the vicious Qi had been neutralized. Within another week the toe healed completely. Word began to spread about my healing abilities, but instead of treating me as an outcast, people became curious and expressed a sincere interest in learning more about Qigong.

When the semester ended, I returned home for a few days and then traveled to Jiuyi Temple as I did every winter break. I arrived on a cold day during the first week of January 1985. The hike up to the temple was not easy. The trail was muddy at the base and icy higher up. The trees were bare and the gusty wind stung. Once at the temple I found Xiao Yao in his room.

“Hello, Shifu,” I said, handing him a bag of dried lychees.

He greeted me with a tender smile, “Buddha bless you.”

I updated him about my school work and told him about Cheng Feng.

“You did well.” He placed a handful of sunflower seeds and peanuts mixed with dates in my palm. “Here, have a snack.”

Xiao Yao spent the rest of the day and nearly every moment of the whole vacation with me, which was unusual. In the morning we practiced by the Rainbow Tree, and the rest of the time he reviewed everything he had ever taught me. My master didn’t teach me any new practices, which was also surprising. In the evenings we spoke for hours, reminiscing about the past and discussing personal matters. He was relating to me more like a doting parent than a Qigong master.

He often brought me back heaps of food that visiting pilgrims donated to the temple.

“Eat, eat,” he insisted.

At dusk the day before I left, he suggested, “Let’s go practice by the Rainbow Tree.”

We had never before practiced by the Rainbow Tree in the after- noon. As we arrived the sun was beginning to set. When we were done, we walked back to the monastery in the dark through the snow. After chanting in the main hall we returned to my master’s room. He seemed unusually reserved.

“Jihui, this year there might be some turbulence in your life. Don’t let any interruptions distract you from your studies. Continue to practice Qigong and study. Be strong.” Xiao Yao looked at me with loving, tender eyes.

We went to sleep early and got up before dawn. In the morning chill we went to the kitchen. Xiao Yao wrapped three warm sweet buns and placed them gently in my satchel. We walked to the main gate together, side by side.

“Good-bye, Shifu,” I said. It was very cold.

“Good-bye, Jihui.”

Midway through the spring semester, I went to check my mail between classes. There was a telegram for me. I opened it. The mes- sage was curt: Shifu passed away.

There was no signature, but the return address was Shaping County where the monastery was located. The bell rang. Class was about to begin. I obediently returned to my seat in a fog and didn’t hear a word the teacher said. Class ended. I went to the student administrator’s office, still dazed.

“I’d like permission to leave campus,” I said.

“Why?” the man behind the desk asked.

“My uncle died.”

“Your uncle? We don’t give students leave unless an immediate family member passes away.”

“We were very close.”

He sized me up as he considered what to do.

“He was like my father,” I added sadly.

“Oh, all right.” He handed me a permission slip. “Here you go, but you must be back in a week.”

I ran to my room, packed some clothes, and rushed to the train station. I hadn’t bothered to check the schedule, so I waited eight hours for the next train and eight hours more for the bus. I refused to accept the news and half expected to see Xiao Yao running around the monastery when I got there.

I didn’t arrive at Jiuyi Temple until the following evening. I was ushered to Liu Bo’s room. The abbot was surprised to see me.

“Come in,” Liu Bo said. “Is it true?” I asked. “How did you find out?”

I showed him the telegram.

“We didn’t send this to you, but I think I know who did. It must have been Niuazi, one of your Shifu’s older disciples. He was here a few days ago.”

Niuazi was very poor, and the postal service charged for telegrams by the word. That would explain why he hadn’t signed the message.

“Xiao Yao spoke to me two weeks ago. He told me he was going to ‘leave’ soon. He wasn’t sick, but he said his time had come. He didn’t look it, but he was ninety-five years old. He asked me to keep the news of his death from you until you returned this summer. He didn’t want to disrupt your studies.”

As Liu Bo spoke, I remained silent.

“He talked to me about you for a long while that day,” Liu Bo added. “Xiang ni lei—he missed you very much.”

My eyes swelled with tears.

Liu Bo continued. “The next morning after we spoke, one of the young monks entered his room. Your master was sitting on his bed . . . He still looked like he was in deep meditation. Buddha bless him. We haven’t buried him yet. Would you like to see him?”

“Yes,” I replied.

Xiao Yao’s body was resting inside a ceramic jar the size of a barrel in an open-air room called the Soul Palace, awaiting his burial date. The stars twinkled above. A statue of the Buddha stood near the wall, and red and yellow banners inscribed with prayers were hung all around. Incense smoke wafted up toward the sky. I lifted the wooden rim of the jar. Xiao Yao was inside, seated in lotus position. His eyes were closed, and he was smiling. His skin looked normal. There was no foul smell. He looked alive, and for a moment I believed that he was going to open his eyes.

I knelt down before the jar with my forehead on the floor.

“Shifu, yi lu hao zou—Master, I wish you a good journey,” I said.

I bowed and repeated the ritual prayer thirty-six times. When I was finished I sat in front of the jar for a long time. It was still dark when I returned to his room. I burst into tears. I cried for as long as my exhausted body could weather the grief. Then I fell into sweet slumber and had many lucid dreams in which Xiao Yao visited and comforted me.

When I woke up I returned to the Soul Palace. I bowed another thirty-six times. All the monks joined me in the room and we chanted the Great Compassion Mantra. I spent all morning beside my master’s body. All day long I ferried back and forth between the Rainbow Tree and the Soul Palace. The next morning I informed Liu Bo that I had to return to the university. I bid my beloved master farewell one final time, and left Jiuyi Temple.

On the train ride back to Changsha, the reality of Xiao Yao’s passing really set in. I had always relied on my master for guidance. Although I was only twenty-one, I realized that from then on I would have to rely on my own inner guidance and be my own master. Later that year my mother passed away, and soon afterward, my grandfather died. It had been almost a year since Xiao Yao’s cryptic warning about my impending hardships. And despite my efforts to be strong, I lacked enthusiasm and faltered academically during my senior year.

During the last semester I became more social to distract myself from my grief. I formed a salon with two other friends. We discussed the cultural, political, and economic changes sweeping across China. We organized debates about social transformation. Our salon grew, and we created a journal called Road to the New Horizon that was well received and inspired other salons to form on campus. I wrote an article for the first issue about the influence of Laozi, the founder of Daoism, on Chinese culture, and another piece about Xiao Yao for the second issue. Then the school year ended.

Teaching English and Teaching Qigong

Graduation day drew near. All the seniors were scheduled to meet with representatives of the Student Distribution Committee, the group responsible for job placement. My advisor, Assistant Dean Huang, was an administrator in the Foreign Languages Department.

I knocked on his door. “Come in,” he said.

Dean Huang was seated behind his desk. He scrutinized me through a distinctive pair of horn-rimmed glasses. He had lived abroad for two years, and the experience had imbued his style with an air of international sophistication.

“Sit down, Robert.”

I did.

“Have you considered your professional future?” he asked. “I have,” I answered.

“And . . . ?”

“I’d like to work for a foreign trade company.”

“I see. Well, let me be direct with you. At this time we don’t have a quota for employment in a foreign trade company. Do you have any other ideas?”

“Not really.”

He leafed through my file.

“Overall, your grades are pretty good. You placed third last summer at the regional track meet, your behavior is exemplary, and,” he looked me straight in the eye, “I really appreciate what you guys did with Road to the New Horizon. I’d like you to consider staying on at the university. We need English teachers and I think you’d make an excellent one. What do you think?”

I had never really thought about becoming an English teacher at the university, but the idea of staying on and becoming a member of the faculty appealed to me immediately.

“All right.” I accepted the position on the spot.

“Then let me be the first to welcome you to the Foreign Languages Department.”

The class of nineteen eighty-six graduated. The campus thinned out, and I stayed on. I moved to the faculty dorm and spent that summer at the university preparing for the fall semester.

One evening while I was working, there was a knock at my door.

“Come in,” I said.

It was Dr. Zhu.

“I hear you’re going to stay on and teach English. Congratulations!” he said.

“Thanks.”

“Look, I’m here to discuss a sensitive matter. Do you have time to talk?”

“Sure. What’s wrong?”

“I have a good friend. His name is Mr. Liu. He’s one of the top administrators. You’ve probably heard of him. Anyway, he has crip- pling lower-back pain. The doctors have tried to help, but he’s still suffering. He’s been lying in bed for more than a week. Can you give him a Qigong healing?”

“Sure.”

“But we’ll have to keep your visit quiet. He doesn’t want anyone to find out about it,” Dr. Zhu explained.

“I understand,” I replied.

Dr. Zhu called his friend to inform him that we were on our way

over. We walked to Mr. Liu’s home and found him in his room, flat on his back in bed.

“Hello,” Mr. Liu said coldly. I realized instantly that he had agreed to indulge his friend’s whim and see me only out of desperation.

“Hello, Mr. Liu,” I said.

I diagnosed his condition, and after I figured out the problem, I treated him and empowered a few energy points. While I worked, Mr. Liu kept making annoying, condescending comments.

“Are you afraid of pain?” I asked him when I was done.

“No.” The question puzzled him.

“Good, then you won’t mind putting up with some,” I warned him, then added, “I’ll need a beer bottle. Do you have one lying around?”

“A what?” he blurted out in a sour voice.

“A beer bottle.”

He rebuked me with a surly expression and then finally said, “Yes. You’ll find one in the fridge downstairs.”

I returned to Mr. Liu’s bedroom holding a chilled bottle by the neck. “Please raise your right leg, Mr. Liu,” I instructed.

He looked at me in disbelief.

“Oh, all right,” he complained while he positioned himself on the edge of his bed, grunting and straining as he slowly lifted his leg. When his leg was perpendicular to the floor, I grabbed his foot

and smashed the base of the beer bottle against his heel three times— bang, bang, bang!
“Ahhhhh!” he shrieked, turning pale.

“Stand up,” I snapped before he had a chance to get angry and yell at me.

“What?”

“Stand up and walk, Mr. Liu,” I insisted.

“You’re not serious, young man?” he asked rhetorically.

I raised my voice to ensure him I was. “Get out of bed.”

Mr. Liu eased himself off the edge of the mattress and slowly stood up.

“Now walk,” I instructed.

“Walk?”

“Yes, walk.”

He took a cautious step. His face lit up, and he smiled.

“Hey, I can walk!”

Mr. Liu paced back and forth alongside his bed a few times.

“Dr. Zhu, look. I can walk!”

Dr. Zhu, who had been watching the whole time, seemed relieved.

“Young man, you wait here,” Mr. Liu said to me cheerfully.

He left the room for a few moments and came back with a bowl full of Mandarin oranges.

“Please take these as a token of my appreciation. They are very sweet.”

I thanked him and left with Dr. Zhu.

“What on earth did you do to him?” Dr. Zhu asked in astonishment as we walked back to campus.

“The doctors couldn’t help him because the source of his pain was not physical. Mr. Liu had a stubborn energy block and a lot of damp Qi in his lower back. I removed the blockage and I empowered him to revitalize his weary body. The beer bottle helped ground his Qi, but it also served a second function. The shock of the pounding helped clear his mind of doubt. Without the acute pain, it would have taken longer for him to ‘believe’ that he could walk,” I explained.

After witnessing Mr. Liu’s successful healing, Dr. Zhu began to discreetly send me more of his friends and colleagues for treatments. A small group of notable university professors became my first patients.

Nonetheless, the significance of this development was overshadowed by the growing apprehension I was feeling about the coming semester. My first teaching assignment as a university assistant lecturer was for an English class for science students. I toiled for weeks putting together a lesson plan. I prepared sixty pages of notes just for the first day of class.

The night before my debut, I was extremely nervous, and when class began I couldn’t even focus on my notes. The students were just a few years younger than I was. As I stood in front of them, I felt the weight of fifty pairs of eyes staring at me. I introduced myself, following the “script” I had prepared. I was stiff and spoke mechanically. My breath was shallow and my voice felt weak.

Then I took a few deep breaths and addressed them as a caring friend rather than an authoritative teacher. I made some humorous remarks and the atmosphere loosened up. I settled into an easygoing teaching style, and the students relaxed. We had fun and our time together was productive. To my surprise, after class was over, I realized that I hadn’t referred to my notes even once. After I taught a few more classes, my confidence grew. That semester my students taught me an important lesson: I loved teaching.

In 1989, three years after I began teaching, I met Wuhui, a sports instructor at the university. Just a few years older than I, he was also an advanced Qigong practitioner and healer. During the Cultural Revolution he had learned similar practices to the ones Xiao Yao had taught me. We shared a common personal history and worldview, and we soon became good friends.

During this time Qigong was becoming more accepted in China, and Wuhui and I were inspired by this change. We formed a Qigong club and began teaching some close friends and doing private healings. Mr. Liu gave us permission to use an empty dormitory room as our Qigong “clinic.”

Later that year I finally revealed my “true” Qigong identity publicly by entering the year-end talent show sponsored by the Foreign Languages Department. More than two hundred people were in the audience, including my colleagues and students. Almost none of them knew I practiced Qigong.

The emcee introduced me: “Please welcome Robert Peng and some members of his Qigong club. Tonight they will demonstrate their special abilities.”

As I stepped out on stage with a few of my students, murmurs ran through the crowd. I began by snapping a chopstick into two pieces by pressing the pointed end against the base of my throat. The audience gasped. Then I brought one of my Qigong students up on stage and placed a long, sharp spear tip against the same spot on his throat.

The room quieted. While holding the handle, I pushed the spear into him. He held his ground and it bent like a bow. I pushed harder. Crack! The wooden handle snapped in half. The audience gasped, but once they realized he wasn’t hurt, they let out a roar of applause.

We followed up with a few more demonstrations. Finally I asked for a volunteer from the audience to take down the large round clock hanging up on the wall. I held it between my hands while facing the audience and then asked them to count down from ten to one.

They began, “Ten, nine, eight, seven . . .” and as they reached “one” I strongly projected my Qi into the clock and made the second hand stop. Their applause continued for a long time. Afterward a swarm of people surrounded me to shake my hand and ask questions.

That evening Dean Huang burst through my door without knocking. “Robert, that was amazing!” He grabbed my hand and shook it

vigorously. “I didn’t realize that my department was a lair for crouch- ing tigers and hidden dragons.”

“Thank you, Dean Huang,” I said.

“You don’t understand—my whole life I’ve dreamed about learning Qigong, but I could never find a teacher. Please accept me as your student.” “I’m happy to teach you, but Qigong requires an ongoing commitment.”

“I’ll do anything I have to do.”

“All right then, you’re welcome to join our practice group.”

Dean Huang became one of my most enthusiastic Qigong stu- dents. He practiced daily for two hours. The following year the Qigong club entered the talent show again and Dean Huang’s stellar performance stole the show.

Chapter 5. My World Opens up

Hainan Island

After each of the Qigong demonstrations, my popularity on campus surged higher, and an increasing number of students signed up for Wuhui’s and my Qigong classes and healings. Mr. Liu was also indirectly responsible for spreading our reputation as healers beyond the university. He had an influential friend who was involved with the local television station. Her situation was desperate, and he asked me to help her. The woman sent a car to my dormitory, and Wuhui and I were driven to her apartment.

Mr. Liu’s friend was an attractive woman in her early forties who had recently been diagnosed with breast cancer. She had a big lump on her left breast, and her physicians had already scheduled surgery to remove the breast. Ironically, she displayed the same disapproving haughtiness Mr. Liu did when we first met, but behind the arrogance was extreme fear.

Wuhui and I treated her together a total of three times.

Less than a month later, she drove to the university and knocked on my door.

“May I come in?” she asked.

“How are you feeling?” I asked once she was inside my office. “The lump has gradually shrunk. This morning I checked again. I looked everywhere. It’s completely gone!” she exclaimed.
“Are you sure?”

“I’m absolutely sure. I check it every day. I check it ten times a day!”

 “That’s wonderful news.”

“Robert,” she said, holding my hand warmly, “thank you.”

After her healing more people from beyond campus began to come to Wuhui and me for Qigong treatments, and the number of students signing up for Qigong training continued to increase. We were spending more time practicing Qigong and healing patients than teaching our university classes. However, not everyone approved of our activities. During one of our Qigong classes there was a knock at the door. The president of the university came in with a group of security guards.

“We received an anonymous complaint that you’re involved in dangerous activities,” he said. “I insist that you stop immediately. I won’t allow anyone to get injured on my watch.”

We argued with him and explained that despite some of the dramatic feats performed for demonstration purposes, Qigong was safe. Finally, he relented and allowed us to continue, but the incident made Wuhui and me realize that the university campus was still not an ideal place for us to practice Qigong openly.

“The next time someone files a complaint, they could make us stop teaching,” I remarked.

Wuhui made a radical suggestion, “We should quit our jobs and move to Hainan Island. We can open up a healing clinic there safely and charge for our services.”

He was right. If we truly wanted to teach Qigong, Hainan Island was the best place to go. Back in 1988 Deng Xiaoping, the leader of China, had declared Hainan Island a “Special Economic Develop- ment Zone.” Government restrictions were loosened and millions of free-spirited Chinese flocked to the island in search of wealth and glory. Wuhui’s suggestion fired up my imagination, but I also questioned its practicality.

“Look,” he said, trying to convince me, “we won’t be accepted as professional Qigong healers here anytime soon. There’s still too much resistance. We’re young and talented. This is the time to make our move.”

“Wuhui, you’re absolutely right,” I told my friend after thinking about it. “They won’t accept us here. Not for a long time. Let’s do it!”

So that summer of 1992, Wuhui and I set out on an exploratory trip to Hainan Island. We boarded a train for Zhanjiang at the southeastern tip of China. When we arrived at the Zhanjiang railway station, dark gray clouds churned above as fat raindrops fell from the sky.

“We’re expecting a typhoon,” one of the locals warned us, “and they say it’s gonna be a bad one.”

Wuhui and I decided to continue our journey despite the foul weather. We boarded a bus and headed for the seaport to catch the ferry to Hainan Island. The sky howled as the bus rolled toward the port. The heavy, battering rain slowed us down, and the bus arrived just as a ferry was leaving. I had never seen the sea before, or a typhoon. The waves swelled as high as two-story houses and battered against the cement dock, creating a fine mist of saltwater droplets that surrounded the port.

“Sorry, boys,” the ferry ticket clerk said, “that was the last ferry.”

“When will the next one leave?” I asked.

“Two, maybe three days.”

“Three days!” Wuhui cried out. “What are we supposed to do in the meantime?”

“Find a place to stay right away. Once the typhoon gets going, coconuts fly through the air like cannonballs.”

The winds picked up. The streets emptied. We found a small hotel with a vacant room. It was a mess. It hadn’t been cleaned after the previous guest left—even the sheets were still soiled. The owner charged us an exorbitant rate for its shelter. We spent the whole day and all night inside as the rain raged outside. But we couldn’t afford another day and the owner wouldn’t lower the rate, so Wuhui and I had to leave in the morning. When we stepped outside, the wind pushed us around like rag dolls.

“We can’t stay here!” Wuhui screamed. “We’ll be killed.”

“The worse it gets the bigger our success will be!” I screamed back. We managed to secure a ride that took us farther inland. The storm wasn’t as violent once we got away from the shoreline. We found an empty school building and got permission to camp out in one of the classrooms until the weather calmed.

On the third day we went back to the seaport and boarded a ferry to cross the deep blue waters of the South China Sea to reach Hainan. Once on the island, we stayed with a friend I knew from the university who lived there. He showed us around the tropical paradise, which was carpeted with lush vegetation and bordered by white sandy beaches with pearly cliffs. Everyone he introduced us to was optimistic, open-minded, and driven by high hopes.

“The seafood is delicious and the fruit is sweet,” Wuhui said with a grin. “I love this place.”

“Me too. Even the air tastes sweet,” I replied.

We returned to the university a week before the start of fall semester with the intention of resigning our teaching positions. But as soon as I got back, I began to doubt the move. At the time I was involved with a second-year student named Ling Ying. She was beautiful, charming, and kind, and we were very compatible. We spoke hypothetically about her joining me on Hainan Island after her graduation in two years, but I realized that a separation might challenge our relationship.

“I did it—I resigned,” Wuhui proudly announced shortly after we got back.

I turned inward for guidance, and the message I received from my meditation was clear: Follow your destiny to Hainan Island.

I broke the news to Ling Ying.

“I’m going to do it,” I said, welling up with emotion.

Her eyes moistened but she stifled her tears.

“It’s important for you to follow your heart,” she said tenderly. “I’ll support whatever you decide to do. And if you do go, I’ll visit during winter break and get to spend my first warm winter beside you.”

Next I made my decision official by reporting it to Dean Huang. “This is a huge move, Robert. Are you certain you want to do this?” he asked.

“Yes, I am,” I replied.

“Before making a final decision, hear me out. You’re in an enviable position. In a few more years you’ll be promoted to associate professor. I don’t have to tell you what that means: a bright, risk-free future. Although some people at the university still frown on Qigong, you can still continue to practice and teach it discreetly and have the best of both worlds. But if you quit now, you’re on your own. You might strike it big, or you might fall flat on your face. You’d be paying a high price for an uncertain future. So let me ask you again—are you sure?”

I knew Dean Huang was looking out for my best interest, but something larger than my own personal well-being was at stake. I was responding to the call of destiny. I knew with certainty that my days as an English teacher were behind me. It was time to openly assume my role in the world as a Qigong master.

“Thank you, my friend, but I’m sure. I’ve made up my mind. Whatever happens, I’ll be fine,” I told him.

“In that case, Robert, I wish you good luck.”

He shook my hand sincerely.

Two weeks later Wuhui and I were back on Hainan Island. We moved into adjoining apartments and immediately opened up a small Qigong clinic. One of the first people we treated was an old friend of mine from the university who had studied French. After graduating he had lived in Zambia for two years. There he had contracted a virus and lost all his hair, including his eyebrows. He now wore an odd- looking hairpiece. He worked as an interpreter for the foreign affairs department of the city government and often had to travel and meet with high-level officials and foreign dignitaries.

“Robert, I’m very self-conscious about the way I look,” he confided. “My doctors prescribed hormones to make my hair grow. I’m taking them now and my hair is growing back, but only in patches. And if I stop taking them the hair growth will also stop. But I’m worried about these drugs. They’re toxic, and I’ve been warned that they can cause organ damage. Can you help me?” he asked.
Wuhui and I worked on him several times, and I taught him a Qigong practice to help him boost his Qi. Within three months his hair was growing naturally. He threw out his hairpiece and the hormone pills.

My friend worked closely with the mayor of Haikou, the capital of Hainan Island. The mayor had been in a bad accident and was experiencing debilitating pain in both his elbows. He came to our clinic at my friend’s request. We treated him three times, and within ten days he was fully recovered. The mayor was a powerful man and very well connected with the most influential business and political leaders of Hainan Island. He directed many of his friends to our clinic, including the national security advisor’s wife, who suffered from a heart condition. She was so impressed with the results of our work that she flew Wuhui and me to Beijing, where we treated top government officials.

After we established our clinic, Wuhui and I decided to teach Qigong classes again. We spent days creating a detailed five-page flyer that included our biographies, lineage, the Qigong practices we taught, and our class schedule and prices. We posted the flyers throughout the campus of a local university. At our first class only one person showed up. She was a graduate of our university who recognized my name, and we taught her for free.

A week later a Shaolin monk posted his own flyers all over campus. They read, Shaolin monk. Free Qigong demonstration. Friday night at the auditorium. 7:30 p.m. The words were handwritten on bright white paper in thick red brushstrokes. Three hundred people attended. The event was a huge success. We learned an important marketing lesson from this Shaolin monk.

The next time we promoted our Qigong classes, we followed his lead. We made large posters advertising our free demonstration and posted them all over campus. A thousand people came and three hundred of them signed up for classes.

Through a series of introductions, we then met one of the most influential government officials of the island, Chi Fulin, who directed CHIRD, the China Hainan Institute for Reform and Development.

The institute solicited foreign investments and forged strategic partnerships between Western companies and the Chinese government. Chi Fulin organized conferences attended by world leaders and multinational CEOs.

“On the first evening of our conferences we usually entertain our guests with a show that includes traditional Chinese singing and folk dancing,” he explained. “I hear that your Qigong demonstrations are exciting and that you speak English well. I’d like you to spice up our show tonight with a Qigong segment. Why not give it a shot and see how the guests react?”

Wuhui and I did a demonstration that evening similar to the one I had performed at the talent show. None of the dignitaries had ever seen a Qigong performance before. Afterward, an enthusiastic crowd formed all around us. We shook dozens of hands and received open invitations to visit many foreign countries. Chi Fulin was pleased with the warm response and asked us to become a regular part of the program.

“Robert, some of our guests are inquiring about your Qigong treatments. Would you be open to helping them?” Chi Fulin asked a few weeks later.

“Sure,” I replied.

“Good. I’ll arrange to set up a VIP treatment room at CHIRD reserved just for this purpose.”

We treated a few important guests who reported back enthusiastically to Chi Fulin. Following that positive feedback, we continued to heal a steady stream of guests.

In July of 1993, after one of our Qigong demonstrations, I was introduced to Bob Hawke, the former prime minister of Australia, by Ruan Chongwu, the governor of Hainan Island.

“That was an extraordinary show of power,” Hawke said. He had thick silver hair and a formidable presence.

“Thank you,” I replied.

“My good friend Governor Ruan informs me that you’re a miracle worker. Well, I’ve got a nagging back injury from golf.”

“Robert, would you be kind enough to give the prime minister a treatment tonight?” Chi Fulin inquired.

“Sure, Mr. Chi,” I replied.

I worked on the prime minister, and when I was done he was sound asleep on the treatment table. I left him there and went back home. Early the next morning I received a telephone call from Chi Fulin’s secretary. I was invited to join the prime minister, Governor Ruan, and Chi Fulin for breakfast at the institute. Knowing it would be a formal event, I wore a suit and tie. Ten of us sat at a round table. Prime Minister Hawke was the last person to arrive and sat down between Governor Ruan and Chi Fulin. I was seated directly across from him. He and Governor Ruan talked business the entire time. Hawke didn’t even acknowledge me until the very end.

But before breakfast ended he turned to the governor and said, “Mr. Ruan, above everything else, the best thing that happened to me on this trip was meeting this guy.” Then he pointed at me. “I feel great.

I’ve never experienced anything like Qigong before. I’m a convert.” Everything seemed to be going so well, but at about this time I received some sad news from Ling Ying. We had been apart for nearly a year at this point, and the stream of letters that had been frequent for the first nine months began to slow down, then trickled to a near halt. I flew back to the university. Her attitude had changed. Our long-distance relationship was causing her too much pain. She was a second-year student, and the prospect of two additional years apart was too much pressure for her to bear. Teary-eyed, she broke up with me: “Sadly, we won’t get the chance to spend a warm winter together.”

Prime Minister Hawke returned to CHIRD later that year. The institute hosted his sixty-fourth-birthday celebration, and I gave him another treatment. When I finished, he stood up and held my hand in both of his.

“Robert, I have three children. My eldest daughter, Sue, has had chronic fatigue syndrome for nine years, and she can barely get out of bed in the wintertime. Do you think you can help her?” he asked.

“I can try,” I replied.

In March 1994 Sue Hawke flew to Hainan Island. She stayed on the island for seven weeks. During this time she received Qigong treatments regularly from Wuhui and me as well as several of our top students. I also taught her some practices designed to boost her internal power. The combination of the healings and the exercises quickly improved Sue’s condition, and by the time she returned to Sydney she was fully recovered. The story received widespread media coverage in Australia. People were stunned by her profound transformation. She looked ten years younger and radiated healthy energy. Prime Minister Hawke returned to CHIRD in May. He invited me to dinner along with Governor Ruan and Chi Fulin. This time, I was the last person to arrive at the table. When I did, Hawke stood up and shook my hand vigorously.

“You can’t even imagine how much I appreciate what you’ve done for my daughter. Anything you need—anything at all—I’ll do my best to help you. And you must also share your Qigong with the rest of the world.”

The prime minister put his arm around my shoulder, turned to the governor and Chi Fulin, and said, “He’s my man.”

Be Xiao yao

“Come visit anytime, Robert,” Sue Hawke said. She was on the phone calling from Australia. “You can stay with my husband and me. The Qi here is great. I’m certain that you will love Sydney and that Australians will love you and your work. And if you decide that you’d like to settle down here, I can help.”

Although I was pleased with my life on Hainan Island, I soon became increasingly drawn to the idea of living in a westernized country like Australia where I could speak English freely and learn more about the world. Xiao Yao’s vision of my destiny was global in scope, and despite my success on mainland China as a teacher and healer, I sensed that my future extended beyond the borders of my homeland. This feeling grew increasingly stronger, and three years after Sue’s phone call, I finally accepted her open invitation.

By that time Wuhui was happily settled down on Hainan Island with a wife and son. Since he was not interested in exploring the world beyond China, I flew to Sydney with another Qigong healer named Zhao on a three-month trial basis to determine how we would fare in a foreign country.

Sue greeted us at the airport and drove us to her home, where we stayed for the remainder of the trip. Prime Minister Hawke organized a welcome party for us at his own seaside house, and I made many new friends overnight. I was struck by the good-natured warmth and openness of the Australians.

Zhao and I opened up a small clinic in a secluded wing of Sue’s home. We were pleased by the high demand for our treatments and delighted by the respect our patients showed for our ancient healing art.

“I have a surprise for you,” Sue told us one day. She drove us to Sydney Harbor, and we went to a little port where a bobbing sea- plane awaited us. It looked like an oversized toy. I had never been so close to a small plane before, and to see one that floated on water thrilled me.

“Are we really going to fly in it?” I asked. “Climb aboard,” Sue smiled.

As we rose in the air, I stared out the window. From above, the multipronged Sydney Harbor looked like outstretched fingers stroking the blue water. We flew along the coast for half an hour and then the seaplane spiraled down, landing smoothly in a small, secluded bay nestled against lush mountains. The exotic colors of the setting summer sun danced upon the greenery. We got off the plane and I breathed in the fragrant sea breeze.

In the serene quietude of the late afternoon, we followed Sue to a restaurant that was cradled by thick vegetation on one side and rippling water on the other. We sat at an outdoor table on the porch and ordered fresh seafood. While we were dining, a laughing kookaburra bird landed on a wooden post a few feet away from me. We looked at each other, and he let out a cackling chirp that made us all laugh. He came closer to me. I extended my arm and he bounced off the railing and onto my finger. With the bird roving along my hand, sur- rounded by the lush trees and flowers, I felt like a little boy playing in a fairyland.

In China birds fear humans because they usually hunt them for food, so it’s impossible to get close to a bird unless it is caged. Growing up, I commonly experienced a solid wall separating the animal world from the human world. But as this wild bird bounced around on my arm, that wall melted away and both worlds united. This feeling of oneness was as profound and liberating as any spiritual realization I had ever had.

Sue’s kindness, the good-heartedness of the Australians, and the natural beauty of the land made me seriously consider moving to Sydney, but it was that funny little bird who finally convinced me to stay.

Zhao and I rented our own apartment and continued to work out of Sue’s house.

Shortly after we settled in, Sue organized our first Qigong class. “Lots of people registered,” she told me excitedly.

“How many?” I asked.

“Forty signed up.”

I nearly laughed. When I taught in China, a class of three hundred people was considered small. A class of only forty was unimaginable. Even so, my first English Qigong workshop was a significant accomplishment. The students resonated with my teaching style, and I learned to appreciate the personal space that opened up when I interacted with a smaller group of people. The success of the class gave Sue, Zhao, and me confidence that we could popularize Qigong in Australia.

Within a year of our arrival, several articles about Zhao and me had appeared in the Sydney Morning Herald and in the Sun Herald. Our popularity bloomed overnight, and we became extremely busy healing people in Sydney and teaching students around the country.

One day in 2000 I received a phone call from Sue on my day off. “There’s an American filmmaker here anxious to see you,” she said.

“Do I know her?” I asked.

“No. She found out about you only today and she is leaving tomor- row. She is pleading to meet with you.”

Although I didn’t feel like working that day, my intuition prompted me to agree. “All right. I’ll be there in forty minutes.”

When I arrived, the woman was gone.

“Where did she go?” I wondered.

“I don’t know,” Sue replied, “but she said she would be right back.”

Five minutes later a striking woman with a short crop of golden hair walked into the house holding a gigantic bouquet of assorted flowers.

“Master Peng, I am grateful you agreed to see me,” she said.

I was taken aback by her spirited enthusiasm and the floating garden she was holding. When we sat down in my office, she told me her story.

“My name is Blake Foster, and I live in New York City,” she started. “I was supposed to leave earlier today, but the traffic to the airport was unusually heavy and I missed my plane. There were no other flights I could take. The delay frustrated me because I am recovering from ovarian cancer and I’m still in a lot of pain. After returning to my hotel, I went to a restaurant, and while I was waiting for the food to arrive, I noticed a photocopy of an old newspaper article on the next table. It didn’t seem to belong to anyone, so I picked it up. It was about you. By the time I finished reading the article, I finally understood why I had missed the plane. I was supposed to meet you!”

Blake radiated an angelic mix of vulnerability and courage that appealed to me, and we formed an instant energetic connection. As I treated her that day, I felt a cold, stubborn energy block in her lower abdomen. Since she was supposed to leave the following day I “zapped” the blockage extensively until I felt it break and dissolve. The energy discharge was intense and somewhat painful, but she maintained a steady calm. When I finished she was grateful, despite feeling sore and tired.

Blake excitedly called the next day. “Robert, the pain is almost gone, and I’ve decided to extend my stay a few days to get another treatment.” Three days later I worked on her again.

“Would you consider visiting my husband and me in New York someday?” she asked after the treatment.

“If you organize the trip for me, I’ll come,” I replied. A few months later Blake called from abroad.

“Robert, we would like to host you in our home,” she said. “I’ve told many friends about you. They would love to meet you and experience your energy. If you stay with us, you can use a room in our house to do Qigong healings.”

I accepted Blake’s invitation and arrived in America during Easter weekend of 2001 for a two-week visit. On the cab ride from JFK to Manhattan, I was overcome by the feeling that this trip was going to alter my life in a significant way. As the outline of New York City appeared in the distance, I felt as though I was on a sacred mission.

I arrived at Blake’s Upper East Side townhouse, and she introduced me to her husband, Craig, a tall, handsome plastic surgeon with a stately demeanor.

“Good to meet you, Robert,” he said in a courteous but reserved manner. “Blake speaks very highly of you.” There was a tinge of uneasy tension in his voice. I understood that while Blake leaned more toward the spiritual and mysterious side of life, Craig was a man of science who felt more comfortable standing on solid, factual ground.

Blake introduced me to many of her friends, including artists, actors, businessmen, doctors, politicians, and other healers. Almost everyone wanted to experience a treatment, and over the course of my stay I worked on scores of New Yorkers from all over the world.

The diversity surprised me. I treated individuals of different religions from India, the Dominican Republic, England, Italy, Romania, Papua New Guinea, Turkey, France, and Bermuda, as well as people from all over the United States. I was struck by the positive reaction they each had to my treatments, including Craig, who eventually warmed up to me after he experienced a Qigong healing.

On the drive back to the airport, I reflected on my experience. New York City was the most dynamic and cosmopolitan environment I had ever encountered, and each person I met was eager to hear more about my life and learn more about Qigong. I reasoned that if New York City was a microcosm of the entire planet, then the world was ready for Qigong.

I returned to Sydney a changed man. I loved Sydney, and my life in Australia was fulfilling, but a part of me now longed to explore the unparalleled diversity and opportunities in America.

I returned to New York the following year, and this time I stayed with Blake and Craig for three months. My connection to the city deepened, and the next year I returned again, this time for four months. Initially I thought I could straddle both countries and just juggle two sets of patients, friends, and students. I planned to travel back and forth every few months, but the sensible truth set in after my third visit. For both practical and financial reasons, I would have to decide between residing in Sydney or New York City permanently.

I recalled Xiao Yao’s premonition about my role in helping spread Qigong internationally, and I surrendered my ambivalence, allowing the flow of destiny to guide me onward. I then bid my Australian friends farewell, and in February 2004, I became a New Yorker. I lived with the Fosters for several months until I settled down in my own apartment and rented a room on East 91st Street to use as a clinic.

In October I returned to Xiangtan to visit my family for the first time in five years. On my way back to New York, I spent a few days in Beijing with an old friend named Luo. She picked me up at the airport, and on the ride into the city she started acting strange. I sensed that she had something pressing to tell me.

Finally she spoke up. “How are you doing in New York, Robert?”

“I’m doing well, Luo,” I replied.

“Are you seeing anyone?” she asked nonchalantly.

“Not really.”

“That’s good, because I want you to meet someone.”

“Really, who?”

“Her name is Dongmei. She works for an American company and is fluent in English. I know her from my tennis club. She’s a really good player, and I think the two of you would get along well.” She cleared her throat. “Would you like to meet her for dinner tonight?”

“Sure, why not?” I replied.

I had loved tennis ever since I was a little boy. There was just one tennis court in all of Xiangtan, and watching the players volley back and forth there was always a thrilling show. Until I moved to Australia the closest I ever came to playing tennis was owning my own tennis ball. But in Sydney I had taken a few enjoyable lessons and learned the basics. Tennis players had always held a special place in my heart, so the fact that Dongmei was a tennis player made me want to meet her.

Dongmei joined us at a small, quaint restaurant. She greeted me with eyes that sparkled from behind her glasses. “Nihao,” she said in greeting, and sat down.

“Where are you from” she asked in a friendly voice. “I grew up in Xiangtan.”

“Where is that?”

“Hunan Province.”

“How about you?” I asked.

I grew up in Baotou, way up north.”

We chatted about our backgrounds and families with natural ease. I enjoyed Dongmei’s bright presence and her animated openness, and I especially delighted in her warm sense of humor, which came out when she placed her order.

“I don’t want to frighten you, but I like spicy food.” “I like spicy food too,” I replied.

“Very spicy!”

“No worries,” I countered, “me too!”

“Then I’d like some mapo tofu, extra spicy,” she told the waiter.

The dish came, and three pairs of chopsticks scooped it up from the revolving tray. Dongmei ate calmly.

“It’s unusual for a northerner like you to eat a hot dish like this without sweating,” I said.

Do you really think this dish is spicy?” she asked and teasingly raised her eyebrows. She made me smile.

As the evening progressed, I grew increasingly attracted to Dongmei.

“Would you like to play tennis sometime?” she asked as we were parting ways.

“Yes, I would,” I replied.

We met the following day and she showed me mercy on the tennis court. We had a wonderful time together and decided to meet up again before I left the following day. The next encounter deepened our connection, and on the flight back to New York I kept thinking about her. As the distance between us grew, I felt my longing for her deepen. I returned home and unpacked my luggage. I lay in bed battling jet lag, but I couldn’t fall asleep. I was still thinking about Dongmei.

I called her the next day, and her voice put a smile back on my face. We spoke daily after my return, spending several hours on the phone each time. Three months later I returned to Beijing and proposed to her. She accepted. We traveled to her hometown to get married, and within three months she had resigned from her position and joined me in New York City. With Dongmei in my life, I felt like a boat in a safe harbor surrounded by calm water. The busy, noisy city full of people rushing around became more peaceful, and New York began to feel more and more like home.

Since Dongmei and I lived near the Fosters’ townhouse, we visited them often and I spent more and more time with Craig. He taught me how to ski, fish, and play golf. He was delighted to learn that Qigong could improve his golf game, but his appreciation of Qigong increased most dramatically after I used my healing abilities to help his daughter conceive.

She had sought guidance for years from fertility experts, but they were unable to help her. I worked on her only one time. When I held my hand over her womb, I felt stagnant, cold energy trapped inside. This condition is one of the leading causes of infertility in industrialized countries where ice cold drinks, frozen foods, and air conditioning are prevalent. I removed the cold Qi and empowered her womb with warm, healing energy to support her reproductive functions. Then I “empowered” her husband by giving him a Qi boost and harmonized the flow of energy between them. One month later she called to report the good news. Her doctor pinpointed the date of conception to within one week of her treatment.

Craig was deeply grateful, and he began to introduce me to other physicians, one of whom was a sprightly woman with bubbly blue eyes. “Robert, I’d like you to meet Dr. Florence Comite. She is an associate clinical professor at Yale University who specializes in preventive medicine and age-management medicine,” Craig said.

“Hello, Robert,” Dr. Comite said. “I would like to experience what you do.” Her words reflected sincere humility.

After her first Qigong treatment, Dr. Comite—or Florence as she asked me to call her—became fascinated by my Qigong abilities. Being a genuine scientist with a strong pioneering spirit, she committed her- self to the study of Qigong. She wanted to awaken Qi flow in her own body and experience firsthand the merits of this ancient healing art. From her own experience she soon became convinced of the health benefits of Qigong, and she referred many of her patients to me.

About a year after I met Florence, she called me up with an interesting proposal.

“Robert,” she started, “I’m part of a committee that is organizing the first annual Yale Integrative Medicine Scientific Symposium. This event will be attended by professors and medical students interested in alternative forms of medicine. Would you consider doing a pre- sentation on Qigong?”

“I’d love to,” I replied.

When the day arrived, I drove to Yale with Florence and Dongmei.

About a hundred people attended the symposium, and I was one of sev- eral presenters slated to do a one-hour workshop after the keynote speech. When the main presentation ended, the participants broke up into smaller groups and headed to one of several rooms where the workshops were being held. My room quickly became overcrowded and we had to switch to a larger one. Then that room filled beyond capacity and we had to switch rooms a second time. When we were finally ready to begin, twenty minutes had passed. I made a few introductory remarks about the history of Qigong and then briefly described my childhood, including the training I received in the boiler room and my incubation inside the dark chamber at the monastery. Then I presented a PowerPoint slide show that laid out the basic principles underlying the science of Qigong. In the last few minutes I proposed to do a demonstration of Qi power.

I asked to borrow a dollar bill from someone in the audience. Several hands went up, and I randomly selected a volunteer, who came to the front of the room and handed me a crisp one-dollar bill. I selected another volunteer and showed them both an ordinary plastic chop- stick, the kind available at most Chinese restaurants. I asked them to each grasp one end of the chopstick. Then I stood between them and empowered the dollar bill with Qi by running my hand over it. I grasped one end of the bill, then raised and lowered it twice, tapping the chopstick lightly with the narrow edge of the bill each time. The third time I brought my hand down quickly in a slashing motion and sliced cleanly through the chopstick with the dollar bill.

There was a stunned moment of silence followed by enthusiastic applause. When the presentation ended, I was surrounded by students and professors bursting with questions. I was delighted with the outpouring of interest about Qigong from members of one of the top medical institutions in the world.

After my experience at Yale, I reflected back on my life, noting that my destiny has always unfolded in a pattern of circles that extended progressively farther out into the world. From the boiler room at Yi Suo, to Jiuyi Temple, to Zhongnan University, to Hainan Island, to

Sydney, to New York City, to Yale University. Each circle was a station where I underwent a personal transformation that prepared me for my next stage of development. It then dawned on me that the next circle in the series should be to write a book about my life and Qigong. This is the book that you are holding.

This work marks another turning point in my personal evolution, and hopefully yours. I wrote it because I recognized that in order to crystallize Xiao Yao’s vision of Qigong going global, I needed to both share my story publicly and make the knowledge I received from my beloved master accessible to anyone who was interested.

Having taught Qigong to over a hundred and fifty thousand people across many cultures and countries, I have learned to appreciate the diversity of perspectives each practitioner embodies. Yet despite these differences, there lies an essential spiritual core that unifies us all. The practices described in the rest of this book aim to awaken and develop that aspect of our common humanity.

My master was a devout Buddhist monk. Like so many others of my generation who grew up during the Cultural Revolution in China, I didn’t identify with any particular faith. In all the years I studied with Xiao Yao, he never overlaid any religious beliefs or dogma on his Qigong teachings, and neither do I. Everyone can benefit from the practice of Qigong regardless of race, gender, or religious belief.

If you are a person of faith, the Qigong practices in the chapters ahead will enrich your religious expression with wisdom, love, and vitality. And if you are a staunch atheist, the practices will enrich your humanism with more wisdom, love, and vitality. Qigong improves our performance in any domain of human activity much as an operating system upgrade improves the performance of any program installed on a computer.

However, there is one important prerequisite to practicing Qigong: being able to smile and enjoy yourself. Having fun doing the exercises is the key to progress. And adopting an easygoing style is the secret to spiritual success. Incidentally, “easygoing” is the meaning of my master’s name, Xiao Yao, so when practicing Qigong, be xiao yao.

Epilogue

The Six “No-Worries”

It was the summer of 1981, and a year had passed since I completed my fast in the dark chamber. I had just finished my junior year of high school. I hadn’t seen my master since winter break, and that visit had lasted only ten cold days. I was looking forward to spending my third summer at Jiuyi Temple—this time above ground—so three days after school ended, I stuffed my satchel with a few items and headed for the train station. In my bag I carried a pair of underwear, an extra T-shirt, a pair of pants, sandals, a pair of socks, and a tooth- brush. I nudged the heaviest item in last: an abridged edition of The Count of Monte Cristo. On my way to the train station I bought dried lychees and sugared kumquats, both wrapped in crinkly brown paper. These were gifts for Xiao Yao.

I boarded the overnight train. The next day I rode the bus through the remote backcountry roads and hiked along the balmy forest trail. When I finally saw the temple’s main gate through the treetops, I quickened my pace. The courtyard was a beehive of activity. Bald heads and shirtless mountaineers buzzed everywhere.

A few men were roofing the main hall while another cluster of laborers was refurbishing the Buddha statues beneath. Half the icons glistened with a bright gold patina and the rest were dressed in the crackled paint of timeworn, honeyed hues. The large Buddha at the center of all the activity was dressed in a fresh coat of gold. He looked knowingly into the distance as he always did, unmoved by the commotion around him.

I greeted familiar faces. Friends waved to me and I waved back. I placed my belongings in Xiao Yao’s room and went to find my master. He was holding a meeting. Liu Bo, the administrator of the monas- tery, was in attendance, as well as a few other monks I recognized and some newer members of the community I didn’t know.

Xiao Yao was speaking while the others listened attentively. The door was cracked open, so I peeked in and waved. He smiled and waved back as he continued talking. I returned to the courtyard and assisted one of the masons who was making cement. When he was finished with his task, I went into the main hall, grabbed a paintbrush, dipped it into a can of paint, and coated one of the temple walls bright red. A few leisurely hours passed. As the activity was dying down, a young monk told me that Xiao Yao was waiting for me in his room. I put down my paintbrush, washed my hands clean, and dashed across the courtyard.

“Jihui, how are you?” my master asked. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed.

“I am well, Shifu,” I answered. I reached into my bag and handed him my gifts.

“Buddha bless you,” he said as he sliced a kumquat with a sharp knife. He poured some ginger tea from a thermos into two white porcelain cups and dropped the fruit in as a sweetener. I savored the aroma as we both sipped the tea.

“How is your family?” Xiao Yao inquired with sincere interest. “We are all doing well. My parents send you their greetings,” I replied. “And how is your school work coming along?”
“My studies are going well. The schoolmaster’s daughter has become a good friend. She is also studying English. There are about seven of us who want to major in the subject and we’re getting special attention from her mother, who has hired the finest teachers in Xiangtan.”

“Next year you’ll be taking your university entrance exam.”

“I know. I took a practice exam a few weeks ago.”

“How did you do?”

“I did well enough, and I have one more year to improve my score.”

“I am happy to hear that.”

We chatted and emptied our teacups. A young monk knocked on the door. Xiao Yao was needed elsewhere. My master was very busy. I spent the rest of the day wandering up and down the mountain trails, running around and splashing in a clear stream, smelling wildflowers, and basking on a warm, flat rock as I watched the sunset.

The following day Xiao Yao asked me to assist him with the healing treatments he performed at the temple. Although the monastery was hard to reach, villagers from the valley and beyond would frequently make the long journey for a healing treatment with my master. When I was at the temple assisting him, he often used hands-on healing methods that I could help him with. We worked together as a healing team. He asked me to direct Qi to various parts of a patient’s body and activate specific energy points while he worked on their Four Golden Wheels. While I emitted Qi into them, I could feel my master’s potent energy flowing into their Four Golden Wheels, especially into their Central Meridian.

One morning a few days after I arrived, I heard a raucous cry by the main gate. Four mountaineers were carrying a fifth man on a makeshift stretcher made out of two rough-cut branches and a blanket. The patient was moaning. My master and I ran toward them. One of the men explained that the man on the stretcher had been bitten on the ankle by a poisonous snake. He showed Xiao Yao his foot. It was discolored and as swollen as a big sweet bun. The skin was stretched and glossy, and it looked like a balloon about to burst. The two puncture marks were clearly visible and rivulets of black blood oozed out from both of them. The rest of his leg was turning dark with an ominous red streak that extended from his ankle all the way up his right thigh. There is a well-known Qigong saying that says that if that red line reaches the heart, the patient will die. It was already more than halfway there.

“Bring him to my room,” Xiao Yao ordered the men.

They did, setting the mountaineer down on my master’s bed. The man was well-built with meaty legs. The pain was intense, and he was going in and out of consciousness.

Xiao Yao brought out a bottle of dark liquor that he kept in his room. He quickly empowered it with his Qi and helped the man gulp down a few swallows. Then my master filled his own mouth with the alcohol and sprayed it over the snake bite.

“Press the top of his head and empower his Central Meridian,” he told me.

I activated the energy point and sent energy from the top of his head straight down. The energy in his Central Meridian was dissipating. It felt scattered and weak. Xiao Yao activated various points on the mountaineer’s leg and spent a long time pressing hard on his Lower Dantian.

The healing energy in the room thickened and the mountaineer coughed.

Xiao Yao used his Sword Finger to direct energy from the man’s Lower Dantian along the long red line back down to the snakebite. Blood trickled out from the two dark holes and then it began to stream. He continued to direct the Qi and reverse the flow of the poison. More blood pumped out. The bed was soon stained dark red. Then the color of the blood lightened, and within fifteen minutes it looked normal. The red line had faded and the swelling was nearly gone.

Xiao Yao washed the wound with fresh water and gave the man another cup of liquor to drink.

“You are fine now. Go home and rest,” he told him.

The mountaineer sat up and moved his leg. He was fully conscious and nearly pain free. He stood up slowly and tested his balance.

Then he slowly knelt down and bowed three times to show Xiao Yao his gratitude. The mountaineer walked out of the room without any help. Less than half an hour had passed since he had been brought in.

A few days later, a military officer arrived at the monastery and asked to speak to Xiao Yao.

“I was dispatched by the chief administrator of the military hospital from my base,” he said. “We have a problem and we need your urgent help. A high-ranking official from Beijing is visiting us. His name is General Han. He is very sick. The doctors did all they could, but he is still ill and must return soon to the capital on important business. The administrator heard about you. He wants you to come back with me to the base to heal the general.”

“What is the matter with General Han?” Xiao Yao asked.

“He has a urinary infection. He is in much pain.”

“I’m sorry,” Xiao Yao replied, “but I’m very busy working with other patients right now. I can’t leave the monastery.” The officer looked startled.

“Don’t worry. I’m not sending you back empty handed. My disciple will return to the base with you.” Xiao Yao glanced over in my direction. “He will heal the general.”

“Me?” I replied. I had never healed anyone on my own, and the thought of working on a high-ranking military officer terrified me.

“Yes, Jihui,” he said, calling me by my Chinese name. “Follow the officer back to the base and do what you can to help the general.”

I was speechless. A flurry of fear and anger fell over me, and I stared at the floor to hide my emotions. A high-ranking Chinese general was a powerful man whose disfavor could jeopardize my future. In a flash, I envisioned my failure and his displeasure. I imagined him barring my admission to a university, harassing my family, locking me up in jail, and even shooting me with his gun. My anxiety deepened, as did the resentment I felt toward my master for putting me in this predicament.

“Don’t worry,” Xiao Yao said. “Do what you feel is right. You have my full confidence.”

The officer and I crossed the courtyard. As we passed under the front gate, I wondered whether I would ever return. We walked down Snowy Peak Mountain in tense silence. There was a military Jeep waiting for us down below. When I saw it, I nearly panicked. I wanted to run into the forest and hide.

The ride lasted two hours. We drove past a checkpoint and entered the base. The officer pulled up to the entrance of the military hospital. The chief administrator of the hospital was waiting for us. When he saw me, he cringed. My youth embarrassed him. An anxious frown indicated his apprehension that the general would blame him for my incompetence.

“General Han must get back to Beijing tomorrow,” he said. His voice was steely and cold. “But he can’t walk. The pain is intense. In my professional opinion, he won’t be able to leave for at least another week.”

“I understand, sir. I will try my best to help General Han,” I answered.

The chief administrator eyed me blankly. My sincerity did not impress him. Despite his reservations, he led me to the general’s room and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” a weak voice said.

I entered, followed by the administrator. General Han was a wiry, gray-haired man in his seventies. He was lying flat on his back. He propped himself up slightly and smiled through the pain.

 “Welcome, young man. I am General Han. Thank you for coming,” he said. His friendly voice eased some of the tension I had been storing since I left the monastery.

“It’s nothing serious, really, just a little problem with my sewage system.”

The administrator forced a chuckle.

The general pointed at him, “He’s too worried about me. I don’t want you to worry. You just do your thing. You have my full confidence.”

To my astonishment, the general repeated the exact same phrase spoken to me by Xiao Yao.

“Yes sir. I promise to do my best,” I said, feeling a little more confident.

I scanned the general’s Lower Dantian energetically. I felt a burning sensation, like I was holding scalding charcoal in my palm. He had a bad infection. I empowered his Central Meridian, and I activated two energy points on the soles of his feet. I cleared his kidney and urinary bladder meridians and pumped fresh Qi into his kidneys. Periodically, I scanned his Lower Dantian. When I finished the treatment, the burning sensation was nearly gone.

“Hmm . . .” The general’s breathing was slow and deep and his eyes were closed. He seemed relieved.

“Sir, I think I may need to work on you again tomorrow,” I said. “Hmm . . .” the general responded as his head sunk into the pillow. I spent the evening at the base. A hearty meal was prepared for me, but I hardly touched it. I tossed in bed, unable to shake off my apprehension. Early the next morning, a hard knock woke me from my shallow sleep.

The door opened and a young soldier slightly older than I peeked in. “General Han would like to see you,” he said.

“How is he feeling?” I asked. “I don’t know.”

I dressed quickly and followed the soldier back to the hospital. My legs grew heavier each step of the way. We entered the building and walked straight to the general’s room.

The solider rapped on the door.

“Come in!” General Han’s voice boomed.

I entered. The general was wearing his military uniform. He stood up straight and his eyes were sharp and alert. He shook my hand vigorously. “The pain is all gone, and I feel more energetic than I have in many years. You are an excellent plumber, young man,” he said.

Everyone in the room laughed, including me.

I worked on the general for a short while again. I empowered him and balanced his energy, and before leaving for Beijing later that day, General Han summoned me back to his room.

“I really appreciate what you did for me,” he said. He unfastened his stainless steel watch and handed it to me. “Take this as a token of my appreciation. Thank you.”

Watches were precious commodities in those days, and the gift over- whelmed me. I admired the timepiece, not even daring to try it on.

The chief administrator organized a private tour of the camp. At dinner I tasted lobster for the first time. Afterward, I was invited to the screening of a film in a tiny plush cinema usually reserved only for high-ranking officers and officials.

The next day another officer drove me back to the temple. The trek up the winding trail was a joyous occasion, and I reached the monastery in record time. I couldn’t wait to share the good news with Xiao Yao.

“I deliberately sent you to heal General Han alone,” he told me. “I could have done it myself or I could have accompanied you and let you work on him, but I wanted you to realize that after all these years of training you really are a Qigong healer. You are qualified to heal on your own. I could have told you so, but you wouldn’t have believed me deep inside. I want you to remember that horrible feeling you felt before you left. Whenever you come across that sensation again, push through it and another world will open up.”

“Shifu, I’d like you to have this,” I said, and offered him the watch.

“Keep it. I’m a monk. I have no use for a watch. Besides, you earned it.”

He took the watch and strapped it around my wrist and said, “We are all human beings. No matter how much worldly power a person has, we all share the same vulnerabilities, especially when we are ill.

Treat an emperor and a peasant with the same respect and you will never be intimidated by someone’s title or position.”

The following morning, before daybreak, I followed my master along the dewy purple trail that led from the temple to the Rainbow

Tree. Xiao Yao was in a talkative mood.

 “Spiritual cultivation is simple and the fruits are sweet. Practice daily and you will harvest the Six No-Worries,” he said.

As I walked behind him, he repeated the Six No-Worries in the strong, familiar accent that had endeared him to me for so long.

“No worry eating. When your Qi flows smoothly, the plainest meal tastes delicious. No worry sleeping. When your Qi flows smoothly, you sleep like a baby. No worry toilet. When your Qi flows smoothly, you won’t experience digestive problems. No worry energy. When your Qi flows smoothly, you have ample vitality to deal with what- ever arises. No worry sex. When your Qi flows smoothly, your sexual energy enhances your life. No worry emotions. When your Qi flows smoothly, your emotions are calm and you rarely get sick.”

The nascent morning sun reflected off the pine needles that carpeted our path.

“When your Qi flows smoothly, there are no worries. You live like a shenxian—an immortal in fairyland,” he added.

We reached the Rainbow Tree and practiced Qigong in the iridescent morning mist. The rising sun nourished us as we meditated on the cliff’s edge facing the wide-open expanse. I opened my eyes and looked at my master.

Xiao Yao was glowing with kindness and peace. It was hard to believe that he was nearly a century old. His aura radiated a beautiful, clear light. Above us was a large double rainbow with one end resting on the mountain and the other end resting in midair. It embraced Heaven and Earth, cradling us between them like a pair of benevolent arms.