Some Common Misconceptions about Neidan (Internal Alchemy) Practice
- Feb 23
- 6 min read
Are Theory and Practice Aligned?
GOLDEN CINNABAR LETTERS
Issue 3
By Prof. Dr. Dan KJ Vercammen
Neidan is a wonderful practice, no doubt about it. The discoveries of the (mostly) Taoist alchemists are sometimes quite incredible. What the alchemists achieve is exceptional. I would say all this is true, but … there is also a lot of nonsense being (mis)represented as Neidan. How and why is this possible?
Let’s take a look at Chinese culture and its influence on Neidan transmission. Then I’ll give some examples of how this relates to Neidan.
During its long history, Chinese alchemy received a lot of influence from the Confucianists, the ruling class of China. Most Taoist alchemists (if not all) were trained as literate, broadly educated Confucianists, because they came from influential, rich families and were, from childhood onwards, destined to become officials. One needed to study the Confucian classics and prepare for a Confucianist lifestyle and, especially, the local and imperial exams. That way, you could get ahead in life and become someone of power and wealth.
Then, one day, for some reason, such a person—someone with an interest in another way of life—would go through a drastic change. He would turn away from the goals of a Confucianist life and choose a quiet existence, withdrawn from the world of the officials. Some would enter Buddhist or Taoist monastic life, some would become recluses, and others would still engage with society, but adopt a Taoist lifestyle: protecting health, doing physical exercises, meditating, reading Taoist classics, practicing alchemy, etc.
However, being brought up in the Confucianist way, some habits stuck. One of the Confucianist customs is to be very respectful towards ancestors, predecessors, and the literature and artifacts they left behind. A critical attitude towards what predecessors wrote or transmitted is often hard to find in Chinese traditions, and if it’s there, it’s usually limited in scope. Of course, it’s kind not to criticize previous generations, but it’s also a reason why errors can be transmitted from one generation to the next. An advanced practitioner will be advanced because (s)he is a (positively) critical person.
When you are the representative of a practice that is complex and difficult to understand for outsiders—when it is sometimes controversial, or not something suitable for all people, or can be abused by someone with bad intentions—it is best to keep it secret in some way. Although we have a lot of alchemical literature available, and many texts were already published many hundreds of years ago (and so accessible to those who were interested in the subject), you can read and understand the classical Chinese alchemical texts, but they won’t release their code or layered meanings and teach you how to practice.
You need an experienced teacher for that; by that I mean someone who has gone through the complete process. You also need to be the right person, or the mysteries won’t reveal themselves. Then you can find advice and guidance in the texts.
I know (knew) several serious people—Chinese researchers, often—who study Neidan earnestly but are misled about the practice by relying too much on their “understanding” of the texts. I also know a lot of serious practitioners who don’t understand the texts well, because they miss the guidance of an experienced teacher.
And then you have those who willingly or unconsciously tell you that their practice is Neidan when it actually isn’t. You probably know someone who thinks that Neidan is a Taoist sexual practice, or a qigong practitioner who is convinced that (s)he practices alchemy (you can read about the difference between common qigong and Neidan in another Golden Cinnabar Letters blog). You also have those who confuse Taoist meditation with Neidan.
It’s not necessarily the misrepresenting person who is to blame; it’s often the nature of the tradition: representative persons and texts keeping deliberate secrets, and loss of knowledge through not questioning the teacher—or through the teacher’s lack of theoretical and/or practical knowledge—because (s)he is in the position of a respected teacher.
We now turn to some misconceptions in Neidan understanding and practice caused by the reasons I mentioned above.
When I went to China to investigate and improve my practice of Neidan, I came across some discrepancies between what I experienced during my practice, and what I read in some modern books—and even in classical texts—and what some teachers and fellow practitioners told me. Because this might be of interest to you as a serious student (I presume), I’ll share these issues here.
Maybe the most important issue is the concept of dantian, or “field of cinnabar.” Unless you have succeeded in activating it/them, you probably rely on what you’ve read or heard about it/them.
The first thing is whether dantian is singular or plural. In our tradition, the Southern Tradition and especially the Yinyang Current (read our page on the lineage for more on this method), dantian is singular, and it is located in the abdominal and lower back region.
In other traditions, often three dantian are differentiated: one lower, one middle (usually situated in the chest region), and one higher dantian (in the head). The exact descriptions and locations can differ from one tradition to another, but to explain this would take us too far in this blog. We use different, ancient names for the middle and lower locations.
Secondly, the dantian terminology can be found in other fields of study, such as traditional Chinese medicine (TCM), and in Neidan-related qigong. In these cases, it is common to refer to the dantian as a xue (cavity, acupoint), situated three cun (approximately four fingers) under the navel.
When, in former times, people practicing medicine and those engaged in alchemy met, they exchanged information about the body, but secrecy and other reasons prevented the transmission of authentic knowledge to medical circles. Classical medicine, as represented in works like the Internal Classic of the Yellow Emperor of about two thousand years ago, doesn’t mention dantian. It has other interesting information for Neidan practitioners, though—but that’s maybe for another blog.
Finally, in practice, you are required to focus on the dantian. That’s fine, but if you don’t know what it is, how can you focus on it? Many a teacher will tell you what you should feel, or describe what exactly you should focus on. We don’t. We teach you methods to activate the dantian without suggesting things, because we believe that suggestion is a source of illusions, and illusions are part of huandan, illusionary cinnabar or fake alchemy.
But then, that’s our method and our experience. Truth can be plural … Anyway, once your dantian comes alive, you’ll have no doubt about what it is anymore. The name is based on the experience, not vice versa.
Next issue: people sometimes get the order of the practice wrong. In fact, if you get the first phases right, the practice basically develops itself. But it’s those first steps that are the trickiest.
It is not a coincidence that I mentioned the dantian as the first issue: without it, there is no alchemical progress possible—at least not in the sense the Taoists have in mind. And an often neglected (or deliberately forgotten) phase is the very first phase: the preparations and the building of a sound foundation.
This means preparing your entire person for the practice, including engaging in physical exercises and taking on personality flaws, so that you diminish the chances of failing or missing the aims. We say that you need your teacher mainly in these first phases, and that the later phases fundamentally require spontaneous evolution. Yet having a predecessor supervising those phases of your evolution is safer.
Spontaneity is a characteristic of Taoist methods. However, be careful when you let spontaneity guide your practice. Manipulating or forcing people’s spontaneous effects, especially in the first phases, can lead to disaster. This frequently happens in so-called “spontaneous movements” forms of qigong. Neidan is not about movement; it uses movement to create stillness.
One more issue: you may think that the practice requires you to exercise at certain times. Teachers may tell you that the best time to sit and practice Neidan is at the so-called “子 zi” time, meaning the period from 11 pm till 1 am. Assuming that this period is a quieter time, with less human action and noise, it is a good time for sitting and meditating.
Avoiding disturbances (having people around, noises, smells, extreme temperatures, etc.) is a smart idea, but Neidan practice only profits from this in the early phases. The later phases protect you from interference. You’ll be in a different space-time condition. The “子 zi” time remains important, but its interpretation is very different from the 11 pm – 1 am one.
To conclude, I was warned by Dr. Fu Qinglong, my main Neidan teacher, about what should and shouldn’t happen during the practice, and about when to practice what and how. He made me evolve safely and effectively.
Having seen and done other practices, and having been misled by other teachers (but being a critical person, I already had my doubts during the practice), I am very grateful for his advice and guidance. What I would like is that students could experience the same, because Neidan has a lot to offer—yet it is not to be taken on lightly.
Find a careful teacher—and no, it usually isn’t the one who promises you heaven.
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