It’s common for people to say,  “ Chinese martial arts can be
   divided into Neijia ( ‘internal’ ) and Waijia ( ‘external’ ) arts.”   don’t dare say I have
   a thorough understanding of Chinese martial arts,   and I also believe that no one can
   claim to fully understand all of Chinese martial arts. After all,   Chinese martial styles
   and factions number in the hundreds and thousands, each rich in content.   It isn’t a
   subject an average man like myself can hope to grasp in its entirety. Therefore, the
   best I can do is to use my own incomplete understanding of Mantis and Chen Taiji to
   examine the “Internal/External” dichotomy.

         Anyone who studies Chinese martial arts is likely to
   encounter the saying, “ if you practice ‘ quan ’ (boxing),  but not ‘ gong ’ ( work,
   achievement, conditioning ), then when you reach old age, you’ll be left with nothing.”
   Thus, everyone knows the importance of “gong” in Chinese martial arts training.
   However, exactly which “gong” are we talking about here?

    　Let’s first take a look at it from one of the most  widely-known,  broad
   generalizations, which is that “Taiji belongs to the ‘Wudang’ styles, which are
   ‘Internal,’ and Mantis belongs to the ‘Shaolin’ styles, which are ‘External.’”
   At first glance, this distinction seems quite logical. After all, what Taiji performer
   doesn’t move slowly and gently, as if to express the philosophy and artistry of 5,000
   years?   What good Taiji performance would be complete without a look of serenity,
   as if probing undreamt depths of meditation? With just a little costume, this kind of
   performance is easily enough to make you think of the legendary warriors of books
   and movies. To take a look at the other side, what Shaolin-style performance would
   be complete without the high leaps, low crouches, rapid advances and swift retreats?
   What is Praying Mantis without the nimble body movement and fast hands?
   How could these not be externally focused? By the same token, who could disagree
   with calling the elegant, soft, meditative Taiji “ internal? ” Thus, the wall between the
   two types grows taller and taller,   each group of practitioners practicing their own
   separate training methods and theory, each hoping that theirs is fundamentally
   different from other arts, and therefore superior. Holding endless stances is called
   “gong,” throwing endless punches is called “gong,” practicing the same form 1,000
   or 10,000 times is called “gong,” stretching your muscles is called “gong,” and lifting
   weights is called “gong.” People try to attach this label to as many things as possible
   and instruct their students to practice these methods endlessly. It’s almost as if, if you
   don’t turn your school or place of practice into a virtual torture chamber, it can hardly
   be called a legitimate school. This kind of attitude towards gong training not only eats
   away at people’s time and energy, it eats away at the future of Chinese martial arts.

         So, should we really call stance-holding  and stretching
   “gong? ” Is throwing punches and kicks “gong?” Is lifting weights “gong?” I won’t
   deny that these are all a type of gong. However, it is absolutely not the “gong” in the
   saying “if you practice…” To be more accurate, those are all types of “jiben-gong”
   ( basic physical conditioning ). Basic gong doesn’t encompass gong in the same way
   that grammar school arithmetic doesn’t encompass math. Basic gong is all focused on
   strengthening the “external” body. That is, it is all focused on increasing strength,
   endurance, flexibility, coordination, and so on. These types of conditioning are all quite
   effective when you are young,  and are,  in fact,  a necessary foundation for practicing
   the real gong I am getting at. Kung Fu isn’t just for one time in your life, it’s designed
   to be practiced long-term. When young you can rely on your strength, but what will
   you rely on when you’re old? Many people say they practice martial arts in order to
   protect themselves. But who bullies people stronger than themselves? Do not the real
   predators choose you at a time when you are weak and vulnerable? No matter how
   young you are, you’ll one day grow old, and no matter how strong you are, you’ll
   eventually become weak or sick. What will you rely on then? You can rely on the very
   “gong” that can prevent you from being “left with nothing” in old age. We call this
   type of gong “Neigong” ( Internal Work ) or, “Qigong” ( Energy Work ). This concept
   of “qi” is at the root of Chinese martial arts, and is the true goal we must pursue in
   their practice.

       Chinese martial arts require “internal circulation and outward
   movement,” and include the concept of “training both inside and outside.”  Taiji
   practitioners know they should coordinate the breathing, but that’s still not qi.
   Shaolin and Mantis practitioners, no matter how fast and energetic their performances,
   will also one day run out of gas. This is because without qi, you can’t face the harsh
   reality of the passing years and decades.   The only way to get to true Chinese martial
   arts is with qi as your foundation, starting point and goal. However, the mere mention
   of the word qi is likely to cause a lot of confusion and misunderstanding. All types of
   Chinese martial art have their own types of qigong. An unchanging principle of Chinese
   martial arts is that you can’t get “jin” (refined power) without qi. After all, qi is the
   basis of everything. Although many schools don’t necessarily emphasize qigong training,
   it is still at their heart of their training, because each traditional style has its own
   complete training system designed with qi cultivation in mind. As an example of this
   ingenious design, let’s consider the training sequence of Chen Style Taiji.

  　　I have a great personal love for the training sequence of Chen
   Taiji, because of its strict and logical order and density of gong training. I’ve spent
   a very long time practicing it and pondering it. Generally speaking, the training
   process of Chen Taiji can be divided into three forms. The first is Laojia  ( to build
   the foundation ), the second is Hulei ( to learn the jin ) and the third is Paochui
   ( to understand its usage ). However, nowadays,  many people will practice all three
   forms, believing that they’ve completed Chen Taiji training, but without ever thinking
   carefully about the “why” of this training process. The combination of the three forms
   is what results in the complete Taiji art. By the same token, who can ever hope to fully
   understand the “  Eighteen Schools” of Praying Mantis by merely practicing many
   forms?  Praying Mantis and Taiji are alike in this respect.  If the practice is limited
   to movements of the arms and legs,   though you can demonstrate it in a way which
   seems like a complete art, because its foundation is based on muscular strength, it will
   eventually become impossible to keep up the practice.    Because of the limitations of
   strength and endurance, you will one day become unable to get past a certain sticking
   point and will gradually lose the gong-li  (“power of accumulated work”) you worked
   so hard to build. The gong-li which Chinese martial arts emphasizes is one which can
   be accumulated and grow stronger day to day, year to year. Muscular strength and
   endurance will always begin to decrease at some point, but this is not the case with
   gong. This is because the gong-li of Chinese martial arts is not based on strength, it is
   based on qi. Therefore, it is only with qi as a basis that you can learn and practice the
   essence of Chinese martial arts.

     　When beginning Chen Taiji training, the first form is Lao-jia
   (“Old Frame”), a long,  slow form designed to build the foundation. Make sure not to
   base your judgment of Lao-jia on previous arts you’ve studied.   The training of Chen
   Taiji doesn’t take into account what you’ve studied previously--it begins from square
   one.   Chen Taiji doesn’t assume prior training, nor do any other styles.  Therefore,
   they always begin with laying a foundation.   For this reason,  Laojia training has
   nothing to do with qi training. Putting down roots doesn’t require that you get into
   the realm of qi. Don’t get caught up in the idea “practicing Taiji requires you
   coordinate the breath, because that’s what qi is.”  Ask yourself, “what kind of
   exercise doesn’t require you to coordinate the breath?” You have to coordinate
   your breath even when eating—can you practice martial arts without breathing?
   Breathing is breathing and qi is qi. Recently,  many people conflate the two, 
   oversimplifying the concept of qi and oversimplifying Chinese martial arts.

  　　After laying the foundation,  we enter into the real meat of Chen Taiji,
   the Hulei-jia ( “Sudden Thunder Frame”). It’s almost an oversimplification to call
   Hulei-jia a “form,” when in fact, it is a multi-layered, complete system of training.
   The one Hulei form can be divided into ten stages : connecting, circling, reeling,
   separating, hard, soft, rising, sinking, Yin and Yang. Each stage is key and each stage
   is a treasure trove in terms of reaching a deep understanding of Taiji. However, if you
   still base it all on muscular strength, then whether you practice it five years or ten
   years, though you may refine your movement more than others,   it still won’t be real
   Hulei-jia.   At best it will achieve the first stage of “dense connectivity.” The key lies in
   whether or not you’re actually making use of qi. Without qi, there is no Hulei-jia.
   Without the concepts in Hulei-jia,  there will be no chansi-jin (“silk-reeling energy”).
   If your chansi-jin consists of nothing more than simply tracing circles with your hands
   and arms, then your Taiji will be no different than morning calisthenics. Does practicing
   Taiji have to be this complicated? Of course not. Certainly no one can blame those
   who wish to do Taiji simply for exercise, nor those who chose a particularly tiring form
   of Taiji for their morning exercise. However, we mustn’t allow this kind of Taiji to
   proclaim itself as the “one true original” Taiji passed down through the ages.
   Real Taiji can’t survive this attitude, and neither can Chinese martial arts.

  　　After undergoing the complete baptism of Hulei-jia, the qi will gradually begin
   to build up its own “gong-li.”  As gong-li becomes stronger and stronger,  if you want
   to know how to use it,  you have only to look to the form Pao-chui  (“Cannon Fist”).
   Though on the surface Pao-chui seems like just another form, it actually includes
   multiple application variations and consideration of fighting strategy.   Taiji being so
   complicated, it seems like one could hardly practice it all in one lifetime. This would also
   be incorrect. Think about in the past—what school would have the time to make you
   practice 18 years? Think in comparison of all the people who, after practicing for three
   or four years, are still competing to see who can hold the horse stance longest.
   Besides feeding your own ego, this kind of training gives you no real long-term benefits.
   I don’t know how many such  “public park grandmasters” I’ve seen talking about
   how they were “back in the day.” If an impertinent young person dares ask such a
   grandmaster for a demonstration of skill, then it will be out with the same line :
   “time is unforgiving, but back in the day…” These “grandmasters” call climbing
   trees and hopping up and down qing gong (“light skill”) and with their white hair and
   withered faces speak of great Daoist techniques of immortality. With this kind of
   material straight out of a martial arts novel, you should not only disbelieve their tales,
   you should tell them to shut up.

  　　As to the question of whether Chinese martial arts should really be divided
   into “Internal” and “External” arts, I don’t know what you think,  but as far as I’m
   concerned, Taiji isn’t an “internal” style and Mantis isn’t an “external” style, they’re
   both just one of the greater group of styles called “Chinese martial arts.” If you
   practice to the point of developing real internal skill, then an art is “internal.”
   If you’re still stuck at the level of doing preparatory basic conditioning exercises,
   then your art is “external.” We call one who has studied in-depth a zhuan-jia
   (“specialist”), one who knows how to run a business a hang-jia (“professional”)…
   so which “jia” are we talking about with “Neijia” and “Waijia?” We can often observe
   that if a grammar school student gets a perfect score on a math test, people say
   “how smart” or even “what a genius.” Though it is well-intentioned praise,
   the grammar school student can’t help but feel self-satisfied. On the other hand,
   when do we ever see a great mathematician who spends all day feeling self-satisfied?
   A great mathematician doesn’t have time to sit on his laurels because he’s too busy
   researching. This is also the reason why in the Chinese martial arts world, there is
   a distinction between “inner gate disciples” and “outer gate disciples.” Are these
   distinctions all made by the teacher? To those who say we should distinguish between
   “internal” and “external” martial arts, I say we should distinguish between “internal”
   and “external” students. Do you want to remain at the grammar school level, or do
   you want to become a real mathematician? The choice is up to you. People have asked
   me “how is it that you’ve studied so many styles and forms?” I respond, “look how
   many books there are in the Central Library—and yet there are still people who won’t
   be satisfied until they’ve read them all.” If you asked me to read them all, I certainly
   couldn’t. However, what people consider “so many” is just a personal interest of my
   own, because “practicing” and “mastering” are two completely different things.
  All I really understand so far is “half-complete Mantis” and “unfinished Chen Taiji.”

       Just a little qi isn’t enough. If we want to make Chinese martial
   arts more refined, more complete and more profound, then we need to pay more
   attention to this concept. While we still have time, while we still haven’t used up our
   youthful vigor, let’s all try to put a little more qi back into Taiji, Praying Mantis and
   Chinese martial arts. If I had my way, it wouldn’t just be “qi and Taiji-quan.”
   The emphasis would be “qi, qi, qi, qi, and more qi.” Whether on the road of life or in
   the realm of martial arts, by building up qi for your body, the possibilities for both body
   and mind become endless.