I lived as a refugee from my own body for 30 years.
When I was six years old, I fell into a pit of human waste behind our village home in China. They pulled me out alive, but my grandmother knew something had been lost. She performed the old ritual — calling my soul back by name.
For thirty years after, I was an asthmatic. Every breath was a reminder that I was broken. I escaped into the mind. I came to America, studied mathematics, photography, philosophy. I tried meditation. Therapy. Western medicine and Eastern mysticism in every form I could find.
Nothing touched the root.
Then, in Columbus, Ohio, a friend invited me to a Qigong class. For the first time in three decades, I felt something I had forgotten existed: genuine comfort in my own skin.
I trained at the Medicineless Hospital. I coughed for fourteen straight nights. My asthma left forever.
At sixty I fell fifty feet off a cliff. Not a scratch. Thirty years of practice had married consciousness to flesh — so that when crisis came, the body was already home.
This book is everything I learned. It is the path home, written for anyone still in exile.
