Liuhe Bafa
Liuhe Bafa: Breathing Isn’t the Point
Somewhere in the courtyard of a quiet temple, under a sky that doesn’t care what you’re doing, a man moves slowly. His arms drift through the air not dancing, not fighting. Something else. Something quieter. He’s not trying to impress anyone. Maybe he’s not even trying. This is Liuhe Bafa. It doesn’t announce itself. It waits.
A martial art that breathes before it moves.
You won’t see it on posters. It’s not trending. No medals. No spectacle. But if you find it really find it it stays with you. Liuhe Bafa doesn’t rush. It doesn’t explain itself. It asks you to show up, breathe, and listen. It lives in the space between things: between breath and intention, between movement and stillness.
They say Liuhe Bafa was once taught in whispers. Passed from teacher to student behind closed doors. Before Wu Yihui brought it to Shanghai, it lived in the mountains silent, slow, hidden. Some trace it back to Chen Tuan, the Taoist who watched clouds instead of people. But history here isn’t linear. It loops, like the form itself.
Some say it began in the mountains, where a Taoist sage watched clouds and didn’t speak for days. Others point to Wu Yihui, teaching in 1930s Shanghai, shaping it into something you could learn but not quickly. It’s not a set of moves. It’s a language. Every gesture says something. Every pause means something. And like any language, it’s not just what you say it’s how you say it.
Six harmonies. Eight methods. Sounds like theory. It’s not. The harmonies link body, mind, energy, spirit. The methods follow, lift, return, conceal aren’t techniques. They’re ways of being. Liuhe Bafa isn’t about winning. It’s about seeing. Feeling. Responding.
To the casual observer, it might look soft. Gentle. But that’s just the surface. The movements are precise. Grounded. They absorb, redirect, respond. Joint locks, throws, evasions they’re all there. But they don’t shout. They whisper. And they land.
I first saw it in a park in Bologna. Early morning. No music. No crowd. Just a man moving like he was remembering something. Or forgetting it. I didn’t know what I was watching. But I couldn’t look away.
There’s a moment between movements.
Not a pause. Not a break.
Something else.
Wu Yihui’s form, Zhu Ji, has 66 postures and hundreds of transitions. It doesn’t go in a straight line. It loops. Doubles back. Every gesture is a return. Every shift, a question. You don’t copy it. You live in it. And that takes time.
Liuhe Bafa doesn’t perform. It reflects. Built on silence, breath, and stillness that moves. If you stay with it, it shows you a strength that doesn’t come from muscle. It comes from knowing where you are. And why.
The benefits don’t arrive all at once. They unfold. The body opens. Breath deepens. The mind clears. And in the movement, something shifts. It’s not technique anymore. It’s presence. It’s clarity. It’s defense, when needed. But without aggression.
It’s not easy. It pushes back against speed, against spectacle, against fragmentation. It asks you to slow down. To feel. To stay. You can’t fake it. You can’t rush it. That’s why, for centuries, it was taught only to those who were ready. The “three gates”: entry, hall, chamber. Only in the chamber did the real teaching begin.
Now, it’s resurfacing. A few schools—mostly quiet ones—are bringing it back. Sometimes alongside Tai Chi or Qigong. It’s still rare. But those who find it tend to stay. Because it offers something different. A way to move that’s also a way to live.
Some say it’s a martial art. Others say it’s meditation in motion.
Maybe it’s both.
Maybe neither.
Liuhe Bafa isn’t for everyone. It’s for people who value depth over display. For those who know that real power doesn’t need to be loud. It’s for anyone who wants to change not just how they move—but how they exist.
In a world that moves too fast, Liuhe Bafa is a quiet rebellion.
It doesn’t resist.
It flows.
And maybe that’s enough.
Or maybe it’s just the beginning.
FAQ Liuhe Bafa: Breathing Isn’t the Point
1. What is Liuhe Bafa, really?
It’s not just a martial art. It’s a way of moving that begins with breath, not technique. Liuhe Bafa blends softness and precision, silence and intention. You don’t perform it—you inhabit it.
2. Where does Liuhe Bafa come from?
It’s rooted in Taoist tradition, with legends pointing to the sage Chen Tuan. The modern form was shaped by Wu Yihui in 1930s Shanghai. For centuries, it was taught quietly, passed through the “three gates”: entry, hall, chamber.
3. Is Liuhe Bafa similar to Tai Chi or Qigong?
It shares the internal focus and slow rhythm, but it’s not the same. Liuhe Bafa is less structured than Tai Chi, less forceful than Xingyi, less circular than Bagua. It’s more like remembering how to move before someone taught you how.
4. Can beginners learn Liuhe Bafa?
Yes but it’s not fast food. It asks for patience, presence, and a willingness to unlearn. Some schools teach it alongside Tai Chi or Qigong, but the real depth comes slowly, through practice and silence.