The Cry of the Bat and the Secret of Primordial Energy

That afternoon, pale golden sunlight slanted through the window frame of the living room, casting a hazy layer of dust over the old, worn pages of books. The space was so quiet that one could hear the clock's hands ticking away each passing second. A middle-aged man, his hair touched with silver, sat motionless in a soft leather armchair. Suddenly, his eyes flew wide open, his pupils contracting as if he were witnessing something terrifying from the distant past. His trembling hands gripped the armrests, his knuckles turning white.

"What's wrong?" his wife asked anxiously, hurrying to his side, her voice full of concern.

He did not answer right away. In his mind, the present moment dissolved, replaced by a bone-chilling, dreadful sensation that swept over his entire body. He remembered the moment when he was only two years old, sitting and playing on the front porch, when a sudden awakening came upon him. It was not the memory of an ordinary child, but a powerful intuition that flashed forth, tearing through the veil of ignorance that shrouded his memory.

"I... I remember now," he whispered, his voice trembling with fear. "In my past life... I was a bat."

That sensation was vivid to the point of being unbearable. He clearly remembered the feeling of hanging upside down from a pitch-black ceiling, his fragile wings clinging to tangled electrical wires, his heart pounding in his tiny chest, and the overwhelming terror as darkness closed in. It was not peace, but pure horror. When he realized this, he burst into tears and cried out in broad daylight, causing those around him to rush over in alarm. But only he understood that it was the cry of a soul that had just touched a mysterious part of itself.

This story does not end with the strangeness of past-life memory. It leads us backward in time, to the earliest stage of human life: the time spent in the mother's womb. Master Tri Duc, a martial arts master of profound depth despite his slender appearance, once shared that most of us forget everything that happened during those nine months and ten days. Only those who have attained realization, or who possess special intuition like that writer, can recall even a fragment of it.

So what happened during that seemingly forgotten time? While in the womb, our body possessed a source of "pure primordial energy," not yet scattered by the outside world. This was an ideal state, where life was nourished completely. However, the moment we were born, a biological tragedy began. The senses—sight, hearing, taste, smell, and the thinking mind—began to operate powerfully. All of this energy gathered in the region of the head.

According to Eastern medicine, particularly the teachings of renowned physicians such as Hai Thuong Lan Ong and the Zen Master Tue Tinh, the lower abdomen (the dantian) holds the "true yin"—the root of life. When the senses in the head operate continuously to take in the external world, they create a pull that draws the true yin from the lower abdomen up to the head. This process is like water being gradually drained from a vessel. The older we grow, the more we think, the more we gaze upon the noisy world, the more quickly the true yin is depleted. By the twilight of life, when the muscles weaken and the true yin runs dry, a person grows old, loses memory, and falls easily into illness.

Many people mistakenly believe that simply closing the eyes and sitting in meditation brings health. But in reality, if the method is wrong, they only accelerate the depletion of their primordial energy. There was once a famous general, imposing and commanding in appearance, who, after following the teachings of certain misguided "meditation masters," practiced by straining and controlling his mind in the region of his head. Just one year later, his face had grown gaunt, his radiance gone, his spirit passive, capable only of repeating a few disconnected phrases. He had fallen into the trap of "keeping the mind in the head," causing his true yin to escape twice as fast as an ordinary person's.

Instead, the secret lies in restoring the state of the fetus. While in the womb, the baby does not use its eyes, ears, or nose to judge the world. It uses only the sense of touch—the feeling of the whole body. The music the mother hears is transmitted through the vibrations of her skin, permeating the entire body. That is a state of natural abiding, where primordial energy is accumulated rather than depleted.

Another story bears witness to the power of this connection. A Vietnamese-German couple, after taking refuge in the Buddha, vowed to live purely in order to practice. They had no children, but the husband's parents deeply longed for a grandchild. The wife wrote to the master asking for guidance, and received an unexpected reply: treat this as a debt to be repaid, but pray for a bodhisattva to enter the womb and bring virtue into the world. They obeyed, kneeling before the Buddha in devotion for an entire month. Miraculously, the wife conceived immediately.

Throughout the pregnancy, every morning when her husband left for work, she would go to the altar, sit in meditation, and gently speak to her belly: "Mother and child, let us meditate together." She maintained this practice faithfully. One day, due to abdominal pain, she had to see a doctor. During the ultrasound, the German doctor exclaimed in surprise: "Why, the baby seems to be practicing yoga!" On the screen, the image showed the baby sitting in full lotus position, a perfect posture like a miniature meditation master. The baby had felt its mother's intention and rhythm of meditative concentration through the sense of touch across the whole body, and responded with its own posture.

This story affirms that: each of us was born a natural "meditation practitioner" during those first nine months and ten days of life. We automatically accumulated primordial energy by abiding in the whole body. But upon birth, our excitement with the outside world caused us to "abandon the practice," rushing into the whirlpool of greed, hatred and delusion, depleting our precious energy.

Therefore, the purpose of proper meditation is not to seek tranquility by suppressing thoughts in the head, but to return to the fetus's state of "whole-body feeling," this time supported by wisdom. Rather than standing outside the gate watching the traffic pass by (the mind turned outward), or standing on the street observing an illusory world (the mind still entangled), a skilled practitioner must "stand at the door of their own house, with their back turned, looking inward." They abide in the whole body, feeling the gentle flow of the breath in and out, letting wandering thoughts settle with each breath. The breath is the bridge between body and mind. When the breath is gentle, the mind grows calm; when the mind is calm, the true yin gathers again and is no longer drawn up to the head.

Those born prematurely often lack primordial energy, having not had enough time to "practice" in the mother's womb, and so may face difficulties with health or intellect. Conversely, figures such as the Venerable Sivali (who spent seven years in the womb) or the Sixth Patriarch Huineng (who was born past his due date) possessed extraordinary abilities and transcendent wisdom thanks to their fully accumulated primordial energy. Though we may not be so fortunate as to be born late, by practicing meditative concentration with the right method—abiding in the whole body, looking inward, harmonizing the breath—we can replenish what has been lost, restore our pure primordial energy, extend our lifespan, and preserve our clarity of mind.

## The Meaning of the Story

This story emphasizes the importance of "primordial energy" and "true yin" in the human body. The core lesson is this: rapid weakening and aging often stem from the senses and the mind turning outward too much, depleting our life energy. The proper method of practice is to return to the state of "whole-body feeling" we knew in our mother's womb, combined with wisdom to abide within and harmonize the breath. At the same time, a foundation of solid meditative concentration must rest upon virtue and merit (living for others), because blessings from merit help the mind become more easily subdued, allowing us to preserve our primordial energy more effectively.

Compiled from a dharma talk by the Venerable Thich Chan Quang