德建是目前少林一脉后起之秀，于心意把有其潜沉处。
但他遇到了少林这个门径的一个主要问题：身如何归于心。
大体上，这个门径很容易偏于在身意加强上走，也由此而建立起其武学大宗派之洪流。然亦因此而埋下此大困难。
究其根底，身形之根底，方可得解脱。
何谓身形之根底？
当我们专注于身形的自在自为时，其实质是精神对于身形的主宰，这种主宰的实现，根本的目的不是在于身形的强大，而是精神力量的渗透，由这种渗透，我们的无明愈见为有明。
在吴越春秋一书中，有一段民间女剑客的话，大体就已经谈到。
吴越春秋为东漢人趙煜编撰而成，应该是他整理先秦典籍的结果，无论是其中所叙述的事件，或文字，都应该有其来源。
越王勾践为了强兵，聘请了一位民间女剑客帮助训练精兵，这段话就是该女剑客面见勾践时的一段问答。
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吴越春秋.卷五.勾践阴谋外传 wrote:
越王問曰：“夫劒之道，則如之何？”
女曰：“妾生深林之中，長於無人之野，無道不習，不逹諸侯，竊好擊之道，誦之不休。妾非受於人也，而忽自有之。”
越王曰：“其道如何？”
女曰：“其道甚微而易，其意甚幽而深。道有門户，亦有隂陽。開門閉户，隂衰陽興。凡手戰之道，内實精神，外示安儀，見之似好婦，奪之似懼虎。布形候氣，與神俱往。杳之若日，偏如騰兎，追形逐影，光若彿彷，呼吸往来，不及法禁，縱横逆順，直復不聞。斯道者，一人當百，百人當萬。”
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有意思的是女剑客一上来就急于撇清自己的师承来历，彻底否认自己还有师傅，应该是遵其师命，不愿显世之故。至于她前面所谓的在途中路遇一白猿老头的故事，必然是她自己杜撰，为此目的服务的。
然后女剑客讲述了身形归于精神的第一步原则：内實精神，外示安儀，布形候氣，與神俱往。
在道家的语境里，这是一个基本的入口，因为下一步，我们自然会出现接续的问题：精神如何内实？形与气，如何与神俱往？
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DRUNK MONK
DEPT. OF CELEBRATION c New Yorker
by Amy Goldwasser
Issue of 2005-05-02
Posted 2005-04-25
There are only so many birthday-party venues where you wait around for the guest of honor in your socks. One of them is a Buddhist kung-fu temple. One night not long ago, about two hundred people left their shoes outside the door of the U.S.A. Shaolin Temple, on lower Broadway, and shuffled inside to await the arrival of Sifu Shi Yan Ming, a thirty-fourth-generation Shaolin fighting monk, whose forty-first birthday they intended to celebrate by drinking vast quantities of beer—or “special water,” as Yan Ming likes to say.
The celebrants spanned an easy range of age, race, profession, and style: deli clerk, baby, Wesley Snipes, sociology professor, Masta Killa. The RZA, of the Wu-Tang Clan, who spent much of his childhood skipping school to watch kung-fu movies in Times Square, was there, wearing a Staten Island baseball jacket and cap. In a room where hair was fairly unpopular, you could spot Jim Jarmusch’s tall, fluffy white head.
The students, dozens of whom were planning to stage a performance for their master (or sifu), were wearing orange or navy monk’s robes. As they waited, they blithely performed amazing feats.Two women rolled over each other’s back; another cartwheeled, no hands; a young man with long dreadlocks doodled in the air with a broadsword; another, head shaved, did a standing flip. The d.j., whose booth was in front of the sword rack, was wearing a yellow T-shirt bearing the temple’s slogan in red: “More Chi! Train Harder!”
This is something Yan Ming yells all the time—along with “Merry Christmas!” and “Happy New Year!” In his view, every day is a cause for celebration, and everybody is “handsome.” Before he was born, two brothers and one sister died of starvation. When Yan Ming fell extremely ill as a young child, his parents took him to the Shaolin Temple, in Henan Province, the birthplace of Ch’an Buddhism, and left him there, in the hope that Buddha might save his life. Under the monks’ tutelage, the boy became a master of Shaolin kung fu. By the time he was seventeen, he had been trained to withstand a full-force strike to the groin. He can lick red-hot iron shovels, break bricks with his skull, fly aboveground upside down in full splits, and sleep standing on one leg. In 1992, in San Francisco, while on the first Shaolin Temple monks’ tour of the United States, he defected and made his way to New York.
By 1995, Yan Ming had opened a temple on the Bowery, a cramped space without heat or electricity. That same year, he met Sophia Chang, a Korean-Canadian who was the manager of Ol’ Dirty Bastard, a member of the Wu-Tang Clan. (Yan Ming and Chang have two children. Shaolin monks have an exemption, granted by an emperor whom they protected during the Tang dynasty, that effectively permits meat, alcohol, and sex.) She introduced him to the RZA at a record-release party. The Wu-Tang Clan’s delight at meeting a real Shaolin monk lent Yan Ming some hip-hop cred, and before long he had moved to a bigger space, where he began training the Wu and many others in the Shaolin way.
His arrival at the birthday party was signalled by a burst of applause and shouts of the Buddhist greeting “Amituofo!” He entered from the stairwell wearing Comme des Garçons street clothes: navy shirt with an oversized black zipper and black pants. He took a seat front and center. The d.j. started a break beat, and the performance began. The students spun through choreographed fight sets, animal forms (eagle, snake, tiger, praying mantis), palm strikes, flying and spinning kicks, cartwheels, splits. When it was over, Yan Ming stood and said wholeheartedly, “I’m the luckiest sifu in the whole world!” Then he grinned. “Now, are you ready to train harder with the special water?”
The students took turns manning the bar—beer, sake, champagne (“very special water”). Nearby, friends made introductions to Yan Ming: “Yo yo, this is Pink,” and, “This is my sexy bodyguard.” The Shaolin tradition is to salute with the right hand, but, since Yan Ming was holding a bottle of champagne with that one, he raised his left. He filled people’s paper cups: “Merry Christmas!” Chang, whose head was shaved, called out, “Dave Chappelle’s been down there buzzing! Can someone go down and let him in? Amituofo.”
Out on the dance floor, Yan Ming moved, with almost any-guy imprecision, to the strains of “Mothafucka, what’s wrong with you?” and “Can I kick it?” A dance circle formed, the monk staying clear of the center, and the kung-fu battles—like nonverbal rap battles—escalated to the point where one man jumped clear over the head of another.
Around midnight, the birthday cake came out, decorated with the words “Happy Birthday Handsome.” By this time, Yan Ming had begun to lose his English. “Cut the cake! Cut the cake!” everyone chanted. A Wu-Tang Shaolin song played. Sifu Shi Yan Ming raised his left arm and, with full concentration, sliced the cake down the middle with a split-second kung-fu chop.
A few of the last guests to leave, hours later, found Yan Ming out in the rain on Broadway, buzzing to get back in. Bits of cake were stuck to his cheek. “Happy New Year!” he called out, as they held the door for him. “You are so handsome. Happy Birthday!”