Peter Ragnar – Thunderball Qigong and Martial Arts Techniques

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This DVD is a set of the Thunderball Qigong and Martial Arts Techniques taken from the Bonus DVD in his “Moonlight Doesn’t Wet the Water” Course.
Sales copy below.
Enjoy,Warrior”If reaching the sky-scraped pinnacle of vitality and long life interests you, you won’t be able to put this novel by Peter down!” – Tony Balistreri He started the drama in a remote village in China in 1943.
The story is filled with romance, adventure, martial arts, and a specific Qi Gong instruction.
I was enthralled.
“Secrets long hidden in the dust bins of antiquity are revealed in detail.
” If you have even the slightest interest in the healing techniques of Traditional Chinese Medicine, you’ll be thrilled with your new-found knowledge.
Peter has truly outdone himself on this one.
To top it off, a few weeks ago while visiting Peter, he let me film him again doing a fresh Qi Gong technique introduced in this new novel that he has been working on for the past year! I personally felt immediate results from the first time I practiced it.
Later in the day, Peter’s Martial Arts partner Laurence showed up, and I was able to film both of them sparring outside! I asked them to do each technique over again in slow motion.
Then I made a DVD capturing it all, where you’ll be able to learn these simple and effective self-defense moves that even a child could master! This is great stuff! “I promise your eyes will tear up with joy and courage by the time you finish this incredible novel.
” And you’ll get this exciting DVD I filmed with Peter doing the martial art techniques too! Plus, if you act now you’ll get a Book of Quotes FREE! (While supplies last.
) You’ll receive it all for just $49.
97! I asked Peter if I could share with you the first few pages, just to wet your appetite.
Read an excerpt from Peter’s new novel below.
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“Moonlight Doesn’t Wet the Water: The Search for the Jade Spring Immortal” China, 1943 “When you try too hard, it becomes business;when you don’t, it becomes art.
” The old man’s eyes were all I could remember when we first met on the mountain trail.
I was only seventeen at the time I bumped into him.
Well, actually, I didn’t even see him – I was picking blackberries for my mother.
“Dragons live on the mountain,” he said.
His voice was smooth and deep.
Startled, I jumped, catching my sleeve on the thorny briars.
As I tried to tear myself loose, I fell forward toward the stranger, but he was elusive as air.
Just when I was about to hit the dirt, he picked me up from behind, laughing in a way my father never laughed.
It made me feel funny inside.
Not funny like a joke – no, I guess sort of strange.
Like he was someone I knew, but couldn’t remember.
As he set me down, his eyes giggled like a baby’s.
“You should be more careful, young man.
Life is all about balance.
” I liked that he called me “young man” and not just “boy” like Dad did.
I looked at my partially filled basket, and goosebumps jumped up on my arm.
“Worried about your mom, are you?” “How’d you know what I was thinking?” His nimble fingers began to roll over the branches.
“Here, give me your basket.
“”Hey, I – ” How is he finding all those berries? I thought.
I could swear I just picked them clean.
Well, not me, but the birds.
“Young man, this berry picking business can be a serious matter.
That is, if you take it seriously, which you can’t, of course.
Reason is, they start hiding on you if you have to find them.
When you try too hard, it becomes business; when you don’t, it becomes art.
” “Mom’s worried – ” He interrupted me again, putting his finger to his lips.
“You may not understand this today, but worry is a sustained form of fear caused by indecision.
We are all where we are by the choices we have made.
You are here with me picking berries; please stay here while you’re here.
” “But…
” “Yes, I already know.
” His hand made my shoulder feel hot.
It was getting dark as I made my way to the village that grew in the shadow of the mountain.
Crops grew on terraces stacked like dishes on the hillside.
The winding valleys were dotted with catalpa and wild plum.
In the lowlands, the Wei River would overflow its banks whenever it rained too hard.
I was too young to remember, but my mother often reminded me that it was good not to be a rice farmer’s child.
“Life wasn’t much better when we moved to the Highlands of the Chungnan Mountains,” I thought, passing one of the forsaken temples Chiang Kai-shek had sought to annihilate in the thirties.
During the great Cultural Revolution, the Red Guards forced many into hiding.
Mother told me some monks became hermits.
Even worse, according to my father, some were shamans, magical people who were said to follow the Way.
I wondered if I had met such a person today.
Dad had warned me that I’d likely be kidnapped or worse if I ever got too close to one.
He said being without a woman for so long wasn’t natural.
I didn’t understand, but I supposed I was still too young.
Anyway, he told me what he’d do if he ever caught up with one.
As I got closer to my house, I could hear my father’s voice over the others in the crowded village.
Mother was in tears again.
Our rice paper blinds didn’t provide much privacy, but the neighbors acted busy and pretended not to hear.
“How could you? And the girl is not any older than your son!” Mother protested.
“Don’t you give me that lip, or I’ll send you and your son back to the swamp on the Wei River and let the boy go work for the rice picker who fathered him!” My eyes began to flood, and my body shook at what I’d just heard.
When I stepped through the door, my father looked at the basket of berries.
“Is that all you picked? You’ve been gone all day and that’s it?” His heavy hand stung my cheek.
“That’s not enough to make wine! Now pick up what you have dropped.
” Most people in China drank wine made from rice, but he insisted on berries.
Crawling on my hands and knees, I began refilling the basket.
Unlike the nimble fingers that had effortlessly picked the berries for me, mine shook with fear and embarrassment.
Father burped, and I knew he’d been drinking again.
“You look like a dog! You hear me, boy?” I remained silent, trying not to anger him more, for he would surely take it out on Mother.
“A deft dog, eh?” Dad was sort of a martial artist and prided himself on how hard he could kick.
I knew it was coming.
The first kick missed me as I collapsed to the floor, but the next one didn’t.
“Get out, and take this stinking basket with you, and don’t come back with it empty!” he shouted.
I limped out of town like the stray dog I felt I was.
Finding the trail that led up the mountain, I crouched in the corner of the abandoned temple and fell asleep.

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