Intention is the expression of will, which in this article we’ll direct specifically toward physical movement. This will can manifest as a thought, an idea, or an image—and it can lead directly to the realization of the imagined or conceptualized action.

Among the different forms of intention, imagined movement stands out as one of the most effective for engaging the physical body. Simply having a thought or idea of a movement can be too vague; imagining it ties it to a three-dimensional and spatial context. The result is a kind of preview of what we’re about to do.

Each of us has a personal way of imagining, and this uniqueness deserves to be respected.

Creating the image of a movement requires several elements: a starting point, a path, a destination, position, and speed. When these are combined with the awareness of the movement being realistically executable, they form a vivid and accurate picture—one that the physical body resonates with naturally. What we’ll do, then, is simply trace with our body what we’ve already envisioned.

Once we’ve trained our receptors to respond to the images created in the mind (a key component of Tatto Interno), we’ll see how this mechanism significantly improves the quality of our movement.

Strictly speaking, no explanation is needed—experience alone would be enough. But reflecting on this helps dismantle certain beliefs that might limit perception and, consequently, hinder the mind-body connection. To enhance the reception of this kind of information, our nervous system needs to be in a relaxed and trusting state.

This connection happens through the Fascia.

Fascia is a connective tissue that exists at multiple levels—from the superficial (adipose) layers to the deepest structures of the body. The fact that we refer to it in the singular—Fascia—hints at its unified, continuous, and interconnected nature. Fascia wraps around muscles, weaves between fibers, surrounds organs and bones, envelops tissues, and even fills the intercellular spaces. It acts like a kind of glue, occupying every void. It makes up about 70% of our body and, thanks to its powerful elasticity, plays a major role in both posture and movement.

The key to the process we’re describing lies in this: fascia responds to and activates in a specific direction when intention is applied. With a bit of practice, this becomes a tangible experience. Intention acts like a homeopathic movement—small, subtle—but it’s perceived by one of the body’s most integrative and dynamic tissues.

To sum it up simply: an image gives rise to an intention, which activates the fascia, which in turn supports the movement.

Intention projects a kind of shadow of the movement to come (an image or hologram), creating a preferential channel. By physically following this shadow with real movement, we express our coherence between body and mind.

A muscle moving in synergy with fascia will always act more efficiently, more integrated, and with greater protection. Thanks to fascia’s extraordinary elasticity, a gesture becomes less strenuous, more whole-body, and more conscious and controlled.

But that’s not all—there are many benefits to this intention/fascia/movement coherence.

Here’s a passage from The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery:

Most people, when they move, well, they move in relation to what’s around them. Right now, as I’m writing, Constitution is crawling along the floor. This cat has no concrete life plan, yet she’s headed toward something—probably a chair. You can see it in how she moves: she’s going toward. And now my mother walks by, heading toward the door. She’s going shopping, and in a way, she’s already out the door—her movement anticipates itself. I can’t quite explain it, but while we move “toward,” it somehow scatters us: we’re here, and yet we’re not, because we’re already on the way somewhere else. You get what I mean? To stop scattering, we must stay still. Either you move and you’re not whole, or you’re whole and you don’t move. But that player—when I saw him walk onto the field, I immediately knew he was different: the sense of him moving while staying still. Sounds absurd, right? During the haka, I watched only him. Everyone was hypnotized, but nobody seemed to know why. It became clear during the haka: he moved like the others, but while their gestures reached outward—toward opponents, toward the crowd—his remained within, focused inward. It gave him a presence, an intensity that was extraordinary. The haka, a warrior chant, became something else entirely. That Maori player became a tree—a giant oak, unshakeable, with deep roots, a radiant power, and we all felt it. And yet we also knew that the great oak could fly, fast as the wind, thanks to or despite those deep roots.

This “Body of intention” (as it’s called in Tatto Interno) can be viewed as a hologram of the physical body—sometimes moving with it, sometimes still. When the hologram and physical body align—whether in motion or stillness—we become a coherent entity, experienced both internally and externally as presence.

You can see how this becomes essential in any practice where presence and communication are key. Performance, for instance, is the outward expansion of this inner presence toward the audience. Interestingly, the more centered we are within, the more we project outward—a paradox that recalls non-dualistic concepts.

Another benefit: strength. If the body of intention is positioned differently from the physical body, the latter will be pulled toward it. If it resists, it must exert effort to counteract the resulting friction (fascia moving one way, body another). When the intention is projected too far outside the body, the movement feels strained, unsafe, scattered, and hard to adapt. Fascia and body must move together for true strength.

A major benefit of this coherence is improved proprioception, the foundation of adaptability in movement. Fascia is full of sensory receptors, and when not aligned with the rest of the body, it can distort proprioceptive signals—reducing reactivity and stability.

Intention can also be overly projected into the future or outward in space—aimed at a distant goal, for example. This pulls us away from presence in the process. If the body of intention cannot align with the current action, we’ll be less adaptable and unable to improvise. (Think of people who constantly bump into things while walking.)

So, intention toward a goal must also include awareness of the path to it. Fascia seems to care more about the journey than the destination. Ideally, intention should travel with the movement. But due to distraction, lack of clarity, or awareness, this coherence often falters.

Of course, intention always precedes movement by a split second, but the closer the two are, the more effectively fascia will be drawn (physically and directionally) toward the intent.

And it’s worth remembering: our body has its own intentions, separate from the mind. Often these show up in obvious ways—like the urge to stretch—but they’re also expressed subtly and continuously. Understanding the body’s intentions—by letting the mind become an observer—opens up profound communication with the magnificent intelligence we embody.

These bodily intentions can be perceived through impulses in the fascial system. Our task is to support these movements and reconnect to their language. When we give the body permission to express itself, it brings us to the only real moment of change, healing, and creativity: the present.

We can irradiate the body with all kinds of intentions: images, healing, dance, sound, color… Our perception will translate these stimuli into movement via the fascia.

It’s important to note that we are in constant interaction with our environment—light, colors, objects, sounds, and so on. Every stimulus, even the most subtle, triggers an intention in the body—to adapt, to resist, or to move in some way. The complexity of information is immense and opens up a deeper discussion about environmental integration. But fortunately, we can also choose to focus on a single intention and work with it specifically.

To close this article: in order to use imagery as a compass for intention, some concepts must be simplified. The clear separation between body and mind, or between fascia and the rest of the body, isn’t entirely realistic—but it’s a helpful model to get familiar with the system (duality still shapes much of our perception).

With time and practice, the “body of intention” no longer needs imagery as a bridge between the abstract and the physical. It simply expresses itself for what it is: a formless essence, without substance or color, beyond the senses we normally use.

This perceptive sense, once awakened, also allows us—through observation or touch—to perceive, to some extent, the intentions of others. A powerful tool for any practice rooted in deep, reciprocal connection.