Chapter Twenty-One: Strategy for the Modern-Day Battlefield

Chapter Twenty-One

Strategy for the Modern-Day Battlefield

The story of Kamiizumi Nobutsuna and the rice balls has been repeated so many times that surely every reader knows it. It was even worked into the plot of the classic movie The Seven Samurai. Nobutsuna, a famous sixteenth-century swordsman who founded the Shinkage ryu of martial arts, was traveling in Owari Province when he came across a commotion at the Myoko Temple. A crowd had gathered around a gardening shed beside the main temple. Inside, a deranged criminal had taken a child hostage. Threats, offers of supplication, even the tears of the child's parents had not worked with the madman. Nobutsuna surveyed the situation, then ordered a monk standing nearby to turn over his robe. Nobutsuna put the robe on, then had his head shaved to complete the disguise. He walked slowly up to the door of the shed, some balls of rice wrapped in seaweed in his hands.

"You must be hungry in there," Nobutsuna the "priest" said calmly. "How about something to eat?" With that, he rolled one of the rice balls toward the criminal, who, believing himself to be in no immediate danger from a priest, let go of the child long enough to reach for the food. And long enough for Nobutsuna to seize and subdue him, freeing the child.

It is, as I said, a well-worn tale. It is one that has been repeated almost as often as one about Tsukahara Bokuden and his "No Sword Method" of winning a fight. Bokuden, this legend goes, was aboard a ferry in Omi Province, sharing a ride across the lake with several other travelers. One of the men onboard was a particularly loud and belligerent samurai. He was extolling his martial skills and was evidently entertaining the fondest of hopes that one of the other passengers would challenge him to prove himself. When Bokuden reacted to all of these boasts by turning his back on the bully, the samurai approached him. "How about you," the samurai snapped at Bokuden. "You're wearing swords. What school are you from?"

"I practice the Mutekatsu ryu," Bokuden replied, meaning the "style of winning without a sword."

"What!" scoffed the bully samurai. "Absurd! I've never heard of such a ridiculous school."

This went on and on until Bokuden realized the bully would not be shut up and could not be talked out of fighting. He agreed to a match and suggested that the ferryman steer over to a sandbar where a suitable spot for a duel could be found. The ferryman complied. When the prow of the boat struck the sand, the samurai leaped out and began pacing up the slope to get to level ground. Bokuden took up an oar, and still standing in the boat he pushed it back into the lake. As the ferry slid away from the sandbar, stranding the bully, Bokuden shouted to him, "There you have it. An example of the techniques of the Mutekatsu ryu!"

When we read about the heiho, the principles of combative strategy that were employed by great warriors of old Japan, we are apt to think of these as only methods warriors used in life-threatening situations. Yet the strategies most often implemented by Japan's illustrious martial artists of the past were effective because they were applicable not just in the extremes of battle or duels, but also in daily life. For every duel or battle that men like Nobutsuna and Bokuden fought and won, they avoided ten others. They used their strategy far more often to avoid fighting than they did when actually fighting, and in no small way that is the secret of their martial success.

These men averted potentially dangerous encounters because they used a kind of planning and forethought that was peculiar to the life they led. A swordsman, for instance, would generally take care to position himself so his right hand was unencumbered; he needed to be able to draw his sword in an instant, and he didn't want to be caught holding a sack of apples in that hand when the time came to fight. Nor did he want to be standing in such a way that movement on his right side was blocked by, say, a doorway or a pillar. At night in a room he would habitually situate himself in such a way that any lamps in the room would be between him and the paper-screen walls. In that way, his silhouette would never present an easy, outlined target for an enemy outside. For the feudal warrior of old Japan, these were commonplace measures he took to equalize the risks of his rather special way of life. He dealt with potential dangers by using common sense. Although today we don't carry swords and don't worry constantly about the threat of assassins, using the same kind of common sense will often serve as a useful strategy in our lives.

All of this came to mind recently when I saw a young man leaving a dojo after a karate class, still wearing his keikogi, or training uniform. Anyone who wears a karate uniform or any kind of budo keikogi out on the street along with a pair of sneakers or hard-soled shoes looks a little silly. It is almost always a lower-ranked martial artist who does this; most of the more advanced budoka have learned that it is not at all appropriate to wear the clothes of the training hall outside, except on special occasions. Yet I have seen an aikido black belt show up for a demonstration and amble happily through a crowd of thousands wearing his keikogi and hakama skirt. He may have thought this made him look more "authentic," more serious or professional, and that he was establishing a presence for the demonstration he intended to give. But priests are serious, and they do not wear their vestments when they walk to church. Major league baseball players are professional, and they don't wear their uniforms to the stadium on game day.

There are practical reasons for not wearing a keikogi outside the dojo. Consider what your clean white uniform would look like after fixing a flat tire or crawling under the car to reattach a broken muffler. More important, though, wearing your keikogi out on the street is a good example of bad strategy.

Suppose you are driving home after martial arts training and your car runs out of gas, forcing you to make an unexpected hike to a gas station. I am sorry to say it, but the sight of a fellow walking down the road in a "kurroty suit" is almost certain to bring out the yahoo that is hidden not too far beneath the surface of some jerk passing by. The lout gives a derisive yell as he drives past you, and then he interprets your frightened jump as an invitation to fight. He slams on the brakes and jumps out to engage you. Suppose it goes beyond the level of a verbal taunt or two. Maybe he actually attacks you. You defend yourself, knock him down, and then the police arrive. "Arrest this guy," your attacker demands. "He threw a rock at my car and jumped me when I stopped." Of course, he might tell the same story about you and the incident even if you were wearing jeans and a T-shirt or slacks and a sport coat. But how much validity does his tale gain when he adds, "Look at him, he's a kurroty nut, walking around in that outfit looking for trouble"?

You see? You have unwittingly drawn yourself into a dangerous situation. And all because of bad strategy.

Wearing a keikogi on the way to or from the dojo may not seem like a big deal. Likewise, keeping himself in a position so as to be able to employ his sword instantly (or out of position so as not to be an easy target) might have seemed excessively paranoid or a waste of time to some samurai in the past. Most of the time, nothing would come of their preparation for trouble. Yet then again, it only takes once. Today's budoka need to consider this as well as other strategies that might help them avoid danger. If Bokuden were around today, would he be shopping at the local mall wearing a t-shirt that advertised his fencing school? Would Nobutsuna have a bumper sticker on his car advertising his martial style? Of course not. But come to think of it, if they did have t-shirts or bumper stickers, I suspect they might have liked one with this sentiment inscribed on it: STRATEGY. IT'S NOT JUST FOR THE BATTLEFIELD ANYMORE.

Chapter Twenty-two: Improve Yourself

Chapter Twenty-two

Improve Yourself

"When the superior man fails to hit the target with his arrow," noted Confucius, "he looks for faults, not in his bow, but in himself."

More than one ethnologist has made the observation that when early Western archers in Europe ran up against limitations in their combative skills, they responded by improving their technology. They designed and fashioned better bows in response to any problems they encountered. When the Japanese archer encountered boundaries in his shooting abilities, he responded by improving himself. This comparison is a bit oversimplistic, admittedly. Still, it does acknowledge a fundamental distinction in the thinking of East and West, one that has had considerable influences on the budo and on the way in which they can sometimes be approached in dojo in the United States and in Japan.

A state-of-the-art bow in the West today is a weapon of space-age polymers or fiberglass or some other remarkable substance that is about as far removed from the wood used in bows in earlier times as titanium is from pig iron. The bow is equipped with pulleys, telescopic sights, string vibration suppressers—the bow a modern deer hunter uses in his sport would be scarcely recognizable to the Stone Age Indian of North America. Examine a Japanese bow or yumi that was made the day before yesterday, however, as compared with one that was made three centuries ago, and you will find not much difference at all. Both will have a core of laminations of sumac wood and bamboo, and both will have essentially the same shape. The dimensions of the yumi have been fixed in the art for many, many generations. There have been, in essence, almost no improvements to speak of in the technology of Japanese archery in several hundred years. So here we have two civilizations with two very different ways of approaching the same instrument.

Typical of his culture, the Westerner who has been introduced to the martial Ways of Japan can be reluctant to accept them uncritically. The idea that he should simply copy what his teachers are doing—never questioning, never contemplating possible improvements or changes that would benefit him—has probably never even occurred to him. Before they were long into their study of the budo, many Westerners were already busily making what they believed were modifications and additions to these Ways that would make them better. Weight training, scientifically examined stretching techniques before class and special cooldown exercises afterward, weight divisions for competitions—all of these are contributions to the budo scene made almost entirely by Western influences.

That we in the Occident have been discontented with the status quo, always eager to take chances and experiment with change, has been one of our greatest attributes and has made possible our many contributions to civilization. Still, our penchant or drive for what is technologically better has not been an unmixed blessing for us. Ignoring the wider stage of science and social changes and looking at those evolutions that Westerners have introduced to the budo, we can also see a downside to the constant demand for "improvements." Weight training, for instance, has doubtless improved the techniques and endurance of many budoka. Weight divisions in competition have just as certainly perverted the budo badly, grossly magnifying the importance of a silly sporting event in the minds of too many budoka and giving its results precedence over the real goals of the martial Ways. And warm-ups before training? Well, they're good in that they have prevented injuries. But they're bad in that they have encouraged an overemphasis on techniques like karate's head-high kicks and other such methods that are unnatural, unrealistic, and superfluous to mastering the physical principles of the art. So improvements are a mixed bag.

The real challenge of making what we think of as improvements in the budo is not in whether these changes are good or bad—they can be both and usually are. The heart of the matter comes in recognizing when such progress is important and needed and when it is merely a deviation from the Way. There comes a time, you see, when the budoka must realize the limitations of technology, when he understands and acts on the Confucian notion that he himself is to be responsible for his progress on this journey. If you are struggling with a kata or with a technique, you have several options. You can begin a weight-training program to make you stronger; you can read books on the kata or the method; you can watch videos that have been produced to explain things. It is a characteristic of our age that such resources are out there in profusion to assist—and to tempt—us. Yet in the end we must, like the Japanese archer, turn to ourselves if we are going to make progress. We must practice the kata or the technique, perfecting it as we struggle with the larger goal of the budo, which is, of course, to perfect ourselves.

To me the idea of working to perfect one's self is one of the most appealing and profound aspects of the budo. The martial Ways will allow those who pursue them all sorts of diversions along the path. There is nothing built into their structure that will keep you from going off on this or that tangent. Nevertheless, in the end, the path will be waiting, right where you left it, unchanged and still leading in the right direction. When the kata does not feel right, when the technique will not work, you can look to the assistance that might be provided by technology. Read a book, watch a video, take some exercise on the latest equipment. But sooner or later, know that you will have to look for the solution within yourself.

Chapter Twenty-three: Beauty and the Martial Way

Chapter Twenty-three

Beauty and the Martial Way

Beauty in odd places, found in the most unexpected of realms...

When I was much younger, I began my practice of a form of classical Japanese martial art that involves training with at least a couple of weapons, including a long and a short sword. As with all of these classical arts, the bulk of my instruction and practice took place outside, in open fields and other such natural areas. While practicing the kata of the long sword, my teacher and I would place the short sword or kodachi, on the ground nearby. I noticed, after a while, that my sensei would spend a few moments looking around, searching for a special spot to put down his kodachi. Since we usually trained in a wide open field, there seemed to be little need to worry about exactly where to lay down the short sword, except to be sure it was far enough away to avoid our stepping on it during practice. So I was curious as to what it was Sensei was searching for as he looked around for the right spot. Finally, I began to watch more closely to see exactly what he was doing. Sensei did not do anything without reason, but if I came right out and asked him, he was unlikely to tell me what his reasons were. He preferred, I had learned by then, to teach by example, and it was part of my job as his student to figure out what was going on.

After watching him for a while, I realized that he always placed his weapon near something of beauty. Maybe it was a spray of little purple violets that bloomed early in the spring every year. It might be a bloom of dandelion in midsummer. In the fall, he would put the sword next to a colorful sycamore or oak leaf that had fallen and drifted. In the winter, it would be next to a tuft of hardy weeds that were brown and somberly elegant against the snow.

Many kyudoka, as practitioners of the Way of Japanese archery are called, will fix a blossom to the surface of the target just before they shoot at it.

Inserted under the braiding along the handle of the Japanese sword are small fixtures called menuki. Menuki serve, among other functions, as a form of friction to keep the silk braiding of the handle in place. The braiding, in turn, provides a good, nonslip purchase for gripping the handle. Any patterned piece of metal would suffice for this purpose, but menuki are miniature works of art. They are intricately designed, sometimes in abstract geometric forms; other times menuki depict animals or shapes found in nature such as seashells, flowers, or branches of foliage. I have one menuki in my modest collection that depicts a trio of fat and happy field mice scampering over a bale of straw. Another is a pair of rabbits playing beneath a crescent moon. There are enthusiasts all over the world who make it a hobby to collect menuki, tiny masterpieces that once felt the hands of the samurai on them, hot and sweaty in the exertions of life and death.

The modern budoka is apt to be parsimonious in acquiring new training equipment or uniforms. He will tend to use his wooden training weapons until they have become so brittle or splintered along their edges that they present a safety hazard, and by that time they will have acquired a beautiful patina created by perspiration, body oils, and the natural aging of the wood itself.

Although the traditional budoka today normally wears a white uniform, in the classical martial disciplines, the color of choice is almost always a deep indigo. There are some practical reasons for such a preference. Indigo tends to hide dirt and stains. In the colder months the dark color absorbs whatever heat the winter sun gives, not a small consideration when you are training outdoors in the cold. But certainly one reason for the prevalence of indigo as a color choice for training uniforms is that as it is worn and washed again and again, indigo fades and attains a wonderful, quiet beauty. This is the same kind of beauty to be found in the gently frayed and greying black belt that is worn around the waist of the advanced exponent of the modern budo forms.

Why is the martial artist attracted to things of beauty? What is it that makes him seek out beauty in the midst of his violent practice? These, I think, are fundamental questions for the serious budoka. He should look deeply into his training and his journey on the Way to see where beauty lies and to see, more important, what it means in the process of his own maturation as a martial artist.

Chapter Twenty-four: Climbing the Circular Ladder

Chapter Twenty-four

Climbing the Circular Ladder

The shiai (tournament) was over, and the five just-promoted black belts stood at erect attention before the seated board of tournament judges. All five had just received batsugun, or promotions granted by virtue of demonstrating skill in competition. Every one of them had been approaching the rank of black belt, but it was particularly dramatic that all of them had received batsugun at the same time. We lower-ranked judoka sat formally off to the lower side of the hall on the outer edge of the mats, awed. We hung on every word the tournament judges were saying, hoping that there would be some kernel of wisdom in their congratulatory speeches to the five, that the judges would say something that would be the key to our someday standing where those black belts were.

The last judge to speak was Nishimoto-sensei. Nishimoto was an osho, a Buddhist priest who oversaw the religious needs of parishioners, nearly all of the first-and second-generation Japanese Americans scattered all over Colorado and western Oklahoma. He was also a fifth-dan in judo, having trained at the Kodokan, the dojo in Tokyo that is headquarters for judo in Japan and all over the world. He worked as a judge at all our judo tournaments, and he also played a role in keeping us younger judoka in line and out of trouble. He had a way of imparting some rather pithy wisdom with a bare minimum of words, and he was not at all averse to using the back of his hand on our heads when a more immediate and forceful lesson was in order. When it was his turn to speak to the new black belts, Nishimoto stood, folded his arms across his chest, and addressed the five in front of him.

"You have taken a big step forward," he said, then he paused. "Now I hope you will take a big step back." Then he sat down.

It is typical and understandable that most of us tend to view all of our undertakings in a linear sense. That is, we think that our work, our learning, our relationships, everything we try to accomplish in life, will progress in a series of straight steps that go forward and upward the further along we go. We begin our public schooling in the first grade, then go on to the second, and so on. Military personnel "go up through the ranks." The company businessman works his way "up the corporate ladder." We all take things "step by step." Further, we all take it pretty much for granted that the progression to be sought is on a straight path. The second grader does not expect to have to go over the simple printing of the alphabet again. He already learned that in the previous grade and anticipates going on to something new. The recently promoted colonel in the army would be chagrined to say the least if he were sent out to practice close order drill again with some new recruits. The corporation vice president would not be at all thrilled to find himself learning simple secretarial chores. You get the idea.

And with that in mind, isn't it understandable that the third-dan black belt in judo might be just a little bewildered and angry at having to go back and polish the breakfall basics he learned the first time he practiced?

Kihon, or "basics," are the fundamentals of all the budo. They are the foundations upon which all other skills must be based. But nearly all martial artists look upon kihon as stepping stones, I think. The karateka learns the basics of assuming a strong stance so he can learn to make more balanced kicks, so he can then learn to make more powerful kicks, so he can learn to make spectacular leaping kicks against an opponent, and then against multiple attackers, and so forth. He sees the kihon as the first step in the process. There is nothing wrong with this idea. Even the most dedicated among us would probably lose some of our enthusiasm for the budo if we thought we would never progress past mastering a basic stance or a simple, fundamental technique. But we would be seriously misleading ourselves if we came into our training with the notion that once a kihon is learned, we can go on and never give it another thought.

The martial Ways are an exception to the linear, step-by-step, vertical staircase concept of progress. It might be better to think of the budo as a circular or spiral staircase. Maybe the kind that goes up inside a lighthouse. Certainly both types of staircases go up, but you will bear in mind that the spiral staircase is an entirely different form of staircase than the straight-up kind. Peer over the railings of a spiral staircase at regular intervals and it will appear that you are not going anywhere. The fact is, of course, you are moving. You are going around and around. But you are, more to the point, always moving up as well. When the advanced kendoka comes to class and finds the lesson that night will be on the basic overhead strike to the forehead, he need not be disappointed at having to do that again. Not if he's smart. For returning to a lesson already learned is not like going back to the first grade. On the contrary, the kendoka understands that after practicing for some time he has progressed several flights up the staircase, compared to when he was first introduced to the strike. And although he is practicing the same technique as the beginner just learning it for the first time, the advanced kendoka is discovering all sorts of insights about the movement that are quite over the head of the beginner. Further, these insights are not a one-shot phenomenon. The kendoka will continue to learn new angles on the kihon regularly as long as he continues training. For weeks, maybe months, and later on for years, he will continue to practice, making the same strike over and over and then suddenly he will have the experience of "Hey, I never realized this before. That's what the secret of the overhead strike is."

What actually happens is that having made another revolution around the spiral staircase, the kendoka has undergone a change. The strike has not changed. His understanding and mastery of it have progressed. Another way of putting it would be as Nishimoto-sensei did in addressing those new black belts: Always be ready in your training to take a step back. After all, taking a step backward is the only way to get ahead in the budo.

Chapter Twenty-five: The Warrior and the Dirty Diaper

Chapter Twenty-five

The Warrior and the Dirty Diaper

The dojo was rapidly filling with visitors who had come, some of them from several hundred miles away, for the aikido seminar. I was among those jostling for a space to take my shoes off out at the entrance. A young woman from Japan was next to me and bumped me as she was balancing on one foot, trying to pull her boot off the other. We introduced ourselves, and she asked if I'd been to this dojo before. I had, I told her, and so she asked me, "Do they have a restroom?"

"Okawaya," I said.

She laughed, then she corrected what she assumed was my outdated Japanese. "A more modern word for a 'restroom' is o-tearai," she informed me. "An okawaya means an 'outhouse.'"

I nodded. Then I led her back out the door into the bitter cold morning. I pointed to the bottom of the hill amidst a grove of bare oaks where one could just make out the silhouette of the dojo facilities.

"When I said okawaya," I replied, "I meant okawaya."

The rustic restroom was just one of the many enjoyments of this aikido dojo located out in the Ozarks countryside. It is a place that Morihei Uyeshiba, the founder of aikido, would have loved. He felt aikido practice went well with a lifestyle that included farming and rural living, and this dojo is miles from the nearest town, surrounded by forests and farmland. In the summer, there is a chorus of birds calling during evening practice, and the entire back wall of the dojo, which is a big, industrial-size garage door, can be opened. From this vantage point you look out on the woods and on the summer sunsets, which are so beautiful you are often distracted from your training by the view. In the winter, it's not unusual for deer to amble by, browsing on the grass outside the dojo and looking in to ponder the strange goings-on.

But the main reason so many of us were drawn to the countryside dojo that cold December weekend was to take advantage of the opportunity to learn from one of the seniormost non-Japanese aikido sensei in the United States. A fifth-dan with more than two decades of training in aikido and living in Japan, he was one of the most expert teachers many of those attending the seminar had ever practiced with. In addition to his expertise in budo, he was fluent in Japanese and had a degree in Japanese philosophy. His insights and comments about the martial Ways were invaluable. He called the class to order and lead us into what we all thought would be a short warm-up session. An hour later, we were still at it. The sensei showed us breakfall exercises that had even the advanced practitioners in the class stumbling awkwardly. After that, it was on to basics. The simplest movements of aikido he broke down and corrected and demonstrated for us. By the time we were beginning the fundamental techniques we are all perspiring, in spite of the cold that seeped in around the windows and door of the dojo.

The sensei motioned to me to come up and take falls for him as he demonstrated a throw he wanted us to work on. We bowed, stood, and I grabbed the wrist that he offered. Coming to grips with a teacher of such high skill is almost always a special experience. In aikido, it feels like an electric shock has seized your body. As I grabbed, he shifted, his body seeming to roll away from me, and suddenly I was airborne. To be thrown by someone of this level is like being caught in a force that envelopes and moves you at its own, irresistible will. The sensei was using but a fraction of his power as he led my attack away from him, mastering the swirl of energy, and I was tumbling through the air and then abruptly lying flat on the mat. I leaped up, grabbed again, and went through the same arc, landing on the other side of the mat. Back and forth he threw me, again and again, talking as he did, noting the aspects of the technique he thought we needed to work on. My body felt weightless, and it was almost as if he was cradling me, guiding me in my falls, keeping me under his control from the moment I began my attack until I was back on the mat again. Taking falls under such tutelage is often joyous, occasionally a bit frightening; it is always worthwhile, and sometimes it can be enlightening.

After the end of the day's training, the sensei went to the back of the dojo where his wife was sitting, watching their toddler at play on the corner of the mat. The sensei scooped the boy up—and caught a whiff of that aroma known all too well by all parents.

"You need a diaper change," he said. And that's what the sensei did. He found a place on the floor not occupied by students still practicing or talking. Still in his training uniform and hakama skirt, he put the boy down, took off the dirty diaper, and cleaned up a very messy bottom. He then outfitted his son in a clean, fresh diaper.

It was not a big gesture. Not nearly so dramatic as some of the spectacular throws he had shown us early in training. It was certainly not a display of awe-inspiring skill. Yet watching the sensei with his child, his gentleness, the matter-of-fact way he met the chores of fatherhood exactly as he had met the responsibilities of a senior teacher, I think I had a glimpse of what the martial Ways are all about. Strength and compassion. Power expressed through caring. The warrior as defined by his relationships with others, his love and deep humanity.

You can learn a lot in the long hours of a budo seminar. But every once in a while you can also get a bonus, in the oddest of ways. In the changing of a dirty diaper, for instance.

Chapter Twenty-six: What Kind of Shape Are Your Morals In?

Chapter Twenty-six

What Kind of Shape Are Your Morals In?

I was once pressed into service as a translator for a karate sensei who was visiting a local dojo to conduct a training seminar. If there is such a thing as an ordinary karate sensei, this was not one of them. He was among the seniormost karate exponents of his generation, certainly the most expert I had ever met. One of the newspapers sent a reporter out to do a story on the teacher, and since the sensei s English was marginal, I was asked to translate when it was necessary. Sending a reporter with no background or understanding of the budo out to interview a budo teacher is like sending a book reviewer out to cover a tennis championship. The questions were, as I expected, rather shallow, most being along the lines of "How long did it take you to get a black belt?" and "Do you break boards in your practice?" That sort of thing. I was half-interestedly relaying the responses back and forth but at the same time I was also trying to give the reporter some idea of what a budo, a martial Way, was all about, and to explain just who this karate sensei was sitting there in front of him. To my surprise, the reporter seemed to pick up my message, at least a little bit.

"What does it take to be able to follow this 'Way' you're talking about?" he asked me, "What kind of qualities do you have to have?"

I translated the questions for the sensei, and he and I shared small, quick looks of shock that the reporter was pursuing such a reasonably intelligent line of inquiry. Then, without any further hesitation, the sensei replied, "Moral stamina."

At first I thought the sensei's answer was one of those odd neologisms that nonnative speakers will come up with. But the more I thought about it, the more appropriate his choice of words seemed to be. We don't often associate the idea of morals with stamina. We are more likely to equate stamina with some sort of physical activity. Most budoka are willing to undergo the challenges required of their bodies in pursuing the martial Way. The demanding practice sessions, the aching muscles and occasional injury—we accept these hardships as part of the overall package. The budo, however, involve much more than merely the development of physical skills or the perfection of technique. Morihei Uyeshiba's aikido, Jigoro Kano's judo, the karate of Gichin Funakoshi and others—the founders of each system of the modern budo made it clear that the development of character was a fundamental reason for the pursuit of these Ways.

Conventional thinking is that most practitioners of the various budo are drawn to martial arts initially for reasons of self-defense and self-confidence. This is probably true. I suspect, though, that many of us were attracted to the martial Ways because of the courage and integrity we saw embodied in many of their exponents. We saw these attributes in others who were traveling on the path of the budo, and we naturally hoped to develop them within ourselves. It was our intention, or at least one of our intentions, to polish and nurture these qualities, so we started along the martial path ourselves.

But noble ideals can come crashing down just as hard in the training hall as they can anywhere else in our lives and in our society. Maybe harder. For example, that invitation to the male senior for some "extra practice" time from the petite brown belt with the big blue eyes is a tempting one to accept—even if the senior practitioner is married. Her admiration for his skill is obvious, so why shouldn't he take advantage of the situation? And if it leads to a bit of a private dalliance between the two, well, who is hurt? It happens all the time in offices and elsewhere. Or how about the third-dan's gripe about the martial arts organization he's belonged to for years? So many times it has charged outrageous rates for testing, promoted others around him purely for the political gain of the organization, cheated and disappointed him so many times, so finally he resigns. But the leaders were getting ready to promote him to fourth-dan; that was obvious. So why not just go ahead and claim the rank that was going to be his anyway in a matter of months? Then there are those long-term, keep-paying-even-if-you-quit contracts you, as a teacher, require your students to sign—purely for their own good, of course, you tell yourself. Perhaps you have an urge to show off a bit in training, or to slack off a little. In whatever form the misbehavior comes, the ideals with which we began treading the martial Way are slowly, sometimes almost imperceptibly, eroded each time we put the desire for prestige ahead of our principles or each time we give in to our greed, our lust, or our laziness.

It is at such moments that the stamina of our morals is tested. Have we the endurance to stay the course on which we started? Or, once off it, have we the inner resources necessary to get up, brush ourselves off, and start back again on the right path?

It would be nice to say that a lot of us do have the ability to recover from such mistakes or to see them coming and avoid them in the first place. But the sad truth is that a lot of us do not. The martial Way is long and steep at times; it is not always very well lit or simple to follow. And it is devilishly easy to convince yourself that you are still going in the correct and true direction when you are, in fact, headed the opposite way. It is all too simple, in all aspects of life but particularly in the budo, to convince yourself that you are moving forward when in actuality you have stopped and are no longer serving as a model to others on the journey; instead you are merely another obstacle for them to get around. The only way to avoid losing your way is to maintain a healthy sense of morality. Without this anchor, no matter how strong, how talented, or even how dedicated you are to mastering the budo, you haven't a chance of reaching your goal.

And so, as the karate sensei noted when asked just what it takes to follow the martial Way, just as you should assess your physical fitness from time to time, so, too, it is a good idea to occasionally stop and think about what kind of shape your morals are in.

Chapter Twenty-seven: Martial Artist or Martial Artisan?

Chapter Twenty-seven

Martial Artist or Martial Artisan?

Those of us who follow the paths of karate-do, judo, kendo, aikido, or some other Japanese martial discipline use the term "martial artist" when describing ourselves. I use it as well in speaking and in writing. If I actually think about it, I tend to think of myself, as a martial artisan. I have felt that way ever since reading, years ago, something the potter Shoji Hamada said.

The late Shoji Hamada, whose life spanned the first three quarters of the twentieth century, was one of the outstanding figures of modern Japanese art. In the years before World War II, Hamada, a potter by trade, launched an investigation into the profound traditions of Japanese pottery as produced by the common people of that country for centuries. Along with Soetsu Yanagi, Hamada eventually influenced pottery technique and design throughout the world, and Hamada is primarily responsible for the revival of minigei, the folk art of Japan. It may seem that an artisan, involved with a delicate art like pottery would have little of relevance to say about an activity as rigorous as the budo. But I think that some of Hamada's comments speak eloquently of the spirit that energizes all of those who take an interest in things traditional, whether that interest takes the direction of art that is folk, fine, or, in our case, martial. I believe, too, that what he said on the subject of artists and artisans reflects on the struggle faced by the budoka who is intent on creating for himself a true Way of life in the martial path that he walks along daily.

"There are two kinds of people," said Hamada, "those who make themselves the center, who live as though their ancestors lived only to create them; and those who make themselves as low as possible, consider themselves nothing in relation to the whole, live in order to protect and cherish what their ancestors lived for and who bear children in order to pass on that idea of protecting and cherishing. Most artists fall into the first classification. Most artisans are in the second one."

Can you think of any description that more perfectly delineates what it is that separates the serious budoka from the one who enters the martial Ways merely to satisfy his own ego or for other similarly self-centered reasons?

I am always amazed at those individuals who speak and behave as if the whole of the martial Ways were devised and refined for no other reason than to benefit them. One sees this attitude quite commonly among the so-called "martial arts actors," and other such types who seem to receive so much attention these days. Accolades have been heaped on them for all they have supposedly done to promote the budo through the movies and public appearances. Of course, they have really done just the opposite. They have used the budo to promote themselves. Not long ago I read an autobiography of one of these actors who has starred in a string of silly and violent movies and his own series on television. The book ran slightly more than one hundred pages, yet he devoted less than one page to mention of his martial arts teacher. In the world of karate tournament champions and "masters" who constantly vie for attention through the media, the same mentality is often in evidence. These people rarely acknowledge even having had a teacher, never mind crediting their teachers with some of their success.

These examples of egocentrics are in marked contrast to the attitude of the "artisan" type that Hamada described so well. The artisan, if he is a potter like Hamada, sees little reason to sign his work, for instance, or to otherwise draw attention to himself. If he is a budoka, he places little value on displaying his trophies or in adorning himself with glitzy costumes or extravagant titles like "Grand Master." All artisans avoid affectations like these not because of false modesty, but because they recognize that their role in the greater scheme of these arts and Ways—no matter what they may accomplish—is very minor. The artisan is like the high school journalism student who after his first article appears in the school paper resists calling himself an "author." He does not give in to the temptation to glorify his accomplishment because he is keenly aware that the library down the hall is filled with the works of writers like Tolstoy, Melville, and Dryden. In other words, without failing to take pleasure in his accomplishment, he sees it in the greater context of the world's writers and knows that a sense of proportion is necessary to have a healthy understanding of what it is he has done.

Artists, to use Hamada's analogy, perceive themselves as the pinnacle, the top of whatever pyramid—writing, painting, martial art—they have chosen to ascend. They may not believe they are the best or the most talented or the most successful, but they do see their medium primarily as a means by which to express themselves. Artisans, on the other hand, regard themselves more as links in a chain, as part of a tradition, and their primary aim is to continue that tradition. The weakness of a pyramid's top block is that from such an elevated position it is impossible to see the rest of the structure that supports you. (Art majors in most colleges and universities have only a rudimentary knowledge of art history and the artists who have preceded them, just as most competition-minded martial artists haven't much comprehension of the evolution and significant figures in the past in their disciplines.) That doesn't happen when one is part of a chain. A chain link is in constant contact with the links behind it. The person who is a link in a chain is aware of the support that precedes him. And he tends to be a stronger individual for it.

Another weakness for the one who is on top of a pyramid is that it is a position, a narrow point, from which little else can be built. There is no balance there. The tip of the pyramid is after all the final part of the structure's construction. A chain, on the other hand, is perfect for making additions, since an infinite number of links can be added, as long as each is as strong as those behind it, so that each link can be added without doing any harm to the structure.

There may be budoka out there who are truly artists in the sense that they are men or women so creative, so brilliant and utterly original that they are capable of devising worthwhile new forms of the budo, providing a work of art that expresses some function never before addressed in the martial Ways. I am quite completely confident that I am not among them. For me, to be an artisan in the budo is a tough enough task. I may not make it to the top of anything, and it's more likely I will be just another anonymous link in the chains of those budo I have elected to follow. But considering that as an artisan I will be in the company of links the likes of Shoji Hamada, that is a chain on which I can comfortably live.

Chapter Twenty-eight: Simple Things

Chapter Twenty-eight

Simple Things

Victory and defeat are determined by attention to simple things.

—Gichin Funakoshi

Although this is one of the twenty maxims for training and daily life that Gichin Funakoshi left specifically for his own karate students in the Japan Karate Association, it has as much meaning today for budoka of all persuasions as it did for Funakoshi's pupils. Maybe more.

As most students of Japanese arts or Ways will know, for nearly all elements of Japanese culture there are facets which are omote and those which are ura. The omote is that which is on the "outside," which is obvious and discernible at first glance. The ura, or "reverse," is hidden and often requires some digging, some persistence, some special insight and sensitivity to grasp. Funakoshi's maxim is also subject to interpretation in terms of omote and ura. The outer meaning of the karate master's words is some very practical advice about practicing the martial Way, specifically about kihon, or basics. Kihon are the foundation of any budo. If they are not strong, thoroughly welded and interconnected, you can forget about building anything substantial and long lasting atop them.

Once you have carefully and painstakingly laid the foundation of the kihon, however, you cannot simply forget about them. Basements leak if they are not periodically waterproofed. You have to go down and check the beams from time to time if you want to be sure that the house above remains safe and stable. These are simple matters in maintaining a house. In the dojo, such simple matters are found in working on the kihon.

It is possible to distinguish beginners from experts in the training hall by watching them warm up prior to a practice session. The beginners will be fine-tuning the last technique or skill they have learned; the experts will likely be going over the first fundamentals they were taught, the kihon.

The following story, one cherished and repeated over and over by those who knew Shimizu-sensei, illustrates this point. Takaji Shimizu, the last headmaster of the Shindo Muso ryu of jodo (the art of the stick as it is employed against a sword) introduced his art to many Westerners living and training in Japan during the early 1960s. One night at his dojo, the Rembukan in Tokyo, Shimizu noticed a beginner standing around idle. So the sensei wandered over to ask why the student was not engaged in practice.

"I've got that last kata I learned down pretty well," the student said, "and I'm waiting to be shown the next one."

"Oh," said Shimizu, who then excused himself, saying, "I've got to go over here and practice some myself." Then the headmaster went to a corner of the dojo and began to go through the movements of honte uchi, the most basic strike of jodo, the first technique one learns when taking up the Way of the stick.

Of course, as we are constantly reminded, when it comes to self-defense, simple things are usually the most effective means for overcoming an opponent. Even if you are going to use more intricate or sophisticated methods in a self-defense situation, their success will depend largely on the attention you have paid to your kihon.

Now that we have considered at least some of the outer meanings of Funakoshi's advice that in simple things lies the key to victory, what about the inner, or ura, meanings of his maxim?

For a master of the budo, and for those who wish to reach such a level, attention to simple things means mirroring the lessons of the dojo in everyday affairs. When I read about Funakoshi or talk with those who knew and learned from him, I am struck by how unpretentiously, how simply the man conducted his life. The fame and renown that came to him in his later years when he was recognized as one of the luminaries of the budo world in Japan did not change Funakoshi. He remained an uncomplicated man all his life. (And so he was—again we are reminded of the essentially dichotomous nature of things, the omote and the ura—a very, very complex man.)

It would be worthwhile to keep in mind the example Funakoshi set for the budoka of succeeding generations, especially when we compare his lifestyle with the lifestyles of some of the more famous martial artists of today. Our martial arts celebrities are more apt to be talking about their latest movie deals than training in the dojo. They often package and promote their franchised schools with a kind of slick professionalism that is reminiscent of a used car salesman. And, not surprisingly, more than a few of these martial arts celebrities have found themselves in serious financial trouble and worse. At least two well-known karate teachers have served time in prison for dealing in illicit drugs. Others have been sued for all kinds of scams and confidence games involving dishonest tournament promotions, fraud, and the like. Less serious, but equally regrettable, are those martial arts promoters who get themselves mixed up in all manner of stunts and shenanigans designed to make a fast buck at the expense of the dignity and propriety of the budo. And so we have five-year-olds being promoted to black belt level mostly to draw coverage from newspapers, or TV news that will mean free advertising for the school, or events like world record board breaking feats that are ostensibly staged to promote a charity but that, are really only thinly disguised efforts at self-promotion.

The budoka who refrains from involving himself in these kinds of questionable deals and schemes may never sign a movie contract, may not run a chain of schools, may not, to be honest, ever make so much as a dime from his adherence to the Way. Yet, in keeping his attention focused on the simple things in life and on his budo, he has an excellent chance to attain a kind of success that more complicated people will never know about.

Chapter Twenty-nine: Subduing the Self

Chapter Twenty-nine

Subduing the Self

Thoughts of desire, fame, and profit are all human emotions, ones that often arise easily. It is not virtuous to indulge in them. To restrain these emotions, one should use the method of 'subduing the self.' Subduing oneself is difficult. We must summon sufficient willpower and not relent for a moment. We can maintain control over these emotions by being aware of their signs when they first arrive. This is the 'method of subduing the self.' If one determines to pursue learning and love what is right, thoughts of fame, profit, and material goods will weaken. If heavenly principles advance, human desires retreat.

—Kaibara Ekken (1630-1 714)   

I wonder what readers, contemporary martial arts practitioners, will think of the words written by Ekken nearly three hundred years ago. To one young karate champion I read about the other day who makes his appearances at tournaments accompanied by blaring music and hoisted on a palanquin, I doubt such words would have much more meaning than if I had left them in the original Japanese. For that kind of person, fame and profit were and will continue to be the very motivations that inspired him to take up one of the martial Ways in the first place.

And maybe that is okay. But there are also budoka out there for whom Ekken's words might resonate. They recognize that winning tournaments, inspiring adulation and gaining public notice are nice, but to pursue those diversions is never a worthy reason for following the Way. For budoka such as this, "subduing the self" has a profound attraction.

Now, lest anyone come to the mistaken conclusion that I am suggesting that rewards, monetary and otherwise, and the attentive respect of others are somehow inherently evil, I hasten to add that I do not have anything at all against profit or adulation. Those are both just fine with me. I will get paid for having written the words you are reading now. And people often—well, sometimes at least—say and write pleasant things about my writing. But when I think about my work, I am not thinking about the money I will receive for it, or the attention it might bring. I am concentrating instead on the ideas, the points I want to share, the subjects I want to explore and that I believe will be of interest to others. Now it is true that I might not be so keen to write if I did not receive a check for my work, or if everything that I wrote was either completely ignored or never raised any kind of response at all from readers. But getting paid or getting attention is not my primary reason for wrting. My goal is to be a good and communicative writer, to share with others some of the experiences to which I have been exposed in my years of following the martial Way.

What Ekken was talking about, has a direct application to our budo training. When we go to the dojo, it is, among other reasons, an exercise in subduing the self. We are engaged in exercises that demand the utmost concentration and effort. There is no time, in the heat of serious training, to think much about ourselves in an egocentric way. Committed budo practice tests us so severely that we forget about the possibility of winning tournaments, about the chances that we might one day star in action movies, about how much income we might make by someday teaching this art professionally. We are focused entirely on the perfection of the Way. (If we are not, then that is a very good indication that we are not training with the devotion or the intensity that is required of us.)

Of course, there is nothing wrong with success. But success is a by-product in arts like painting, or dancing—or the martial Ways. Concentrate on polishing your budo. In terms of your training, that is enough. Indeed, that is all that is proper in the dojo. Whatever else might come as the result of your budo practice, well, that will be nice for you. But insofar as your ego is concerned, for the true budoka, the goal of training is, as Ekken put it so well, subduing the self. And nothing more.

Chapter Thirty: Catching Catfish in a Gourd

Chapter Thirty

Catching Catfish in a Gourd

The depiction of a catfish swimming around a gourd is a common motif in the art of old Japan. The whiskered fish and the gourd can be found as the subject of zenga, or Zen-inspired ink paintings that are usually artistic parables. The two even appear together engraved on tsuba, the hand guards of Japanese swords. Why? Even if I provide a hint—that a dried, hollow gourd was sometimes used to catch catfish—that doesn't really explain why the fish and the gourd trap have been so popular among Zen artists or why this motif decorates so many weapons. The answer lies in the way the gourd is used to snare the fish, and the meaning behind this fish story resonates in both Zen and martial arts training.

If you gave them a hollow gourd and told them there were catfish in the stream, some people, like me, for instance, would plunge right into the water, flailing away and trying to scoop up any nearby catfish so unwary as to show its barbeled face. This is an utterly futile strategy, of course. I have spent a great deal of time in rivers and sloughs where catfish hang out, and I have spent even more time eating them, and I can tell you that in their natural state they are among the most slippery of creatures on the planet. A catfish would slither and wriggle and die of old age or boredom before you could get it into a little opening at the end of a gourd. That would not stop some of us from trying, mind you—until we had been left exhausted by the effort, soaking wet and muttering about what an idiotic trap a gourd makes.

Others, however, would take a different approach. Give them a gourd and tell them dinner is swimming around in that stream over there, and they would sit and think about it for a while. Then they would wade quietly into the stream. Gently, they would sink the gourd so it rested on the bottom. Then they would go back to the bank and wait and probably get something else useful done while they were waiting—like getting the cornmeal and paprika and hot oil for frying ready. These people would be depending on the personality of the average catfish. If you live in a place that does not have them, catfish are curious fish. And territorial. If an unusual object like a gourd were sunk into the stomping grounds of the typical catfish, the fish would eyeball the gourd for a while. Then before long he would give in to the temptation to swim over to take a look at it. Before long, the mystery of what might be lurking inside that gourd in the form of a possible meal or an interloper would have to be investigated. Catfish are like that. The catfish would then swim into the narrow neck of the gourd to see what was inside— and then he would be trapped neatly as can be, unable in that narrow space to turn around and swim back out.

Now, our subject here is not oddball ways of catching fish. But it just so happens that the best way to catch a catfish in a gourd is very much like the approach you will want to adopt to learn certain skills in the budo. If you have spent much time in the dojo, doubtless you have encountered individuals like the catfish catchers I described first—the ones who leap into the water and thrash about with the gourd in their fist, madly trying to get a catfish to go inside, splashing and sloshing and cursing. Maybe you are one of them. They are the students who come onto the floor of the dojo with a furious intensity. The technique is demonstrated for the class, the students begin to work on it at their own pace, but these types are relentless about the task before them. "I'm going to get this if it takes all night!" That is their motto, of sorts. I remember one fellow like this who came to a dojo where I trained. He would huff and puff, working so hard his face would take on the color of a ripe chili pepper and his keikogi would literally drip with perspiration. At each practice session the rest of us were always worried he was going to have a stroke right on the spot.

It is an admirable attitude, this sort of do-or-die enthusiasm. Unfortunately, in its raw, untempered form, it isn't worth much in the dojo. The problem is that even the simplest technique of karate, or aikido, or kendo, or any budo is not a matter entirely or even predominantly of physical skill. Learning the correct way to sit to begin class, for instance—on one's knees, back straight, weight balanced on the heels—cannot be achieved in a single class session. You can be told how; but your body needs time to "fit in" to the technique. It is not going to come overnight, no matter how determined you are, no matter how much energy you are willing to put into the chore. The catfish simply cannot be cornered and forced to go into the gourd.

The budo—and the catfish—are not alone in this regard. Could you, in the span of a couple of months, turn out a vintage wine, even if you had the best grapes, the finest winemaking facilities, and an unlimited production budget? Nope. The wine has to age and mature, and those processes take time. There are no shortcuts. Nor can this equation be changed regardless of how much "spirit" you can summon up for the project. The budo are a process. We are mixing analogies here, and all this talk of catfish and wine is making me hungry, but let us add another. The Way is constantly compared to a real way, a road or a path. This is a wonderful analogy. But we must remember that this particular road has its own distinctive geography, and the geography across which it takes the traveler is definitely not going to be confused with that of Kansas. At times, especially at the beginning of one's study, the Way is so steep and your steps are so unsteady that you cannot raise your gaze very far at all. Most of the time you can barely see where your next footfall will land. As you progress you may come to sections where things flatten out for a while, where you have insights that allow you a broader perspective. If you persist in your journey, though, it is going to get hilly again—you can count on it. There is no chance of seeing the destination before you have covered the whole of the route.

This is not to say that one should adopt a lackadaisical attitude toward budo practice. Unable to do even the most elementary of techniques perfectly, you may be tempted to despair, to rationalize that "I'm not going to get it right tonight, so why should I expend any real effort ever?" That is hardly a good frame of mind in which to come to the dojo. On the contrary, you must train with a total effort every time. Try as hard as you can, but at the final bow, let it go. Leave the gourd alone. The catfish will be trapped, just like the techniques will eventually come, on their own.

Obviously, it takes a lot of maturity to strike a balance here. You have to try hard, but you have to have the patience to accept that time is an essential ingredient, and as important as they are, effort and determination in whatever quantities cannot replace hours, months, or years of practice. It is not easy to be patient. As I said, the attitude "I'll get this right tonight or I'll die trying" is useless for learning or mastering the budo—in its raw form. But that attitude taken and diluted with a heavy dose of patience will result in a spirit that is absolutely necessary to training—"I'll get this right— maybe not tonight, but some time before I die."

Catching a catfish in a gourd may not be the most cost-effective way to bring home dinner. But it works. And in the long run, it is a method more efficient than chasing that fish all over the stream and ending up with nothing but wet.

Chapter Thirty-one: Rinkiohen ("Moderation")

Chapter Thirty-one

Rinkiohen ("Moderation")

During the seventeenth century in Japan Yagyu Hyogo no suke Toshiyoshi was a respected swordsman of the ryu of martial arts that was founded by and named after his family. His technique with the sword was reputed to be superb, fearsome. But in addition to his skills as a swordsman of the Yagyu Shinkage ryu, Toshiyoshi was famous for his amazing health and boundless energy. His strength seemed almost beyond that possible of a normal person. If local legends are to be believed, the mountains near his home were filled with supernatural beings like hawk-nosed goblins and other such creatures. Some of those who knew Toshiyoshi wondered if he had consorted with these beings and learned some secrets of vitality.

Unlike the leaders of the main branch of the Yagyu school of martial strategy, Toshiyoshi was not employed by the Tokugawa shogun at the capital in Edo. He was the fencing instructor to Tokugawa Yoshinao, the lord of Owari Province. When he was not teaching, Toshiyoshi liked to play the game of go, and he lived a quiet life. Even so, because of his skills with the sword he was sought out by aspiring martial artists who wished to learn from him and to gain the secrets he was supposed to possess for strength and vigor. One of these young exponents, a warrior from a neighboring fiefdom, was so persistent in his requests for instruction that Toshiyoshi finally consented. Toshiyoshi told the young Mitsuru, a samurai from a high-ranking family, that his personal servant had requested a leave of absence, to go home to visit his father who was ill. If Mitsuru would fill in as servant, assisting Toshiyoshi with his daily chores, the master would give him lessons.

Mitsuru was delighted. He accompanied Toshiyoshi everywhere and watched his every movement. He was determined to learn the secrets behind Toshiyoshi's abilities and, by imitating them, to become strong and fit himself. He noticed that Toshiyoshi ate only vegetables at mealtimes. No fish or meat. He saw that the sword master took his bath in the morning rather than in the evening, unlike most people who liked to relax in the steamy heat of a wooden tub at the end of the day. He also noted that Toshiyoshi spent a couple of hours every evening reading until he retired to bed.

By the end of a month, Mitsuru was certain he had discovered the secrets of Toshiyoshi's energy. He returned to the service of his own lord believing that what he had learned about diet and daily routine from Toshiyoshi was more valuable than the basic techniques of swordsmanship that Toshiyoshi had taught him. The young samurai eliminated meat and fish from his diet. He switched his bath time from the evening to the morning. And, like Toshiyoshi, he applied himself to reading works of philosophy each night before sleep. Over a year passed, and although Mitsuru was nowhere near as strong as Toshiyoshi, he was patient and knew he was on the right path. Then he was sent back to the mansion of Tokugawa Yoshinao on an assignment for his clan and was reunited with Toshiyoshi there. Upon this second visit Mitsuru was immediately struck by the differences in Toshiyoshi's behavior. This time when he ate a meal with the master, Toshiyoshi was enjoying plates of grilled fish and other kinds of seafood. He was taking his bath in the evening, not in the morning as he had before, and instead of reading at night before bed, he was going for long walks in the countryside.

"Your habits are entirely inconsistent!" Mitsuru exclaimed in frustration. "Why have you changed your routine completely?"

Toshiyoshi shrugged. "Sometimes I like vegetables, especially when they are in season. But just now the fish is fresh and delicious. As for the baths and walks in the evening," he continued, "I take a bath in the morning in the summer because it makes me feel clean and refreshed during the hot day. In wintertime a hot bath at night keeps me warm while I sleep. During the warm months, I don't like to exercise after I've bathed, but in the winter, a walk in the brisk air feels good and helps me go to sleep quickly."

"What then is the secret of your health and energy?" asked the disappointed Mitsuru.

"Rinkiohen," replied Toshiyoshi. "Moderation in my daily habits, along with steady and consistent training in strategy and swordsmanship, keeps me healthy. These are my only secrets."

I was reminded of Toshiyoshi's approach to health when, not long ago, a young karateka I know confided in me concerning a most embarrassing problem she was having. It is not the most pleasant of subjects to consider, but it is one that is becoming increasingly common in our society, particularly among young people. She complained to me that she suffered from frequent bouts of diarrhea, and, further, nothing she tried seemed to help. She was on a special diet and taking a couple of different medications for her ailment, but it refused to go away. She was growing so worried about it that she was afraid to leave home to go on trips or outings, and she could not even attend a movie or a concert without the nagging fear that she would have to make a frantic dash for the restroom at an inopportune moment.

I suspect that my friend is far from alone. In this bustling world, our minds and bodies are under tremendous stresses, sometimes from sources of which we are not even aware. Physicians note that ever-increasing numbers of their patients are complaining of headaches, diarrhea, constipation, and vague feelings of nausea. Ever ready, the drug manufacturers and others in the health care business have come up with all kinds of potions and advice. It is nearly impossible to watch an hour of television or flip through a magazine without coming across advertisements for special diets or preparations to fix up our unhappy insides. Unfortunately, except for those unusual cases when these conditions are brought on by some physical infection or disorder, although the various diets and medications may help things temporarily, eventually the problems return.

I asked the karateka some questions about herself. I knew that she was a top student in college who spent many hours studying, often staying at her books all night before a big test, and that she felt that such sacrifices were absolutely necessary to her education. When she did have a chance to sleep, it was for exceptionally long hours, and she ended up missing meals. When she did eat it was at irregular times, and she was so afraid of the diarrhea being aggravated by certain foods that she had become quite picky and would eat only those foods that she believed would help her overcome the illness. She admitted that when she wanted to relax she went to parties and drank beer.

In many of her daily habits, the collegiate karateka thought she was helping herself. But she was actually ignoring the probable cause of her illness in the first place. Research has shown that the long hours of "cramming" that high school and college students do is not nearly so useful to them as are much shorter periods of study, planned well in advance with plenty of breaks. Likewise, psychologists generally agree that the regularity of our sleep is nearly as important as the amount we get. It is also wise to try to get the right kinds of foods every day. But excessive worry about diet (or anything else) can be a major reason that the digestive system begins to malfunction. And to seek out relaxation only on particular occasions through the use of alcohol or drugs can, of course, hardly be considered a healthy lifestyle choice.

What, then, can my karateka friend do to help herself? She can follow the advice of Yagyu Toshiyoshi concerning the practice of rinkiohen. He would tell her, no doubt, to regard her diarrhea as her body's way of warning her that she is under stress and that she is not getting the proper kind of rest or nutrition. Then the master would tell her to try to balance her lifestyle a bit more carefully, getting regular sleep whenever possible, eating a wide variety of foods at regular times, and to realize that illness, like occasional colds and other such irritations, is a part of life for everyone, unavoidable at times and not necessarily a reason for great worry or a serious threat to her health.

It goes without saying that we cannot rid ourselves of all sicknesses just by balancing out our daily activities and engaging in moderation in our habits. Serious or prolonged symptoms are always best brought to the attention of a physician. As more and more of us struggle, both in the dojo and outside it, to make our way in the world, though, the simple advice of Toshiyoshi has a meaning worth consideration. "Moderation in my daily habits, along with steady and consistent training, keeps me healthy. These are my only secrets."

Chapter Thirty-two: The Luxury of Anger

Chapter Thirty-two

The Luxury of Anger

According to the thinking of many of the swordsmen of old Japan, there were four basic "sicknesses" to which the martial artist could fall victim. The sicknesses are fear, doubt, worry, and surprise. Many of the spiritual elements and much of the psychological training in the budo now, as then, has been directed at overcoming or preventing these illnesses. To that list of four I think it might be wise to add one more affliction that is just as deadly and insidious as the other four. To that list I would add the sickness of anger.

"A man is like steel," goes a Japanese proverb (and the advice applies equally well to women, I hasten to add); "once he loses his temper he is worthless." My sensei had a different, rather more direct way of expressing the same sentiment. He brought it to my attention one afternoon when he was teaching me out in a meadow below an old cemetery near his home. We were practicing with wooden swords. At that time in my training with him I was experiencing a phenomenon every serious budoka has encountered at one point or another. I was forgetting the kata. I had reached a stage of learning where sections of the different kata I had been taught were getting muddled in my mind. The movements of different kata were running together. Even more infuriating, during the execution of the sequence of a particular kata all of a sudden I would draw a blank. Some of these movements I had been doing regularly for more than a year or two, and suddenly, to my tremendous frustration, they were gone, vanished from my brain. My body would stop as if my nerves and muscles had short-circuited. It was maddening. It was especially hard to bear for someone like me who has a pathetically low frustration level. It was even worse because when I stalled, Sensei, who was acting as my opponent in the kata, would simply stand there, expressionless, waiting for me to execute a technique I could not for the life of me produce.

"Shimatta zo!" I finally snapped in exasperation at my own stupidity.

Sensei's response was so fast it was completed, over, long before I realized it had started, in less time than it took me to complete the interjection. He snapped his wooden sword against mine and flicked it over, using the powerful force of his hips, in an action that took my weapon right out of my hands. My sword wheeled over in the air a few times and bounced off the ground. Simultaneously, I was left with the distinct sensation that my wrists had just been yanked off of my forearms.

"Anger is a luxury," he said quietly. "One that you cannot afford."

Anger as a luxury item. That is a curious way of thinking about that emotion, isn't it? But, as with most of the advice my various sensei gave me right after they'd captured my attention in similar and equally painful ways, it is worth thinking about.

Anger is a luxury because it allows us to focus our attention on only one thing: ourselves. Remember back to the last time you stubbed your toe or lost your keys or wanted to stomp that gas pedal right through the floorboards when the car wouldn't start? At such moments nothing else in the world was on your mind but your immediate problem. Anger, in that sense, is very much like your mind taking a little vacation. When you take a vacation, you have the luxury of going for a swim or a hike, reading a book loafing around all day if you like. Anger may not be quite so enjoyable (nor does it include the healthy benefits of a vacation), although few would deny that it is a satisfying way to "let off steam" when we are really irritated, just as I did with my imprecation out in the meadow when I couldn't remember the kata.

When I lost my temper I indulged myself. I focused on my problem, forgetting all about my opponent. On the battlefield, the place where those kata were intended to be implemented, that kind of self-indulgence could have cost me my life. As a budoka, the price I would have to pay for the luxury of getting angry was too dear.

Sometimes we may wish to believe that anger "pumps us up." If the goal is simple enough, maybe that is the case. If I have to kick down a door, get me angry enough and I will probably be able to do it. But the physical, combative skills of a martial art are not simple. One must be aware of distance, timing, the actions and reactions of an opponent, the possibility of encountering more than one attacker, and so on. In such a complex situation, anger has no business.

Another belief about anger—and we see this quite often in films and other forms of dramatic entertainment—is that it can motivate us to be brave under situations of great stress. Again, in some limited instances, this may be so. But depending on anger as a source of energy can have some serious consequences over time. Anger involves the adrenal glands in the body. This may not be the most scientific explanation, but the adrenals squirt their juices into us in moments of stress or danger or anger. What follows is a complex process, but the upshot is that blood pressure, heart rate, respiration—all these functions go into a quick overdrive. It is as though the body is a family station wagon, one that has not been started in a while, which is suddenly turned over, revved with the pedal to the floor, and then driven as fast as it can go, all in a matter of seconds. If there is an emergency and you have got to go somewhere fast, it is nice to have transportation that can get you there. If you try that with your car on a regular basis, though, it will not be long before the engine and transmission are in trouble.

Those whose professions depend on violent or dangerous encounters— soldiers, policemen, and firefighters, for instance—soon learn of the negative consequences of depending on an adrenaline-fueled anger to meet these situations. The body can handle occasional bursts of anger, but when anger becomes a conditioned response to stress, cardiac surgeons start scrubbing up. As a species, we have not evolved, chemically or emotionally, to remain healthy under this kind of stress. No more than the family wagon was designed to be cranked over and raced at full throttle when the engine is cold. (The Chinese, incidentally, noted long ago some of the more subtle problems we encounter when we are too angry too often. Taoist medical texts from centuries past refer to this as an imbalance of "fire" chi, or ki as we would put it in Japanese, and many forms of tai chi chuan and chi kung practice provide special exercises to rid the body of this excess energy.)

Anger wastes energy indiscriminately, usually at a time when we need to preserve energy and use it to maximum benefit. It focuses concentration very narrowly in moments when we need to be more cognizant of what is going on around us. It robs us of self-control precisely when we most need to be in control of ourselves. It would be idealistic to hope that through training we could completely eliminate the anger that is sometimes within us. In my own case, I don't hold out much hope of that happening. But if our budo training cannot eliminate our anger, it can teach us to recognize what our anger is really all about, and to see that more often than not it is an emotion that we can ill afford to indulge.

Chapter Thirty-three: Shooting with a Broken Bow

Chapter Thirty-three

Shooting with a Broken Bow

The bow is shattered; arrows are all gone.
At this critical moment—
Cast aside all doubt.
Shoot without the slightest delay.

So goes a poem written by the Zen master Bukko Kokushi during the Kamakura era (1226-1286) in Japan. It is typical of Zen-inspired poetry, isn't it? By which I mean, of course, it is more than slightly puzzling, bordering on the nonsensical at first reading. At second reading, too, for that matter, for how can we shoot our bow when it is broken? And what are we supposed to shoot anyway, if all our arrows are gone?

Kyudo, the Way of the bow, is the Japanese martial Way of archery. It is a modern evolution of kyujutsu, the military art of using the bow as a weapon of combat. Kyudo is one of the less popular forms of the budo, especially outside Japan. In the West, exponents of this art are still somewhat rare as compared with followers of the other martial Ways; good, high-level teachers are almost nonexistent. That so few individuals seek to take up the Way of the bow is not really hard to understand. Equipment is exorbitantly expensive. A good yumi, or bow, handmade of laminations of bamboo and various woods, can cost more than a thousand dollars. Then, too, the essentials of learning to shoot the bow according to the precise dictates of kyudo are so exacting that at times the art seems to have more in common with the tea ceremony than with a blood and guts fighting discipline. The kyudoka spends months learning the intricate etiquette of kyu-ha, the rituals of the bow. The details are daunting. All of them must be committed to memory until they are integrated into the kyudoka on a level that is virtually instinctive. There are a fixed number of steps taken to approach the shooting stand, for instance. The angle at which the bow is held while the arrow is nocked to the string must be just so. All imaginable facets of the mechanics and movements of drawing and shooting are precisely set into forms that have been formalized now for many, many years. The forms must be learned exactly. There is even a predetermined series of standardized motions established for approaching the target, leaning the bow against it, and pulling out arrows that have already been shot there. Kyudo is a budo form not long on external action, to say the least.

Although kyudo is more formal in its approach than are karate or other forms of budo, the practitioner of any form of the martial Way will recognize that a lot of attention is focused on what seem to be petty details of their art. Before he came to the dojo, the novice karateka probably assumed he could throw at least a halfway decent punch. Once involved in the study of karate, however, he discovers he cannot even make a simple fist correctly, not according to the demands of that art. His shoulders have to be adjusted by the teacher, his chin tucked in, elbow pulled back, and on and on. Once I observed a beginner's karate class and counted the technical details given for performing a basic reverse punch. The teacher gave no less than twenty-four different instructions in one lesson. There were twenty-four details to remember while carrying out the most fundamental action of punching. I have seen novice karateka become so overwhelmed by the demands of the art that they actually freeze; one can see in their face and eyes that they are so frantically trying to remember it all that they cannot even move!

In kyudo the attention to all these external details is referred to as toteki. Among those who are uninformed in the subtleties of the art, there is considerable criticism about this approach to training for a "fighting" art. Those who lack experience or an informed exposure to it make all manner of ambitiously ignorant commentaries on the toteki to be found in the budo. They often suggest that in a real fight the martial artist who has participated in the process of toteki will be so concerned with getting his stance right, his posture correct, and so on, that he will be pounded into the ground by an attacker before he can make a single motion in his own defense. This reasoning is based on the misassumption that the toteki stage of training is the final goal in the journey of the budoka. But toteki is just a stage.

As time goes by in the dojo, the kyudoka begins to integrate the details of the art into his performance. He no longer has to mentally count the steps as he approaches his place on the shooting stand. They come out naturally. The arrow nock finds its way to the string without conscious effort. This is the stage of training that the kyudoka calls zaiteki. At zaiteki, the bow and the archer are becoming one. Budoka studying other forms of the martial Ways may use another expression to mean much the same thing. They will speak of mushin, a term borrowed from the nomenclature of Zen. Mu is "nothing," or "without." Shin means the "conscious" or the "mind." "Without consciousness" or "no mind" is an approximate translation of "mushin"—and this serves to demonstrate how poorly many budo concepts can be rendered into a foreign language.

The image that springs to mind when we hear this translation is not something most of us would want to emulate in a dangerous situation—that is, unconscious or having lost our minds! What "mushin" refers to, though, is a state where the budoka is not conscious of the details of his technique. (Those who follow the Ways of calligraphy or the tea ceremony are looking for the same quality in their practice.) The budoka who has grasped mushin behaves naturally, spontaneously, no matter what the situation. He has passed through the level of his training that required him to concentrate on technique. The quality of mushin is indicative of achieving a level of training where technique has become so integrated, physically as well as spiritually, that it can be consciously left behind. The technique is "no-technique," if I may indulge in some Zen-speak myself.

While this description smacks of pseudo-mystical mumbo jumbo, it is not beyond the everyday experiences of nearly all of us. If you can type, play the piano, drive a car even, you know something of mushin. There was a time, in typing class or at piano lessons, when you looked at the keyboard, studied it, and tried to get your fingers to move to the right spots. You had to concentrate on each letter or note. Gradually, you began to make connections, to create words or tunes without thinking. If you continued on, you reached a stage where you did not consciously need to direct your fingers to the right spots. They "knew" where to go on their own. In fact, if you are a skilled typist or pianist and someone asks you about the layout of the keyboards of either instrument you would probably be stumped. Which keys are on either side of the J key on your computer or typewriter keyboard? You may be able to type eighty words a minute, but you probably can't say. That is because you have attained a certain mushin in typing, you see. You have gone beyond technique. There is nothing mystical in your ability Just practice.

(There is, I hasten to add, a vast difference between the "no-technique" of the expert budoka and the "non-technique" of the beginner. Neither the neophyte typist nor the skilled secretary who types eighty words a minute may be able to tell you what adjoins the / key. But that does not mean they are the same in terms of their understanding and mastery of typing, does it? One must strive to get to the point of no-technique, and there is no shortcut, no way to bypass technique altogether.)

The bow, the arrows: as the Zen master's poem reminds us, these are external details. Drive yourself past them, using the techniques, the external details, through severe, unceasing training and effort. Press on into the core of the art. When your budo is fully integrated in body, mind, and spirit, the bow and arrows, the details of the punch or kick or strike or throw, are not important. At the critical moment, as Bukko advised, you must penetrate the target without the slightest delay.

Chapter Thirty-four: The Squirrelly Approach to Budo

Chapter Thirty-four

The Squirrelly Approach to Budo

In terms of the study of Chinese philosophy, the "neo-Confucianists" were those thinkers who came after and built on the ideas that were laid out by the great sage himself. The values and the theories of learning articulated by some of these scholars have had a major influence on the development of Japanese culture and specifically on the budo of Japan. One neo-Confucian philosopher was Hsun Tsu, who wrote about the innate nature of man, about the working order of the cosmos, and about the nature of reality itself. Hsun Tsu was a contemporary of another renowned Chinese thinker, Meng-tsu, better known in the West as Mencius. These two, thinkers, Hsun Tsu and Meng-tsu, are, in fact, considered the Aristotle and Plato of early Chinese thought.

Hsun Tsu is known for his expressive writing style and his eclectic interests. Typical is his comparison of some human beings to squirrels. "The squirrel can do five things," Hsun Tsu wrote. "He can climb a tree, swim, dig a hole, jump, and run. All these are within its capacities, yet it does none well."

Now let me preface this discussion by saying that I do not mean to imply that my fellow martial artists are squirrelly. Still, it does occur that Hsun Tsu may have been giving some advice about the task set before those who start out to follow the budo or any of the other related Ways like flower arranging or calligraphy. Let us compare it for the moment with another bit of mammalian counsel with which you may be more familiar. In C. W. Nicol's delightful account of his karate-do training in Japan in the early 1960s, Moving Zen, he tells of his frustration with trying to keep up his judo practice while at the same time making an effort to train regularly with the Japan Karate Association. Doing both, he found himself constantly exhausted, and never fully recovering from minor injuries. Finally he confronted one of his JKA teachers with the problem. In response, Nicol was told that "a hunter who chases two rabbits at the same time will catch neither."

Today Nicol's book is a classic in martial arts literature, and many budo teachers like to quote the hunting advice Nicol received when their students come to them to discuss adding another Way to their martial arts studies. Sometimes the advice is sincere; other times I suspect it is pompous and self-serving. When a teacher is afraid of losing a student or wants to get out of demonstrating or teaching skills in another martial art in which he claims dishonestly to have mastery, he can simply try to look wise and repeat the admonition about rabbit hunting. But we are led to wonder if Nicol's sensei was not voicing the same sentiment in a different way than Hsun Tsu did centuries ago. If we budoka extend our training efforts in different directions, do we risk missing our target? Does Hsun Tsu suggest we will end up like the squirrel, adequate in a number of endeavors, master of none?

One answer to these questions might be found in the writings of Kanze Zeami. Zeami was a sixteenth-century master of the ancient Noh theater of Japan, its first great figure, and the founder of a school of Noh drama that continues today with one of his descendants serving as its current headmaster. A performance of Noh, if you have never seen it, is an example of an intensely ritualized and formal art. With very rare exceptions, you must go to Japan to see Noh. When you start feeling sorry for yourself as a budoka, when you start to feel that there are so few real experts in the martial Ways to learn from outside of Japan, then you may count your blessings that it was not the theater art of Noh that grabbed your attention. If you want to study Noh, you virtually have no choice but to pack your bags and go live and train in Japan.

Fortunately, much of Zeami's writings on Zen have been translated and are available in English. Those budoka who have not read any of his work should do so as soon as possible. Most of the legendary sword masters of old Japan appreciated Noh, and more than a few of them were connoisseurs of the art. They had a particular insight into its methods of movement and timing and spacing, since those concepts were vital to their own combative skills. What Zeami wrote about Noh, all of it, can be read from the perspective of the budo as well. Any serious budoka will find a lifetime of study and contemplation and reflection in Zeami's words about Noh. Zeami quotes Hsun Tsu's remarks about the squirrel, in fact, and explains that the aspiring Noh actor may find himself in the same situation. He may try to improve his art in every area, only to succeed in being mediocre in all of them. So, too, with the aikidoka who takes up kendo or the karateka who begins to study judo. Zeami's solution to this problem is expressed in one of his writings:

As the result of persistent training, untutored style will develop into greater artistry, constantly improving until, before he knows it, the performer has reached a level of versatility and exactness. If his training is comprehensive and he expands his art in versatility and magnitude until he attains full competence, he will find himself at the level of the flower of truth.

I think what Zeami might be saying is that the various facets of Noh theater performance will appear entirely disparate to the beginner. The complicated, dancelike gait patterns, the chanting, the difficult movements—none seem interconnected to one another, at least not in the mind of the beginning student of Noh. So, too, the ukemi (breakfalls) of judo, the tai sabaki (body shifting) of kendo or aikido, and the atemi (strikes) of karate all seem like completely different and unrelated concepts to the budoka who is just starting his study. The student's "persistent training," Zeami suggests, must be in mastering the fundamentals of one art. That kind of practice, pursuing one rabbit, will bring the budoka to a high level of competence. He cannot stop there, though.

After gaining "versatility and exactness" in karate, Nicol went on, as his book explains, to take up iaido, the art of drawing and cutting with the sword, and, later still, he became involved with jodo, the art of the stick used against the sword. He was following the advice of Zeami, expanding his art "in versatility and magnitude."

We have squirrels digging all year long in the flower gardens outside the dojo where I train. They occasionally wreak havoc with some bonsai that sit on a shelf near the door. They sometimes scamper loudly across the roof during meditation before and after our training. So I hope they don't get any better at those particular skills. But I try to be a bit squirrelly in my own approach to the budo, using the lessons of one Way to assist me in understanding another. Learning the etiquette of bowing in the tea ceremony taught me a trick for moving rapidly during practice of aikido's suwari-waza, or "seated techniques." There is a way of placing your hands on the mat during the tea ceremony that will make clear the position in which you need to keep your hands when you are coming up off the ground in the advanced karate kata Unsu. It was from a practitioner of Japanese dance that I learned how to make the basic stepping and turning motions and the single-legged rotations of the kata Hangetsu.

Learning Noh is not going to make you a budo master. Learning to play the shakuhachi flute will not mean you can automatically pick up a sword and draw and cut with it like an iaido expert. What will happen, if you increase the breadth of your explorations into the culture and thinking of Japan, is that the depth of your budo will increase correspondingly. You will see, as Zeami did, that all the Ways are very much interconnected and that all of them can be instrumental for budoka who seek to attain Zeami's "flower of truth."

Chapter Thirty-five: Woodcutter's Karate

Chapter Thirty-five

Woodcutter's Karate

If you have not spent a spring in the midwestern region of the United States where I live, you have missed out on witnessing one of nature's most impressive and dramatic annual displays. As soon as the weather warms up and the moist air from the Gulf starts to shove its way into the Mississippi Valley, we have our thunderstorm season. Most of these storms pop up in the afternoons of April, May, and June, when the rays of the sun have heated the atmosphere all day, creating updrafts that spill out clouds larger than a county, thunderheads full of wind and lightning, and brief, torrential rains.

Those who are not natives can be disconcerted by a midwestern thunderstorm. My nana, from Nova Scotia, would come to visit but she never did get used to the storms. She would fret and stew and jump with every crack of lightning. My karate sensei were almost as twitterpated when they first came to the midwest. I was practicing in a quiet cemetery one afternoon in May with one of them, when, without warning, the sun was blotted out by a giant cloud the color of a fresh bruise. From a far distance, thunder rumbled. My sensei held up his hand to stop our practice. His native island of Okinawa gets few of these kinds of storms. When he heard thunder, his first thought was of a typhoon. I explained that the chances of a typhoon in Missouri were rather remote. If the storm did reach us, I told him, we would have warning enough to walk back the couple of blocks to the house where he was living. That afternoon was more than two decades ago. But sometimes in the spring when I hear distant thunder, I am reminded of that day, the feel of soft, newly green grass tickling my bare feet, the electricity of the storm building in the air, the joy of learning this wonderful art from my teacher.

It was in May again, one of the first thunderstorms of last summer, and I was sitting in my office at home trying to finish an article on the computer before the fingertips of lightning that were all around reached out and snapped off our power. There was a sudden blast of wind that shivered the house, a pause, and then a splintery crash! from outside in the dark that ended in a terrific thud. There is—was—a giant mulberry tree in my neighbor's yard, one with three trunks joined at the base, two of which have been dead since before we moved into our house. One of the three had become a casualty of the storm. By a miracle of wind direction, the dead trunk missed landing on the gardening shed with my collection of bonsai inside it, but it did hit our fence, crushing the aluminum top rail like a paper clip. The bulk of the dead trunk dropped right between our yard and our neighbor's.

My neighbor and I stood in the rain together, surveying the damage by flashlight. He has dogs that could get out without the fence to keep them confined. (I would have been happy to have seen them gone; they are barkers set off at all hours of the night by who knows what, and I would not have missed them a bit. But if they left his yard it would be to get into mine, where doubtless they would leave numerous reminders of their presence for me to clean up.) There was nothing to do but to cut the trunk in half and prop up the fence to keep the animals in. We waited until the rain had tapered to a drizzle. Then I got out my axe and took a whack at the downed tree. The first blow I struck sounded less like hitting wood and more like I was banging against the metal fence. The wood of the mulberry was so old it was nearly petrified. The axe plinked off it like it would have bounced off concrete. Our second plan was to saw notches in the trunk then chop at the exposed wood, which we hoped would be softer. My neighbor brought his weapon out, a long carpenter's saw. I got mine, a double-edged Japanese saw.

My nokogiri (the generic word for saws in Japanese), with its bamboo-wrapped handle and flimsy-looking blade, didn't look like much next to my neighbor's hefty tool. Not only does a nokogiri look different from a Western-style saw; it is used very differently. The Western saw cuts on the push stroke; the nokogiri cuts on the pull. The saw is powered by the shoulders; the nokogiri is driven back and forth by the strength of the hips. The saw is clutched like a pistol in the clenched grip of one hand. The nokogiri is held lightly, with both hands, exactly the way one would grasp a Japanese sword.

The drizzle soaked us both as we worked in the dark. Before long, I heard my neighbor begin to pant, then gasp, then grunt with exertion.

"I gotta take a break!" he finally groaned. He stopped and straightened, rubbing his sawing arm. Now I need to point out that my neighbor, an auto mechanic, is much bigger and stronger and a little younger than I am. So I cannot say any of those advantages—strength, size, or age—were on my side as I kept sawing after he had to quit. The reason I kept going, I realized as my nokogiri continued to bite into the old mulberry trunk, was because I was using the same body mechanics I had learned in the dojo.

The stance of the shokunin, the traditional Japanese craftsman, is very similar to karate's fudo-dachi, or "immovable stance." My knees were flexed, allowing the large muscles of my hips and abdomen and thighs to do the work. In contrast, my neighbor sawed primarily with the muscles of his upper body, in his shoulders, with his posterior sticking out as he worked, the way a white belt's does when he is learning to punch. I kept my torso perpendicular to the earth, my body moving back and forth as a single unit. In a number of important physiological ways, I realized as I sawed, the most effective body mechanics for making a front kick are also the most efficient ones for cutting through a log.

I was concentrating on the pull stroke of the saw as I worked, the hikite, the karateka calls it, the hand that retracts, adding power to the thrust of his punch. I was paying attention to my ibuki, the cycle of my respiration, and rather than holding my breath and then grunting with the effort, I was breathing naturally and keeping my inhalations low against my diaphragm. Instead of using a saw that forced me to turn away at an angle from my work and use only one arm, I used my two-handed nokogiri, which allowed me to face the trunk of the tree fully and to use both arms in harmony. I am not a shokunin. I'm not even a good home handyman. The Mount Fuji cone of dry mulberry sawdust on the damp ground below my nokogiri was not growing because of my woodworking skills; it was, because of whatever mechanics of motion I had managed to learn in my years of training in the budo.

The mulberry trunk, felled in seconds by a gust of wind, gave way much more slowly, but just as inevitably, under the teeth and edge of my neighbor's saw and my nokogiri. I would not recommend this exercise as a regular substitute for budo practice. But I did notice the next morning that I had aches in many of the same muscles that suffer after a strenuous training session at the dojo. Soaking in the tub that night, I also had the satisfaction of knowing that I could answer with a "Yes, I have" if someone asked, "Have you ever used your martial arts training?" And if I am ever asked how many boards I can break, I can truthfully say, "Hey bud, in my martial Way, we don't break boards. We go for the whole tree."

Chapter Thirty-six: Hiyameshi ("Cold Rice")

Chapter Thirty-six

Hiyameshi ("Cold Rice")

The stories of Gichin Funakoshi's early days of pursuing the art of karate in the last part of the nineteenth century sometimes have an element of the melodramatic about them. Each day, after finishing his work, he would walk from his house to his masters house, a little more than five miles away, along a lonely country road in the backwoods of Okinawa. The path he took through the thick, junglelike forest was so dark that when night fell he had to carry a lantern in order to see his way. Once he arrived at his masters place he would train hard for a couple of hours and then, relighting his lantern, Funakoshi would retrace his journey in reverse, arriving home again just before dawn, in time to go back to work during the day as a schoolteacher.

At about the same time Funakoshi was making his nocturnal hikes to study karate on Okinawa, on the mainland of Japan Jigoro Kano had finally found a place to practice jujutsu. To be more exact, he was in the process of creating the martial Way of judo that he envisioned as a natural evolution from the older methods of jujutsu he had learned. His new, makeshift dojo was a dilapidated Buddhist temple, Eisho-ji. Unfortunately, the floor of the temple was as rickety and weak as the rest of the structure. The floorboards could barely hold up the sections of tatami, Japanese straw matting, atop them. The bodies slamming about on a daily basis did not do the floor any good. Long after the other practitioners had left for the evening, Kano and one of his senior students would creep into the crawl space beneath the floor, ignoring the cobwebs and dust, to repair the structure well enough so that it would last through another training session.

The live-in disciples of aikido's founder Morihei Uyeshiba often found that the demands of aikido training were the least of their everyday problems. Because of their master's eccentric ways, they were regularly roused in the middle of the night to serve as bleary-eyed opponents for Uyeshiba, who would have a flash of martial inspiration in the evening and would immediately want to try out whatever technique he'd dreamed of. His live-in students would take the role of an opponent for Uyeshiba, attacking him with full force even though they could barely open their eyes. In addition to their training, they had to tend the gardens and farm plots on the Uyeshiba property and carry his baggage when he went away on long train trips. Invariably, when Uyeshiba's original students are asked to recall their early days with the master, they will describe these activities, which left them utterly exhausted.

And you and me? We ignore the aches and pains of daily training and practice. We push aside the concerns of a day of work or school; we resist the urge to settle into an easy chair with a good book or a video. On one more night, we set off for the dojo, to be thrown about, punched and kicked at, and God knows what else. The majority of us endure the rigors of training for no easily explainable reason. We are mature enough to know the budo are not going to make us movie stars, or invincible warriors, or wealthy. Yet we continue on, through stifling summers and winters so cold our feet go numb against the cold wood of the dojo floor. We have deliberately chosen a path, a Way, that takes us over a course of suffering where the reward for working oneself through the physical and intellectual maze of a kata or a technique is to have another one heaped on, another one to try to absorb. And the further we travel on this path we are on, the more demanding it becomes. Errors and lapses in attention that may be forgiven when we are beginners are illuminated in a harsh spotlight by our teachers as we progress. Finally, as we approach the stage of expertise where our teachers and seniors have no more to teach or to criticize, we might think the journey is nearing completion. Not so. At this level the budoka is expected to turn inward, to relentlessly examine his technique and his whole lifestyle, searching out any weakness, imposing upon himself ever more hardship, seeking a level of the Way that is increasingly severe.

This austerity, known to all practitioners of the Ways of Japan, from calligraphy to the budo to the tea ceremony, is called in Japanese, shugyo. But among budoka it is more colloquially known by an ironically descriptive term: they often call it hiya meshi o Michi, or "the Way of eating cold rice."

If you do not prepare rice as a part of your regular diet, you may wonder at such an odd expression. The next time you have some leftover steamed rice in the refrigerator, give it a taste before you rewarm it or put it in the microwave. You will find the texture and consistency of the rice is, well, less than palatable. It's lousy, in fact. It is tough, bitterly starchy, and unpleasant to chew, very different from fluffy, warm grains fresh out of the pot. Soldiers in the field must eat their rice cold, because they lack the equipment or time to heat it. Bachelors who subsist on take-out dinners and wake up in the morning with nothing for breakfast but leftovers eat cold rice, too.

Sometimes, though, when circumstances dictate that a person must eat a bowl of cold rice, he will take it willingly. He may use a meal like that to remind him of the simple, humble things in life. A bowl of cold rice can serve to make a person appreciate that even the most blessed and fortunate among us must sometimes suffer. Not every meal we eat can be tasty or hot or prepared exactly as we would like it. Despite its texture, cold rice is just as nutritious as rice that is fresh and hot. Eating cold rice can be a way of putting food in perspective. If we are hungry enough, cold rice can be satisfying, and it can provide us with the sustenance that we need even though it does not satisfy our tastes. The austere practice of the budo is much the same. It is a discipline stripped of self-indulgence, of ego decorations. To follow a martial Way requires a certain amount of stoicism and an enduring spirit. The budoka prefers cold rice, so to speak, because he sees it as an essential means of improving himself, a means of perfecting his spirit.

It is not exactly accurate to say that the budoka "prefers" cold rice. More to the point, he accepts it, believing as he does that if he spends his life always looking for and demanding comfort and ease, he will never be tested, he'll never be pushed to refine his body and spirit. The budoka accepts the hardships and austerity of cold rice because he feels that true contentment is not to be gained by acquiring things. If you cannot be satisfied and happy unless you have hot rice with every meal (or a new car every year, or the latest fashions in clothing), you are apt to spend a whole lot of your life unsatisfied and unhappy, since for most of us, having all these things is just not possible. But if you can find happiness in your rice whether it is hot or cold, chances are you will find the same contentment in everything life has to offer you.

The great budo masters of the past ate plenty of cold rice in their day. They suffered and endured. Their lives were not without happiness or good times or other luxuries. But none of them created lives that were centered on materialistic goals. They chose a different path, a Way that means accepting some hardships. The late author Malcolm Muggeridge once said that all of the valuable lessons he learned in life he learned through suffering. Likewise it is hard to imagine that the great budo masters would ever have attained what they did without a stoic outlook. Those of us who have elected to follow in the Ways they have left for us must come to our own conclusions about in what directions we want those Ways to take us. Wherever we choose to go, however, if it is to be along the path of the budo, we must be prepared from time to time, to eat some cold rice.

Chapter Thirty-seven: Bend Like the Bamboo

Chapter Thirty-seven

Bend Like the Bamboo

Bend like the bamboo. Be flexible; give before the onslaught of force in the same way the long slender boughs of that giant grass flex in the wind or under a load of snow. Remain supple and spring back against oppression as do the bamboo's stalks. This concept of giving, of demonstrating flexibility against force, is one of the basic precepts of the Japanese martial Ways. Practitioners begin hearing this advice as soon as they enter the dojo. In fact, even those who have never practiced a budo are familiar with the example presented by the ever-yielding bamboo. In dozens of self-help books and seminars and articles, the theme of gaining more satisfactory relationships with others (in our age this is generally synonymous with the notion of "getting your own way" in a manner that is socially acceptable) is described as a kind of social or corporate judo, one in which power is gained by giving and remaining supple, emotionally and mentally.

The bending, flexible bamboo is such a familiar metaphor for both the martial Ways and for everyday life that it can be easy to forget that the majority of Westerners who write and talk about it, as well as those who try to understand it, have never actually seen much bamboo as it grows and lives in nature. Very little bamboo is grown in the United States, so few students here have had an opportunity to watch this remarkable plant do its stuff, to see its boughs flex, gathering their loads of snow and then sloughing it off to spring upright again. Just as someone would not fully grasp the meaning of "watch for the high, hard ones" if that person had never faced a fast-firing pitcher from the batter's box, "bending like the bamboo" can be a foreign concept if the only bamboo you have ever seen has been in the shank of a fly rod.

A couple of years ago I planted a stand of yellow-groove bamboo in a square of ground in my yard. I had done some work repairing a tea hut in the Japanese garden of a nearby botanical garden, and in return the resident horticulturist dug up several clumps of the bamboo along with their interlaced wads of rhizomes and gave them to me. I stuffed them into the rear of my little Honda hatchback and started home. It wasn't long before I was stopped by a policeman. The green stalks of bamboo and their lacy leaves must have looked suspiciously like another plant, one that, had I been carrying a carload of it, would have been of considerable interest to the officer. I made it home without being arrested, and I planted my bamboo.

The climate of central Japan is quite similar to that of the part of the Midwest where I live. So I knew the bamboo would survive just fine. But I was surprised when the clumps I planted immediately shot out a half dozen new shoots. I was amazed by the speed with which they grew. During the morning I would use a string to measure the growth, then I'd check it again in the afternoon to find how much it had pushed upward. The phenomenal growth rate of bamboo is legendary, but it is astounding to see firsthand a shoot gain more than two inches in the course of a day.

I watered my bamboo all summer when the ground was dry. In the evenings of the autumn that followed, I listened to its feathery rustle against the wind. I was waiting to see how the bamboo would fare when the snow came. Finally, on the morning of the winter solstice—the word for that day in old Japanese is toji—the weather was abruptly cold, and then the sun vanished. Fat, menacing clouds the color of a tarnished nickel had covered it. By the time I finished reading the paper that morning, heavy flakes were falling. By afternoon the branches of my bamboo had grown a thick white coat of snow. They were bending, lowering beneath their load. Completely distracted from my writing chores, I brewed a pot of tea and sat in the dining room, looking out the window at my crop of bamboo. If you have never seen it, snow-burdened bamboo doesn't just sag with the extra weight; it twists over alarmingly. It goes down as if it is suddenly developing the advanced symptoms of some kind of plant arthritis. Smaller stalks will bend double, their tips arching right over into U shapes that touch the ground. Just when I began to doubt the plants' pliancy, just when I was ready to rush out and knock the snow off to save the plants from snapping, one length of bamboo gave a convulsive shudder. It shrugged off the snow, then, after staggering and waving back and forth, it was upright again. Then another, and another repeated the process, and pretty soon and they were all loosing the snow that was piled on them, swaying back upright like drunkards wobbling unsteadily to their feet.

All winter I watched the bamboo I'd planted as it flexed under successive snowfalls and then flung off the weight. Spring came and more shoots erupted from the cold, black ground. I had read stories of the Taoist sages in China who would celebrate the season by drinking tea and munching on fresh steamed bamboo shoots, so I made tea and ate some of my crop. But even with my appetite, I could not keep up with the new growth. Bamboo, I had been warned, can take over a yard faster than a greedy land developer can turn wetlands into a shopping mall. The neighbors were beginning to suspect I was keeping a panda in the house. I decided it was time to do some pruning. I started by digging at the base of one of the clumps. And that is when I learned there is a whole lot more to the pliant strength of the bamboo than what you can see in its snow-covered branches. Bamboo, propagates itself by rhizomes, long fibrous roots that spread out horizontally a foot or so underground. These roots expand and intertwine, forming a netlike web. The rhizomes are incredibly tough. Even with a sharp spade it took a very long time to chop through the root system of the small section I wanted to dig out. I finally resorted to using a Chinese meat cleaver to get the job done.

As I noted, the yielding bamboo is a familiar image that can be found in all kinds of analogies from all over Asia. But flexibility is only half of the bamboo's strength. The stalks of bamboo are supple, true. They can bend into incredible curves without breaking. Yet without the stout, deeply entrenched roots below ground, the stalks would topple with the slightest resistance. People who know only of the bending and flexibility of this unique plant are not aware of the rigidity that makes real pliancy possible. With the bamboo, flexibility is possible because of the strong, tough roots at the base of the plant.

This lesson about the bamboo plant has some important implications for the budoka. It is all well and good to try to meet an attack in a spontaneous way, for instance, flowing and yielding, loosing your attacker and then snapping back like the bamboo in snow. But this strategy is useless unless you are thoroughly rooted in the basics of a fighting art. The master is able to improvise with creative flexibility and come up with spectacular techniques, but if a less talented practitioner were to try these moves he would end up looking like an addled cow. The master's success at improvisation is a result of the years he has spent perfecting basic body movement. The would-be originator of his own combat system will soon discover that his techniques won't bear up under the pressure of an attack unless his roots are already sunk in a well-established art.

I wish bamboo was grown more widely in this country. When I visit Japan I always take the time to find a grove of it and wander through at my leisure, listening to the sounds and enjoying the sway of the stalks in the wind. My own stand of yellow-groove bamboo has grown so lushly that each spring I have friends (and even a few complete strangers who have shown up at the door asking about it) who come to take their own clumps to start bamboo groves of their own. It is a beautiful plant, and if more of it were growing in the United States, budoka would have a chance to see in real life the plant that gave rise to the analogy they've encountered so often. But more to the point, they could more completely understand the lesson of the bamboo's strength: flexibility, a true kind of suppleness that allows one to bend and spring back against opposition, is merely an illusion unless there are firm and solid roots to anchor it.

Chapter Thirty-eight: Mirume ("Looking to See")

Chapter Thirty-eight

Mirume ("Looking to See")

The eyes in combat, wrote the eccentric samurai Miyamoto Musashi, must take in everything and nothing. The swordsman Negishi Tokaku, founder of the Mijin ryu of martial arts, recorded in the scrolls containing the essence of his ryu that the most effective gaze for the warrior in combat is one directed to the opponent's fists as he grips his sword. Many other martial arts exponents have written or spoken about the proper focus of the martial artist's eyes, advising everything from the quite practical to the mysteriously obscure. Yet invariably these writings concern themselves with the heiho no metsuke, the fixing of the gaze during combat or as it relates directly to martial strategy. What about what might be called the tsune no metsuke of the budoka, that is, the ways he looks at things in his everyday life?

In daily life, training, working, relating to others as we make our way in the world, the budoka strives to adopt the attitude of mono o mirume. In the parlance of everyday Japanese, this phrase can mean simply "to look at things." Yet it has a deeper connotation, meaning "to look into things." This expression has a special significance for those who follow the martial Way, but it applies as well to artisans in all the traditional arts and crafts of Japan. When a potter examines a ceramic bowl, he looks at the glaze on it and he sees the outer form of the bowl, just as an ordinary person examining that piece of pottery would. Yet as an artist, he looks deeper. He sees into the essence of the bowl. The famous potter Shoji Hamada, whom I have mentioned before, once said that when holding a bowl he could "see its inner formation and see, too, the character and shape of the individual who made it." Hamada was talking about seeing the pottery with the gaze and the attitude of mono o mirume.

Years ago, I was at a festival of native crafts in a little town in the Ozark Mountains. An old fellow was displaying the use of the broadaxe, a wide-bladed cutting tool that was a necessity for building a house when the components of that house began as lengths of felled trees. The broadaxe was used to square off freshly cut timber so it could be stacked into the walls of a house. The man at the festival was demonstrating how this squaring off was done by straddling a thick white oak log and skillfully shaving off the sides in quick strokes with the razor edge of the axe. A woman watching remarked that she admired "that rough-cut" surface he was making.

"T'ain't nuthin' rough about it," he replied. He pointed out that the timber he had seemingly hacked square with random blows of the axe was actually well planed with a series of even notches and slashes. He was revealing an adroitness with the axe that must have taken him years to perfect—as well as demonstrating his eye for recognizing the inner form of the log before he ever struck it with the tool. He was a master of the broadaxe, a man who knew how to look at an object with the gaze of mono o mirume.

Traditionally, students of an art or a Way in Japan do not look directly at the lesson being given for their benefit. In the dojo, for instance, trainees may lower their gaze slightly when watching a technique demonstrated, or they may focus their vision at a place just past where the action is. The disciples of some schools of martial arts are encouraged to watch what's going on from sanpaku, which means "one third white." This expression refers to positioning one's head in such a way that it is fractionally tilted down so the bottom third of the eyeball, the white beneath the iris, is showing.

This may seem like a silly thing to do. It sounds impractical at best. After all, if we want to study and learn a technique, we have to watch how it is done. But remember, we're talking about looking mono o mirume—not at, but into. Sometime when you are injured or recovering from an illness, or when you can go to the dojo but for some reason you cannot train, it will be of benefit for you to watch to see how others learn. You can actually learn a great deal yourself this way, especially when you watch beginners to see how they respond to new material that is presented to them. You will observe that most of the time they are not using mono o mirume. They look at the technique, but they don't see it.

A good example of trying to learn by looking at a technique occurs when beginning karateka try to copy the front kick they have just seen their teacher demonstrate. They have looked at the kick; that is, they have seen the foot somehow swing up and land at head level, and that is what they will clumsily set about to imitate. It will not be until much later that they will see into the kick, concentrating not on a specific point, but taking in the whole motion indirectly. Then they will be aware of the cocking of the knee, the chambered thigh and calf, the pressing thrust of the hips, the vital flexing of the support leg. They will see more than just a foot striking or a collection of the disparate parts of the kick. They will appreciate the kick as a complete technique.

Focusing directly on an object tends to localize our perception, to reinforce previously formed judgments. New karateka kick so awkwardly in part because they tend to equate kicking with their only other likely exposure to the activity, usually kicking a ball. Relying on that narrow experience, they do not grasp the very different methods used in the execution of a front kick. They are like the fellow who looks at a tea bowl and concludes, "Hmm, damned poor beer mug." He is not seeing the tea bowl, only a drinking implement that fails to measure up to his narrow standards.

Mono o mirume goes far beyond observing an object or a simple action, as you have probably guessed. A spouse snaps at her husband irritably. He hastily concludes, "She must've had a bad day." And he hurries off to escape the unpleasantness, never pausing to look more deeply, to try to fathom the reasons for her anger. A grandson listens with half an ear to the seemingly endless stories his grandmother tells him of her youth, but he never stops to think that her stories are a rich source of wisdom for him. A karate practitioner goes to the dojo for his lessons week after week, never once stopping to consider the possibility that his art is anything more than a sophisticated form of battery. Unfortunately the world is filled with individuals who are satisfied by seeing only the surface of things. Budoka, though, those who would follow the Way as a lifetime journey, should keep their eyes on the path before them. Every day. Not just a glance now and then, but a long and deep look into things. Mono o mirume.

Chapter Thirty-nine: Even If I Die

Chapter Thirty-nine

Even If I Die

Yasuhiro Yamashita was one of the most remarkable champions in the history of judo. Back in 1977, when he was just nineteen, Yamashita became the youngest competitor ever to win the National Judo Championships of Japan. The chubby-cheeked Yamashita went on to capture a stunning nine consecutive championship titles (no other judoka in the history of judo has won more than three). During his years of competition he compiled a record of 528 wins and just 15 losses and 15 draws.

Yamashita is still a popular figure in Japan, even now that he is retired, both because of his success as a judo competitor and because he is considered an outstanding role model for young people in Japan. Plainspoken yet respectful and kind spirited, Yamashita is the sort of hero American lads used to find in baseball players in the days before too many of those athletes began devoting the bulk of their energies to salary negotiations, narcotics, and vulgar behavior off the field.

I followed Yamashita's career avidly, and I was always impressed by his attitude toward judo and competition. Once, after he captured still another national title, I recall something he said that, to me, seemed to sum up Yamashita's philosophy on competition and said a lot about his successes. "Just before a tournament," Yamashita told reporters, "I always take a bath, and in the weeks before competition I try to keep my surroundings neat and well-ordered, so I won't be ashamed even if I die during a match."

Think about that quote for a moment, if you will. It is really quite remarkable. "Even if I die..."

During the feudal age, it was a habit of the samurai on the eve of battle to bathe himself with ritual care and to attend to all sorts of details in the eventuality that he did not survive the next day's fighting. He wrote letters to loved ones and sent clippings of his hair home so they could be preserved at the family altar. He would comb and arrange his hair carefully so that if he died, his corpse would be a little less unsightly. Samurai often went to the trouble of burning incense in their helmets before a battle—so that if they were beheaded, the remains would at least be pleasantly perfumed. The classical warrior entered a fight, in short, with the attitude that he would not survive it. He abandoned any thought of living and concentrated his spirit on facing death.

It is very, very difficult for us today to understand the mentality of the feudal Japanese warrior in this regard, since we are separated from him and his world by so much time and distance. Even the modern Japanese often have a vague and frequently inaccurate conception of how the samurai felt about death. Unfortunately, the single best known commentary on the samurai's approach to death is to be found in the Hagakure, a collection of the advice of Yamamoto Tsunetomo. Yamamoto was a samurai retainer in the service of the Nabeshima clan late in the seventeenth century. In 1700 the lord of the clan, Nabeshima Mitsushige, died of natural causes. Yamamoto made known his wishes to disembowel himself, to follow his master into the next life. Earlier in Japanese history, this sort of sacrifice was not uncommon. Junshi was the term for suicide performed to join one's lord in death. By Yamamoto's time, though, the practice had been outlawed by the ruling Tokugawa government. (Not that there is much that could have been done to punish someone after he had died. Nonetheless the laws prohibiting junshi did discourage self-sacrifice, because they dictated that if a samurai were found to have illegally killed himself, all the records of his accomplishments and even those of his ancestors would be destroyed. This was serious business to the warrior class, and its threat no doubt stayed many a hand that would have otherwise reached for the dagger.)

Instead of dying, Yamamoto became a monk and lived in religious seclusion for the rest of his life. His thoughts on the Way of the samurai were recorded in handwritten scrolls by an acquaintance and later published in book form as the Hagakure ( Hidden in the Leaves.) In this work Yamamoto observed that "the way of the samurai is found in death." This is a dramatic statement. It was later quoted to young kamikaze pilots to encourage them to sacrifice themselves during World War II, and it probably would have been effective, one can easily imagine, to goad Japanese citizens into throwing themselves in front of the invading U.S. forces had not the war ended before such an invasion could take place. But dramatic though the sentiment is, it does not really reflect a pervasive attitude about death held by the samurai of Yamamoto's time, not by any means. Yamamoto—and this is significant—was never in a battle. Not even a personal duel. So his words about sacrificing oneself have to be taken in context.

I think a much clearer representation of the Japanese warrior's concept of death was explained by Otake Risuke, the current head instructor of the Katori Shinto ryu, one of Japan's oldest schools of martial strategy. Otake has described the samurai ideal as a person determined "to leave something behind and then to be able to throw away the human body and to accept death." The samurai, like the budoka of today, did not tend to think of death as a convenient end. He regarded it as a daily reminder that we all have a brief moment in the world to accomplish what we will. Death could come for us tomorrow or many years hence. We've no way of knowing when. And so we must throw ourselves into daily life as if each moment could be our last. For the feudal samurai, that meant serving the interests of one's lord, completely and with utter loyalty and commitment. What does it mean for the budoka of this century?

Today, most of those who follow the martial Way do not—thankfully— have to put their skills to the ultimate test of combat. Shiai shobu, the tour-nament match, is very unlike a life-and-death encounter. Still, if one is to enter competition—given that the budo are in a profound and fundamental way an encounter with life and death—it must be with an attitude of utmost sincerity. Many budoka who compete in judo, karate, and kendo have come to approach the contest aspects of these budo forms as if they were a game. They are unaccustomed to thinking in terms of living and dying. They are more comfortable with lesser, more pedestrian concepts such as winning and losing. If they seek the true budo, however, they should never enter into these contests in the spirit of sport. Nor can there be any concern for the scoring of points or for protecting a lead until the clock runs out. The budoka can only settle the matters of life and go into the competition as if he is approaching his death. That is exactly what the judo champion Yamashita did during his brilliant career.

Facing death, allowing into one's consciousness the thought that this performance might cost someone his life no doubt seems contrary to current popular theories about sports. Experts on the subject of what it takes to win these days tend to suggest that competing athletes focus on "positive imaging," conjuring up mental pictures of winning that are supposed to influence the contestant favorably, so that when the tournament day comes the athlete will be able to translate the daydreams of his imagination into real victory.

How can we reconcile these two concepts: the popular notion that positive imaging is the way to win versus the notion of confronting death with each instance of combat, the way Yamashita did? I don't know. But I have a clue. Positive imaging, like the idea of budo as a sport, is a modern notion. Yamashita's view, which calls for just the opposite attitude—contemplating the very worst possible outcome and planning ahead for it—is based on the belief that the budo are far more serious than sport, that within the teachings of the budo there is something to be grasped that is more valuable than just winning.

The budo are more than sport. They are a Way of life, one that, as champions like Yamashita Yasuhiro know, can only be traveled completely by facing death.

Chapter Forty: Formalities

Chapter Forty

Formalities

After morning practice at the dojo yesterday I had to go to a funeral. No, we didn't kill anyone in training. My practice and the funeral were not related. At least, I didn't think they were.

Sitting at the funeral service, it occurred to me that a good many of the mourners did not know how to behave on such an occasion. Some were dressed more appropriately for a game of touch football or for cleaning out the garage than for a funeral. Others were hesitant about approaching the casket or unsure about expressing their condolences to the family. This sort of social vertigo is, unfortunately, all too common in our age. I have seen the same uncertain behavior at virtually every other event in my life that might be categorized as "formal," at weddings, at school commencements, and so on. Brides receive applause now as they stand beside their new husbands in churches and synagogues, as if they were entertainers who have just performed well. As they step up to take their diplomas, graduating seniors at high school or college are greeted with howls and whistles and other noises that would seem to belong in the bleachers at the NBA finals. Some would argue that there is nothing too terribly wrong here. Such behavior is explained away by the notion that people are merely reacting naturally. "Formality" is dismissed, within the parameters of this argument, as artifice. Thus, being informal is not just permissible; it is a sign of mental health. People behaving in an informal way are people being themselves. But having watched the discomfort of those attending the funeral, I must disagree. The informal attendees at that event were not behaving and dressing as they were by choice. They simply did not know how to conduct themselves under the circumstances.

The assumption that all formality is fake and contemptuous and limits the free expression of the self is one of the more lamentable curses of our times. What is worse, it is a curse that we have inflicted upon ourselves. By confusing formality with "snobbishness," decorum with pretension, dignity with egalitarianism, we have dispensed with etiquette and standards of behavior in nearly every facet of our lives. Perhaps we did get rid of the snobbishness and falsity by choosing informality. But we have lost something else as well, haven't we? We have lost a sense of decorum and dignity, and, more important, we have lost the self-confidence and courtesy and respect for ourselves and others that are hallmarks of all worthwhile civilizations.

In my opinion, one of the most significant (and most often overlooked) qualities of the traditional budo is that they offer a method of rediscovering and recovering a sense of formality and all the positive attributes that go with it. When I trained at the dojo the morning of the funeral, we bowed to the kamiza shrine to begin practice. We bowed to one another. In performing the kata—we were practicing iaido, the art of drawing and cutting with the sword—we knew which foot to move away or toward the shrine; we moved so that our weapons in their scabbards would not accidentally clash, we avoided walking in front of others who were sitting or standing. There were dozens of actions we undertook that morning in the dojo, as we do each time we practice there, and all of them are designed to meet the standards of correct etiquette—formality.

I offer two observations on the formality of training in the budo that may be of interest: first, our behavior in the dojo in no way interfered with the process of training. We were not moving about like automatons. We were not so concerned with getting every little aspect of etiquette correct that we had no time to train. The perspiration was flowing liberally. It was a tough workout. In the dojo, learning the proper etiquette, called saho or reishiki in Japanese, is a process that unfolds over a long period of time. It is an ongoing process for the budoka, incrementally introduced. If he is being taught properly, the student in the dojo is never so overwhelmed with rules and regulations of etiquette that he finds it impossible to move. He is taught slowly about manners and the formal way of doing things in the dojo. The lessons are integrated into his training, so they emerge naturally, with a perfect economy of motion. Second, the bulk of the manners exercised, the demands of formality that are required for training in a traditional dojo, are so subtle and so intricately woven into our behavior while training that the uninformed visitor will, in all likelihood, not even be aware that the budoka are exhibiting these manners.

Some of our formalities, shared with generations of martial artists who have come before us, have practical origins. Walking around a sword that has been laid on the floor, for instance, is a courtesy to its owner, but it is also, from a purely pragmatic point of view, safer than stepping over it. Other rituals of dojo etiquette, such as bowing to one another, encourage a sense of concern and appreciation for fellow practitioners. And still other conventions of dojo manners, such as our treatment and behavior toward the dojo shrine, are reflections of the deep sense of the spiritual that pervades all serious budo training.

Formality is very natural in the dojo, even though it is something that must be acquired through careful and expert instruction. After being immersed in it on a daily basis, it becomes, as I said, automatic, a reflex. It is never stultifying, never phony or stiff, at least not to my way of thinking. Some may disagree. They may insist that a latitudinarianism is more expressive of tolerance of the many different backgrounds and lifestyles represented in the dojo. They might maintain that informality is conducive to a more comfortable learning environment. Maybe they have a point. But a lot of the most skilled budoka I have known, regardless of their ethnic or social backgrounds, have submitted themselves to the strict impositions of traditional budo etiquette. They have learned—and extremely well in some cases— under quite formal circumstances, and the formality does not appear to have hampered their education in any way that I can see. The martial artists whose training has been conducted in an atmosphere of formality gain something more as well. They carry that sense of decorum and dignity with them when they leave the dojo. It is not snobbishness or arrogance or antiegalitarianism. It is a calmness, a sense of self-assurance. Formality does not intimidate them, and at times when it is necessary for them to maintain a formal bearing, they do not have to "put it on" or behave stiffly or unnaturally. Formality is a part of their everyday lives as a result of their budo experience, so for the budoka formality is a part of their sense of their own true self. Obviously, one can acquire this familiarity with formality without ever having followed the martial Ways. But I wonder: can one hope to be a serious budoka without it?

Chapter Forty-one: Sabi-Shiori, The Art of Being Alone

Chapter Forty-one

Sabi-Shiori, The Art of Being Alone

What is it that makes the budoka? What, if anything, is the primary quality that distinguishes him from the general population? I do not mean here, of course, anything like technical competency or physical prowess. Nor do I intend to imply by "distinguishes" a kind of superficial celebrity status. Let us for the moment dismiss the arguments about whose techniques are the most lethal or the most authentic or who has been privy to the most arcane secrets of the mystical East. And let us agree that the number of martial arts magazines a persons snarling visage has graced, the videotapes in which he has starred, the Hollywood luminaries under whose shoulder-hugging arm he has been photographed—these are not reliable indices for the quality we are talking about. When I am asking here what it is that makes the budoka, I am entertaining an entirely different idea. What I mean instead is the quality, that character that we see in a rare budoka now and then that leaves us thinking, "That guy is what the martial Ways are supposed to be all about," and wondering how it is we can attain that quality ourselves.

In my opinion, the essence of that quality is difficult to name exactly. Yet it is ever so simple to explain in the way in which it is manifested in the character of the budoka. It is generated and nurtured, I believe, through the process of sabi-shiori. What does this expression mean? It is better to explain it through examples. The practitioner of iaido, alone in the morning cold of the dojo, drawing and striking with his sword, then returning it to its sheath. The karateka who appears at the training hall on a snowy evening to practice his solitary kata when no one else has ventured away from his warm home. The aikidoka who goes off by himself, taking his jo into the woods and practicing the movements that connect him, according to the principles of his art, to the movements of the universe. These are examples of sabi-shiori, a term borrowed from the idiom of Japanese aesthetics. It is best, though awkwardly, translated as "solitary aloneness."

Sabi-shiori for the budoka is a state of mind, really—or, to be more precise, a state of the spirit. It is the recognition that the Way of the budo is inherently an isolated highway, one that leads the traveler on a solitary journey. Even if we are in the crowded midst of a hundred other practitioners at a training seminar or with the dozen or so dojo mates with whom we regularly attend class, our efforts are individual in the martial Ways, intensely so if we progress very far at all. Solo practice, then, is not a change from regular training. It is the normal state of things in the life of the budoka. And although the expression "sabi-shiori"—solitary aloneness—might seem to connote a sadness, a melancholy to be avoided if happiness in life is the object, it is a concept that actually indicates an acceptance of the solitude that much of life brings. Embracing the spirit of sabi-shiori implies a willingness to accept solitude, to use it as an invaluable means of self-development.

Sabi-shiori is also a willingness to take the lessons of the regular classes in the dojo to a higher level. The budoka who is drawn to the budo at this level cannot settle for what is explained in training lectures or teachings that are readily available in books about the budo. He willingly delves deeper, on his own, knowing that the true secrets of these Ways must instead be experienced, worked and woven into the soul. If he is puttering about in his garden, the grip he has on his rake is the same one he uses to hold the sword or staff. Pushing a child in a swing, he moves from the center of his body, the power of the motion emanating from his hips. Reading a history book, he relates the struggles of civilization to what he has learned about the strategy of the martial Ways.

Daily life for the budoka traveling the Way with the spirit of sabi-shiori works the other way, too: not only do the activities of his life provide an opportunity for him to practice his art; his art is also incorporated into and revealed in his life on a day-to-day basis. He strives to be gentle and confident in his actions, to be sensitive to others, to act and react from a position of calmness and strength no matter what obstacles he encounters, in matters as trivial as navigating a traffic jam or as crucial as facing his own death.

Probably somewhere in your own life between the trivial and the crucial, in fact, you have met this kind of budoka and he has inspired you. By that I mean that we tend to run across such people not when we are specifically looking for them, but when the circumstances are just right. We are not in a crisis in our own lives, exactly, yet we know there is something missing. There is a gap that needs to be filled, a compass heading toward which we know we need to be steering ourselves. And then we encounter a budoka of this extraordinary caliber and we grasp that we have found a model, a guide. We do not, despite romantic tales, find a budoka such as this off living by himself as a hermit. The pursuit of sabi-shiori is not an end in itself. Aloneness, the sense of being solitary in order to follow the Way, is not a worthwhile goal in life. Instead, the sensation of sabi-shiori encourages us to be alone frequently better come to know ourselves better. As we uncover these greater insights within, we are more capable of returning to the busy world and being with others in a successful and meaningful way. This state of being is the hallmark of that rare budoka who inspires us. Next time you encounter a person of such a caliber, try to find it, this presence of sabi-shiori, which is inevitably at the foundation of the gracefulness and kindness and quiet strength that mark his persona. See if you can perceive the part of this budoka that—even when he is in the middle of a crowd—is always alone and at home with himself. This is the part of his spirit that will compel him to go to the dojo by himself and walk the path of the budo in contented solitude. If you can see that part of him, then you will have a glimpse of sabi-shiori. And if you are serious about your own journey along the martial Way, you will use that kind of budoka as an example for your own trip. Watch him and learn from him, and then you will be ready to set off on your own path of solitary aloneness.

Chapter Forty-two: Are You Ready?

Chapter Forty-two

Are You Ready?

I was reading an interview with the wonderfully talented potter Toshiko Takaezu the other day, and one of her comments was the sort of observation that stays in your mind, a thought so simply and yet eloquently stated that you recognize it has implications far beyond the matter the person happens to be talking about at just that moment. Ms. Takaezu, a Japanese-American, was describing the time she spent studying the tea ceremony in Kyoto in an effort to polish her understanding of the ceramic utensils that are used as part of that art. She was engaged in training in the tea ceremony at the Urasenke, the oldest of the established schools of the art. One day, while attending to some chores in the offices of the school, she overheard Sen Soshitsu, the current headmaster of the Urasenke ryu, who was talking to a Buddhist priest who was interested in beginning a practice of tea. Soshitsu spoke with the priest at length, Takaezu recalled in the interview, and then Soshitsu told the man bluntly, "You are not ready as a person to make tea. "

That is a thought-provoking comment, isn't it? It becomes even more so, and more cogent from our perspective as followers of the martial Ways, if we substitute for the phrase "make tea" the words "do budo." Are there some people who are not ready to commence a practice of the martial Ways?

I do not mean "ready" in the physical sense, of course. We are not referring to a failure to meet the minimum levels of muscular strength, stamina, or body coordination necessary for the practice of the budo. I mean instead what I think Sen Soshitsu meant when he spoke with the priest who wanted to begin a practice to tea; I mean an emotional and psychological fitness, a standard of spiritual readiness to take up the journey of the martial Way. Regrettably, this is a consideration that will surprise some exponents of karate, aikido, and the like. This breed of practitioner I'm talking about believes that advancement and expertise in the martial Ways come purely from excelling in violent confrontations or winning contests once one has learned to be effective with the techniques of the art. For these individuals, the budo will exist solely in a physical plane. The spiritual and mental dimensions of the martial Ways will remain unknown to them—or more accurately, I would venture to say, these practitioners may suspect that these other dimensions exist, but they are so intimidated by the spiritual and mental realms that they will never make an effort to explore them.

These practitioners remind me of some of the different factions of European society before the great age of discovery, back in the fifteenth century. There were those who just didn't give a damn about the possibility that there existed other lands and other civilizations beyond their own. There were those who knew of the possibility but who, from fear of the unknown or from a selfish desire to maintain the status quo, ridiculed and tried to suppress the idea of exploration. (I must admit that I have a special disdain for these types, because there are still plenty of them around today. Lacking guts and imagination, they seek to dismiss or to deny the existence of these qualities in others.) Finally, there were those who possessed the depth of intellect and courage to pursue, to push off into the deep and forbidding waters in search of new knowledge and the chance of magnificent rewards.

Today the budo tolerates those who wish to practice only at the physical level. It suffers those who downplay or ridicule the more profound reaches of the Way. But it rewards those intrepid enough to follow the Way with sincerity, to make their way toward its most distant and difficult to reach destinations. These are the sort of budoka who, as the tea master Soshitsu might put it, are ready "as people" to do the budo and to make it a fundamental part of their lives.

From the conversation Sen Soshitsu had with the priest, the potter Toshiko Takaezu learned a lesson she considered extremely important for her work in ceramics. "I realized," she said in the interview, "that in order to make good tea bowls, manual skill is not enough. One must turn inward and try to develop inner human qualities for this work."

By her own account, Ms. Takaezu was well into middle age before she began this journey inward. As I admired her work at a recent exhibition, it was easy to see that her efforts at improving herself had contributed to the perfection of her art. Her insights should be of interest to all artists, especially those of the martial variety. We who are on the path of the budo should be asking ourselves, from time to time, "Am I ready as a person to follow this Way?"

Chapter Forty-three: The Spirit of Enryo

Chapter Forty-three

The Spirit of Enryo

In the traditional budo of Japan there are certain attitudes that consistently prevail. Budoka generally do not enter into involved discussions of these attitudes, either among themselves or with outsiders. They do not discuss them with each other because these attitudes are expected to be learned by a kind of social osmosis in the dojo, communicated without words. Budoka do not discuss them with outsiders because it is very difficult to express them in words even to the initiated, and there is a sense that "those who are capable of understanding it will, without being told." So budoka tend to take these attitudes for granted, and, more to the point, seasoned budoka will pass them along to the next generation not through any kind of formal instruction but rather through their own actions. It occurs that those outside this legacy might be interested in learning more about these attitudes. With the arrogance of the writer, who is convinced he can explain intellectually that which is essentially inexplicable via the intellect, then, I approach the subject of enryo.

Enryo may best be described as "emotional reticence" or "stoicism." At the outset of this explanation, I need to stress that those for whom enryo is truly an integral part of their training and life do not demand that others subscribe to enryo as an "approved" form of behavior or way of living one's life in and out of the dojo. If others who come from different cultural traditions wish to live with a different attitude and code of conduct, that is, of course, their right. When enryo is a vital part of the budokas' character they wish only to follow their own path in terms of their own behavior and approach to life and to allow others to do as they wish.

A good example of enryo is the way the budoka expresses his emotions during shiai or competitions related to his martial Way. At some of these competitions it is now common to see participants who have won a bout punch the air in victory and jump up and down with joy over their success. Losers storm and stamp about and display all sorts of anger and frustration and disappointment. Winners acknowledge the adulation of the crowd. Losers sulk or protest. Both may embrace one another after a hard-fought match. None of these displays of emotion or feeling will occur at contests involving traditional budoka. The spirit of enryo pervades. Without looking at the signals of the referee at the end of such competitions it will be impossible to tell who has won; both competitors will be that perfectly stoical. (If you ever have an opportunity to watch a match of sumo, you will see enryo at a kind of rarefied and perfected level by these men, perhaps the last professional warriors on earth, engaged in contests in which enormous sums of money, prestige, and even physical well-being are at stake. Yet their faces, in victory or defeat, are the essence of passion concealed.)

Enryo had its origin on the battlefield of the samurai. Today we have what are appropriately called shiai shobu "tournament contests." In the days of the samurai, though, it was a matter of shinken shobu," a fight with live blades." Scoring a point in that kind of situation meant inflicting a serious, possibly lethal wound against an opponent who was trying very, very hard to do the same damage to you. Your job, as a samurai, was to protect the interests of your lord. Even with death at hand, you could not forget your primary task in a fight: take out the enemy. To show your opponent that you were hurt or frightened or angry or frustrated ("scored on") was to give him a dangerous advantage over you. "Show him nothing" was believed to be the warrior's best strategy. Keep him guessing about how badly he has hurt or intimidated you. Make him wonder if you might be superhuman, or cause him to doubt his own ability, even for a second, and the advantage was yours.

Defeating an opponent, on the other hand, could also present other dangers. Concentrating on cutting down one enemy could distract you from another who was coming up behind and planning his own attack on you. The expression used by the samurai, "in victory, tighten your helmet cords" was not entirely figurative. Not at all. A samurai whooping around in a victory dance or a show of exultation could quickly be cut down. To be alive at the end of the day, to continue to breathe and to be upright and capable of taking nourishment, was enough of a celebration for him.

If they have been trained correctly and with the proper feeling, budoka today will inherit some of the spirit of the classical samurai. Budoka are also influenced by the philosophy of Zen Buddhism, a doctrine that began to exert a strong influence on the budo late in the nineteenth century. Zen addresses a number of questions about the way in which the budoka ought to approach his life and to contemplate his death. Contrary to some widespread misconceptions, Zen does not teach an indifference to life and death. It insists, rather, on putting life and death in perspective. What does it mean, in the space of an entire lifetime, to have won or lost a particular tournament? What is the value of such a victory measured against the important goals of a life well lived? These are some of the questions Zen may raise for the serious budoka. Concern for winning or losing, especially after the matter has been decided, is not "wrong," the philosophy of Zen would instruct. It is merely irrelevant. Both the winner and the loser will be contemplating what they did during the contest and how they might improve the next time. But there is no need for any display of emotion once it's over. To indulge in demonstrations of disappointment or celebration is to risk ignoring what is going on right now and to avoid dealing with the present. What the outsider might see as a kind of coldness or impassivity on the part of a budoka is really a full participation in the moment at hand.

Enryo, this affinity to stoicism, and to reticence, this constant sense of control over the display of emotions (and control over the display is not at all the same as controlling the emotion itself) is not merely an attitude, a way of behaving under certain circumstances; it is a way of living. Not the only way of living, the budoka understands. But it is a way full of history and meaning and a deep resonance of spirituality. It is the one he prefers.

Chapter Forty-four: Not Knowing, But Doing

Chapter Forty-four

Not Knowing, But Doing

A budo colleague of mine recently posed the question more tactfully, but his query was essentially this: if the budo are supposed to be all about spiritual enlightenment and the polishing of virtue and all that good stuff, then how come so many budo teachers are such self-indulgent jerks?

Let's make a distinction: we are not speaking here of those teachers of the martial Ways (or at least those who are claiming to be teachers of the martial Ways) who knowingly exploit their students sexually, financially, or in other ways. They are simply frauds and criminals. We are talking here specifically of those sensei who truly, honestly believe that they are in the business of promoting spiritual and moral and social values through their instruction at the dojo, when in fact what they are promoting more than anything else is their own ego. The comments of an aikidoka friend present a perfect example.

"I was asked to give a lecture on this very subject at an international aikido training camp," he recalled, "on sensei who behave selfishly and who put their own desires above the needs of their students. Funny thing," he went on, "there were at least four sensei in the audience who were the very sort I was talking about. I was describing them perfectly, I thought, and I was getting a kick as I went on, imagining that I was really making them squirm. And do you know, three of the four guys came up afterward and congratulated me on spotlighting this problem! They completely missed that I was talking about them."

The disparity between what some budo teachers say and what they actually do is best understood in light of the thinking of a Chinese philosopher of the Confucian tradition, Wang Yang Ming, whose ideas had a powerful influence on the martial Ways of Japan during the latter part of Japans feudal period. Central to the philosophy evolved by Wang Yang Ming (1422-1528) is the notion that the individual's highest aspirations in life should be his efforts to improve himself in order to create a better society. This may seem like an obvious notion to us today. Yet you must remember that much of the ethos of feudal Japan was based on ideas that were completely contrary to those of Wang's, ideas that had been formulated by another Chinese scholar, Chu Hsi (1130-1200). According to Chu Hsi, the duty of the individual was to perfect himself, the better to serve not society as a whole but his lord or master. You can probably imagine how enamored the feudal lords of Japan were with Chu Hsi s philosophy, given that they needed the absolute loyalty of their samurai if they were to retain their political power. This doctrine could not have served the lords' interests more perfectly. You can imagine, too, how the contrasting principles of Wang Yang Ming, advocating that one's efforts ultimately ought to be directed inward for the purposes of creating a better society in general, radically galvanized the thinking of many of the classical warriors of Japan.

Wang Yang Ming maintained that a person would be making an important step toward self-realization when he pursued the sort of life wherein he acted on his principles and beliefs. Wang Yang Ming carried this notion one step further, insisting that to state or to promote a belief and then not to act accordingly was evidence that one did not really understand that belief in the first place. Theory and cognitive thought was important to him, but not nearly as important as the implementation of the ideas expressed through the intellect. This philosophy is best expressed in the aphorism in Japanese, toku iva shiru ni yorazu okono ni ari: "Virtue lies not in knowing but in doing."

Wang Yang Ming's philosophy sounds a bit anti-intellectual on one level, and in a way it is. Developing ideals and values as part of one's intellect and talking and thinking about them—these are important in the psychological and social growth of the individual. But having these ideals and standards is not as important, according to Wang's view, as acting on them. In a very concrete way, we in the budo are the inheritors of Wang's philosophy of placing the doing above the knowing. In the dojo, "knowing" how to intercept a strike, understanding the kinesiology and physics and principles behind the movement—these are always secondary to the actual physical ability to do it.

Wang's thoughts on virtue were not meant to be confined to the arena of training, not for the warrior who followed them sincerely. His philosophy extended to the heart of the spiritual and moral self. The "do as I say and not as I do" school of thought has no tradition or respect in the budo. When you encounter a budo teacher who does not live up to his own professed standards, what you are seeing is a deviation from Wang Yang Ming's philosophy, a philosophy that has guided the thinking of budoka now for many, many generations.

I would venture to guess that Wang's thought particularly appealed to the samurai because it presented a challenging way to live one's life. It is extremely difficult to integrate ideas and deeds, to make the flesh and the spirit, as St. Paul would have put it, come into harmony. Making knowing and doing a simultaneous act is not for the weakling or for those with tendencies to take the easy way out. Indeed, as we can see by the behavior in our politicians and other public figures, not a lot of people in our times are able to espouse—and act on—Wang's philosophy. The dojo, after all, is not the only place where we are apt to find leaders whose words do not match their actions. But you can bet there are few places where the discrepancy is more obvious.

Chapter Forty-five: Moving Toward Stillness

Chapter Forty-five

Moving Toward Stillness

A talent is formed in stillness, a character in the world's torrent.

—Goethe    

For budoka there are frustrations. Lots of them. Torments. Distractions. There are setbacks, physical injuries that hold up progress for weeks or sometimes months or longer. And there are the psychological barriers that can be daunting enough to convince us that we wont ever make any more progress. And, of course, there is always the nagging sense of doubt, one often reinforced by others around us who are not engaged in this odd and very foreign quest and who will make it clear that they believe the whole enterprise is rather a silly waste of time. Where exactly is it we are intending to go? they ask us, and we ask ourselves the same question in moments of doubt. Where do we expect the Ways to lead?

Do not kid yourself. Ours is by no means the first generation of budoka to be plagued in this manner. We are linked if by no other connection to those who preceded us, all the way back to the samurai, by the common miseries of our journey. If we are separated from our ancestors in the budo in a significant way, it is not by the doubts and distractions we have all experienced. Rather the difference is that we are not quite sure where we are going on the Way, but our predecessors seem to have had a pretty good idea of their destination as budoka. I cannot claim any special insight into their minds, I hasten to add. Yet when I read the thoughts they left behind, and more vitally for my understanding the budoka of earlier times, when I train in the methods they have passed down, I am struck by a feeling that seems to be expressed time and again. Read their words and you will see the sentiment I am describing.

From the densho, the teachings of the feudal era Saburi ryu, a tradition of martial strategy that featured the use of the spear, comes a bit of verse:

The heart that can hear frost forming in the middle of a cold night,
when confronted with an opponent,
will be victorious.

From the written teachings of the Shinkage ryu comes another poem, describing the moment just before swords are crossed and life and death is to be decided:

A flower, scattering, falls without sound on the moss.
A flower, scattering, can be heard in the depths of this mountain.

And from dozens of different classical schools of martial strategy we can read of the concept of suigetsu, "the moon and the water," advice on keeping the mind as still as the water of a pond, perfectly reflecting the moon.

In each of these writings we find the same message: the search for a deep quiet, a stillness of the soul so profound, so inutterably vast that it is beyond agitation, so intense and concentrated in the core of a human that nothing escapes it, nothing can capture or destroy it.

The budoka who takes this way of being into consideration as the destination for his own martial journey will be brought face to face with a dichotomy. All of the budo involve movement. In most forms of the budo the movement can be quite vigorous. In their execution, the martial Ways are explosive bursts of terrific energy. If it is stillness and quiet you want, then sit in a zendo, a hall devoted to the practice of meditation. But the dojo, seems to be the opposite of a place where you would expect to find stillness. As the warrior of old grasped, however, the milieu of the martial Ways was one where motion, the frantic activity of combat, was a route to be traveled to reach this still point.

It is not fair to tell you that such stillness is beyond explaining in words— after all, if it is, then why am I trying to write about it? But I can tell you that the experiences of this stillness are ones that can only be reached through the process of following the Way with both the mind and the body. The budo begin with a training of the gross muscles and then advance to the education and strengthening of the smaller, finer ones and then on to the conditioning of the sinews and ligaments and the reflexes and nerves themselves. Attitudes, feelings, and emotions are all brought into harmony in the process, acting in coordination with the body, and all of this occurs under the aegis of movement and struggle. The movement does not stop, nor does the struggle, not so long as the budoka is alive and able to function at all. But somewhere along this Way, a point of balance is reached. In that balance there is the stillness, the calm in the eye of a great storm. The quiet that hears frost forming on a cold night, that detects the sounds of a flower's petals dropping onto the mossy floor of the valley. A state of being that is as placid as the reflection of the moon on a pond's surface.

It is this stillness toward which we move when we follow a martial Way with sincerity and purpose. It is not an easy trip. The Way is filled with all sorts of difficulties. Don't give up. Stay on the path. Keep moving along the Way. Keep moving toward stillness.