On the other hand, the Japanese had been conducting national tournaments since the mid-1950’s.  They used standardized rules and had developed highly effective programs for training and certifying judges and referees.

Tournaments in the U.S. caught on like wildfire.  The problem was that each one utilized a different set of rules and the officials weren’t formally trained –let alone certified – in any way, shape, or form.  If you wore a black belt, you were a judge.  Period.

But all of that is kindling for another of my ramblings later on.  I just wanted to give you an idea of how popular tournaments became in America as well as Japan.  However, the “old way” of viewing tournaments – a device employed in Japan – was and still is very different from how Americans typically look at tournaments.

Americans love competition.  Period.  We are unquestionably the most competitive people on the face of the earth.  Like Gen. George Patton said in his famous speech to the 7th Cavalry Division, “Americans love a winner and will not tolerate a loser.”  Very true.  And we haven’t changed one iota since those words were spoken back in 1943.

The problem is not so much in our enthusiasm for competition, but how we can use it constructively.  The Japanese see their karate tournaments very differently.

The word for “tournament” in Japanese is shiai (and in Chinese, shi-he).  It is comprised of two radicals.  The first is “shi”, which means “to test.”  The second radical, “ai”, is the same “ai” that is found in the name of the martial art of aikido.  It means “join, together.”  Thus, the term shiai refers to a testing of both participants.  They test themselves against each other, each one seeing how his or her skills stack up to someone else of about the same skill level.

This is considerably different from thinking of winning or losing, of getting a trophy or a medal, of becoming a “champion.”  Rather, it is a very personal thing; it’s an opportunity to find out where our strengths – and more importantly, our weaknesses – lie.  Those weaknesses can often be found in places where we’d prefer not to look.  They’re not limited to our physical techniques; we may find that we have to face our own fears (of losing, of “looking bad”, or being embarrassed), and other mental and emotional weaknesses such as anger.  And for many people, that’s just too much.  They can’t do it.

I’ve heard lots of excuses over the years.  “I don’t believe in tournaments,” one karateka says.  “They’re not the real thing and that’s what I train for.”   Other use equally lame excuses such as “I’m too dangerous and I might hurt somebody” (Bruce Lee used that one), and “I don’t need to prove anything to anybody.”  The list is almost endless.

However, I think that it’s a good idea for all martial arts enthusiasts – those whose chosen disciplines allow for competition – to compete at least a couple of times…for the experience, if nothing else.  How can you make statements about tournaments if you’ve never participated in one?  More importantly, though, I think we can all gain something by altering our view of tournament competition and looking more closely at the Japanese model.  The shiai.  Testing ourselves.

Love,
Sifu
 

It isn’t something that is demanded of students (which is largely why it isn’t commonly discussed) because it is an attitude – a spirit, if you will – that was (and still is) prevalent among the warrior traditions of several Asian cultures.  This is especially true of Japanese culture, which produced a professional warrior caste known as the samurai.

If you attend the type of martial arts competitions that are common these days, you’ll probably not see enryo in any way, shape, or form.  Rather, you’ll see the winners of various bouts raise their arms and dance around in glee while their opponents gnash their teeth and, in some extreme cases, stomp their feet and throw a temper tantrum.  This kind of behavior is at the opposite end of the spectrum from enryo.  The same is true if, during sparring competition, a contestant is struck and immediately grabs his or her head, abdomen, shin, or whatever…grimaces (and maybe screams) in pain.  No, this is about as far from enryo as we can get.

Enryo originated on the battlefields of the samurai and other Asian professional warriors.  While we may enjoy the give and take of modern competition, in days long past the exchanges of blows with or without weapons were made with deadly seriousness.  There were no second-place winners and if your enemy landed a blow (“scored on you”) in the heat of battle, it would be most unwise to let him know if you were injured or to become angry.  Those would be weaknesses that he could easily exploit and use to finally defeat you.

Instead, you wouldn’t blink an eye.  You dared not let him know if you were injured or even if he had successfully struck you.  This could easily make him doubt his skill and make you appear to be almost superhuman.  It could intimidate him; a flaw that you could exploit.

Moreover, delighting in the defeat of an enemy could easily blind you to the fact that one of your victim’s cohorts is standing behind you, preparing to deliver a fatal blow.  The old samurai saying, “In victory, tighten your helmet cords”, reminds us of this.  A samurai who rejoiced by jumping around, “woot-wooting” to all of his buddies, could be cut down very easily.

Watch a traditional Japanese karate contest (many are available on youtube).  At the end of the bout, neither the winner nor the loser will show any emotion whatsoever.  They bow to the judge and to each other and the only way that you can tell which contestant won the match is via the center referee’s signal.  Rather than engaging in useless displays of emotion, both competitors restrain themselves and think about what they did wrong and how they might improve themselves through further training.

This affinity to reticence, to stoicism, this constant control over one’s emotions, is not simply a way of behaving under certain conditions; it is a way of living.  It isn’t the only way but it’s the one that we, as traditional martial arts practitioners, prefer.

Love,
Sifu    
 

I would often sit at my keyboard until the wee hours of the morning, working on my book and trying to decide whether or not I should insert a comma here or a semi-colon there.  Believe me, it’s a lot tougher than you might think.  Before long, I’d feel as if my brain was beginning to turn into some sort of exotic cheese, so I’d slap together a sandwich, grab a cup of coffee, and relax on the front porch.  It was summer and evenings in the country are often cool and always refreshing.  The absence of city lights makes the stars seem so much brighter and closer.  There are no sirens, no rumbling of traffic, no squealing tires, flashing lights, or neon signs.

Thick woods sprang up no more than fifty yards behind our mobile home and it was not at all unusual to see small herds of deer crossing Front Street, which is where our home was located.  Turkeys were a road hazard, and all manner of other woodland creatures frequented our backyard.  And so it was that while I was enjoying a peanut butter and jelly sandwich one night, I heard a dull scraping sound off to my left.  I didn’t want to frighten the critter, whatever it might be, so I kept relatively still and used my peripheral vision to observe what was happening.

I had set my sandwich down on a paper plate and it had attracted something.  Within a few seconds I noticed two sets of small (but very sharp) claws coming up over the edge of the left side of the porch.  Then, the top of a small head appeared and two eyes glittered from behind a black mask, fixing themselves on my sandwich.  A raccoon!

I moved my hand slowly to the sandwich, noting that the coon (which is what we country folks call ‘em) quickly ducked down and scurried underneath the porch.  I tore off a chunk of the sweet, jellied treat and pushed it over to the edge of the porch.  Within a few seconds, the two sets of claws reappeared.  The masked bandit peeked over the top of the porch, carefully eyed me, and then stretched out a paw and deftly seized the morsel of bread.  In an instant he was gone but within a few seconds he reappeared, looking for more.

"A little greedy, are we?" I said to him.  "And gutsy, too.  Alright, here’s another chunk."  I tore off more of the sandwich and pushed it over to the edge of the porch.  It was gone almost instantly.

The coon and I continued our ritual every night for several weeks.  Before long, he’d come running up onto the porch when he heard me step outside.  He’d sit in my lap and eat out of my hand.  He was particularly fond of marshmallows, bananas, and jelly sandwiches.  I named him "Kemosabe", which was Tanto’s nickname for the Lone Ranger (if you’re too young to remember this stuff, go look it up; it’s what made America great).

Naturally, my wife was curious about seeing my masked friend, so she waited by the screen door one night as I stepped outside.  Sure enough, Kemo came scrambling up the front steps towards me but he noticed that something was different.  He stopped and looked at her carefully.  Her hand went to her mouth to stifle a shout and Kemo took off like a shot.  I asked her what she’d done and she said that she was scared of wild animals and had nearly squealed in fear.

The next night she tried it again, standing behind the safety of the door as she tossed a piece of jelly sandwich out onto the stoop but Kemo was having none of it.  He wouldn’t come up onto the porch until she closed the door and the two of us were alone.  Over the next few weeks several other people tried to feed my masked friend but he wouldn’t come near them at all.  He’d accept food and affection only from me.

I eventually shortened his name to "Kemo" and we enjoyed many wonderful meals and conversations.  As you might imagine, I did most of the talking but even so, Kemo taught me a great deal about…martial arts!

Yeah, I know…it sounds like maybe this old man has finally stepped over the edge but listen up.  You might learn something and there’ll be a quiz at the end of this essay.

I used to wonder why Kemo would only take food from me; why he’d run away when anyone else offered him food.  It occurred to me that Kemo and I had developed a relationship only after I had been VERY patient with him over a period of time.  The other folks hadn’t and he wanted no part of their generosity.

I think training is very much like that.  How often have I seen students try to “hurry” the learning process and “force” themselves to memorize this or that form, increase power in their punch, and so on!   “I’m going to get this technique even if I have to practice it all night!”  Sound familiar?  Sure, it does.  “I’m going to master this form even if it kills me!”  Yeah…you bet.  That kind of determination is nice but it’s misdirected.  You cannot force learning.  You cannot hurry the development of real skill.  And you can’t rush the process of building a friendship with a raccoon.  You have to take it a little at a time and learn to enjoy the journey!  Accept the idea that you’ll get there…eventually.  Maybe not today, probably not even next week or next month.  But that’s okay.  Enjoy the journey.

Love,
Sifu

Few martial arts enthusiasts ever stop to consider other aspects of the old master’s life – the difficulties he encountered and the prices he paid as he traveled the path of the budo.  For instance, when he was training in Okinawa he would go to his master’s house at night, walking along a dirt path through a dense forest (read, “jungle”).  It was so dark that the moonlight didn’t illuminate the trail and he usually carried a lantern to light the way.  Arriving at his teacher’s home, he would train for 2-3 hours and then return home to catch about 3 hours of sleep before having to go to work the next day.

When he first began teaching in Japan he made extra money by working as a gardener at the university.  He was provided a single-room apartment at the school.  His wife had stayed in Okinawa, knowing that she would only be a burden to him as he scraped along for the first few years.  Later, his two sons would join him but his wife stayed in Okinawa and although he wanted to go back to see her, he was never able to do because the popularity of karate kept him extremely busy.

Think about that for a while…he lived alone in a single-room apartment and eked out a living doing whatever menial jobs he could find at the university.

Then WWII arrived.  Most of his students joined or were drafted into military service.  Ultimately, his beautiful dojo, which had been built for him by his dedicated students, was fire-bombed by the Allies.  Most of his students died in battle…and that doesn’t include one of his sons, who also perished during this terrible time.

He was left with…nothing.  During the Allied occupation, he continued to teach – and lost his other son to starvation – and still, he produced some of the finest karate masters the world has ever known.  

None of this, however, is reflected on his noble face in the famous photographic portrait of Funakoshi.

Most of us have also seen photos of Jigaro Kano, the founder of modern judo.  Kano was very sickly as a youth and took up jujutsu to improve his health.  In the process, he became one of the greatest educators of all time and some of his writings about education are still studied today.

But before he became so famous, he taught his new art, judo, in a small and rather old and rickety gym.  He and a handful of his senior students would often wriggle into the crawlspace beneath the gym’s wooden floor and repair it with wooden props so that it would stand up to another day’s training!

Aikido’s legendary founder, Morihei Uyeshiba, was a total flop as a businessman.  He tried running a print shop but it went belly-up within a couple of years.  In the ensuing years, he (and his wife) often endured times of extreme hardship – not having any heat in their tiny home or dojo, going without proper food and other necessities. 

I could go on and on with similar stories involving other well-known martial arts personalities…but what matters isn’t so much what hardships each one endured; it’s the fact that they DID endure it and continued to move forward with their training instead of throwing up their hands and giving in.  They had come to understand that there are “toll bridges” on the path of the martial arts and anyone who travels that path will eventually have to ante up and pay the price from time to time.

Those who have been on the path for a while understand that there’s really no end to paying these tolls…and they have come to expect it every so often.  We have decided to set out upon a way that is very severe.  Rather than being congratulated for having made it over a particularly difficult stretch, we find ourselves inundated with more techniques to master, more forms to practice.  And the further travel, the more demanding it becomes.  The slightest error, the tiniest lapse in attention is brought into view for everyone to see.  Our weaknesses and faults are laid bare before us.

And if we continue to press on to the point where we feel certain that our teachers and senior will no longer pour criticism upon us, we find that we are expected to turn inward and examine ourselves from within.  We must look not only at our technique but our lifestyles as well and impose even more hardships upon ourselves, seeking a level of discipline that is known to only a few.

In Japan this severe form of self-discipline is known as shugyo.  It is also sometimes known as hiya meshi o michi (the way of eating cold rice).  If you’ve never eaten cold rice, it’s an interesting experience…but it certainly isn’t tasty.  The idea is that a bowl of cold rice can make us realize that even the most fortunate of us must occasionally suffer.  Although it may not be a pleasant meal it is every bit as sustaining as warm rice – and this is much like the martial ways.  They are disciplines that are stripped of self-indulgence and ego, both of which are things that destroy the ability to travel the martial path.

The budoka (martial arts person) accepts cold rice because he or she sees it as a way of building discipline and learning to appreciate “hot rice” when it is available.  Eventually, we can learn to appreciate the cold rice as well and when we can do that, we can accept whatever curves life throws at us.

Our martial forefathers endured and suffered much.  They often consumed plenty of cold rice and they did so without a complaint, without blaming anyone, and knowing that it would sustain them and even make them stronger.  Can we do any less?  Those who would travel this path must do so knowing full well that from time to time, they’re going to have to sit down to a bowl of cold rice.

Love,
Sifu

For several decades now, I’ve listened to many martial arts enthusiasts grump and whine about how traditional forms are unrealistic and do little else than mass-produce human robots.  For this reason, many karate and kung-fu adherents toss away the forms they originally learned from their teachers and strive to invent their own flashier, “more realistic” versions.  Others simply chuck the whole idea of learning and practicing forms out the window altogether and focus on “reality” fighting.  In both cases, what we are seeing is simply an outward expression of ignorance.

Okay, let’s back up this whole idea and start at the beginning.  Any given form is learned in stages.  In the first stage, you strive to memorize the movements.  This isn’t necessarily as easy as it would seem; after all, some forms are more than a little complicated and they have to be learned slowly, step-by-step, until they can be performed without having to stop and think about which movement comes next.

Many students, and even a good number of martial arts instructors that I’ve met, never pass beyond this stage.  They figure that once they’ve memorized the form, that’s it.  It’s more of a floor exercise routine than it is a book that contains valuable information.  They’re not interested in reading it; they just like to look at the pictures, as it were.

Those who have a deeper desire to learn real martial arts will move on to the second stage.  At this stage the practitioner strives to understand and then master the physical mechanics of the form.  This involves not only the study of each individual technique that is presented in the set, but also breathing and rhythms.  These people have a deeper respect for the art they practice and their efforts will foster a deeper understand of the form and their art as a whole.

Unfortunately, most martial arts enthusiasts never progress beyond this stage.  They get stuck in the mire of being a “copy”; of the actual physical mechanics of the form.

Once you have memorized the movements of the form and you have acquired skill in the mechanical aspects of it, you need to create it.

?

A form is not an entity that you can hold in your hand or measure or weigh.  It has no life of its own like your dog or cat or even the tree in your front yard.  In short, it does not exist apart from the individual who performs it at any given time.  When that happens – when someone performs a particular set – it exists only for him or her and no one else.

That is, the person executing the form gives it life and spirit…or not, depending upon his or her understanding and feeling of the form, and his or her level of creativity.

Each time you perform a given form, you create it!

Or not.  Maybe yours is a lifeless, mechanical robot.  It is void of feeling and spirit.  It is nothing more than a machine; a series of mechanical movements strung together in a certain sequence.  And that’s it.

That’s what I call a “shell.”  It has an outside but no heart.  No guts.  No feeling.

And this is why you’ll never be able to do your form exactly as your instructor does it.  You are not him.  Your physical structure – your body – is different from his.  And your mind – what you feel, how you feel it, how you express yourself – is different from his.  And if he’s a well-trained teacher who has a deep understanding and appreciation of his art, he’ll encourage you to be yourself and express your own creativity through your form.

This doesn’t mean that you’ll start changing the movements, body shifting, footwork, or rhythm of your form.  It means that you’ll literally breathe life into it.  Remember, it exists only when you perform it and its life-span is very short.  When you end it, the form ceases to exist.  It is gone forever.  Sure, you can do it again…but it’s not the same form.  Each time you do it, you re-create.  And each re-creation is different, unique unto itself because you yourself change with each passing moment.

What kind of form will appear when you perform it this time?  How will it feel?  What is its spirit?  If it could be colored, what color would it be?  Will it be geeky…rather bland and colorless?  Or will it be like stone…hard and heavy?  Will it be fiery or will it be like water that moves around objects and takes on the form of its container?  Some forms are meant to be practiced so that they are hard or fiery or like water or even wind…and that’s how you should strive to do them.  But you breathe your own unique character into them each time you practice them.

Love,
Sifu

And just what, pray, does this obscure idea have to do in so far as the practice of martial arts is concerned?  Well…everything.

You move through the stages of your chosen discipline, learning how to execute certain techniques, analyzing various forms, studying different methods of footwork and body shifting…and that’s all fine and well.  You cannot possibly learn martial arts without doing these things.  And when you begin learning how to apply your footwork and techniques against a partner, everything is usually prearranged and practiced in a very controlled manner.  Again, this is absolutely necessary.

But it isn’t real.  Not even close.

It is interesting to look at what happens when a student is suddenly attacked in a very realistic manner.  I remember an incident that involved our Chief Instructor and an intermediate student.  The instructor was teaching basic self-defense techniques that can be applied against various holds, grabs, and strangles.  He wished to emphasize that the most important feature of any self-defense technique was maintaining composure and keeping centered.  “If you lose your center,” he said, “you are completely lost and you won’t be able to defend yourself.”

So saying, he directed one of the students to stand in front of him.  “I will attack you with a front strangle,” he said.  “Are you ready?”  The student, who had practiced the standard defensive maneuver against this form of attack many times, confidently nodded his head.  Without the slightest delay, the teacher’s hand shot out and seized the student’s throat with enough force that he stumbled backward.  He kept back-pedaling, unable to catch his balance while the instructor continued to squeeze his throat and cut off his air.  His eyes opened as wide as possible and the student fumbled for the instructor’s hands, trying desperately to free himself.  He couldn’t.  The look of utter, stark, fear was painted all over his face as he was slammed up against the wall and his teacher continued to squeeze his throat.

Finally, he reacted appropriately and executed the defensive technique that he had practiced so many times before.  The teacher relinquished his grip and smiled.  “Now you know what I mean,” he said.  “You’ve done that self-defense technique many times but it was never real.  When I made it real you started to flounder…until you centered yourself.”  Pale and perhaps a bit embarrassed, the student agreed.  Of course, every one of his classmates knew that they would have reacted in exactly the same way…or worse.

Some martial arts enthusiasts would have tried to make excuses; “I wasn’t ready”, or “It doesn’t happen that way in the street”, or “I would have reacted differently if I’d been on the street”, and so on.  The list is endless but whether or not their excuses are accurate is pointless within the context of the martial arts.  In the training hall an attack or defensive maneuver either succeeds or fails.  Period.  There’s no in-between, no excuses.  Responses (or lack of them) cannot be explained away.  They either work or they don’t.  You can only respond to each attack directly and sincerely, without the slightest hesitation.  That is zhijiexin.

This is why instructors sometimes encourage students to act without thought.  There can be no analyzing, no deliberation, no excuses…only action that is as immediate and natural as slapping a mosquito that has landed on your arm.  Direct Mind.

Love,
Sifu

Nijinsky was born into a family of dancers and so it was only natural that he would continue along that line.  At a time when Russia maintained a monopoly on the ballet, Nijinsky eventually became Russia’s greatest ballet dancer.  More than that, he was/is very likely the greatest ballet dancer of all time.

Nijinsky was able to perform perform a jump and fly across most of the entire stage before landing!  The stage upon which ballets are/were performed is quite large and a jump of this length borders on the superhuman.  Moreover, many observers attested to Nijinsky’s  strange ability to seemingly defy gravity; he would descend from a jump slower than when he initiated the technique and ascended!

Now, what does this have to do with martial arts?

Lots.

Skill is skill, regardless of what one practices - whether it’s martial arts, ballet, hatchet throwing, or underwater basket weaving.  The requirements for true mastery are are the same.

Nijinsky took his chosen art to another level.  He wasn’t satisfied with simply being able to do what every other ballet dancer of his time did.  He wanted to excel, to go beyond mere technique.  And he did.

But he didn’t do it by intellectualizing about it.  He didn’t do it by finding reasons not to practice, by giving up whenever he had some minor ache or pain, or by listening to those who insisted that he’d never make it.  He didn’t achieve this supremely high level of skill because he was satisfied with what he could do or by being content to adhere to the level (of ability) that were considered the "norm."

He succeeded because he devoted himself to his art, his practice, and because he pushed himself past the "accepted" limits.  This isn’t to say that he practiced "stupidly."  He didn’t try to do more than his body could handle at any given level.  If he had, he would likely have injured himself and set himself back several months or even years.  No, he practiced "smart."  He knew how far he could push himself at any given stage of training and he took his time.  Most importantly, he didn’t quit or slack off.  He kept at it, one day at a time…day after day, month after month, year after year, determined to "go beyond."  He set goals, worked to reach them, and then set goals again…over and over.

Sure, we’ve all heard or read stories about past masters of various martial arts who transcended technique.  Some, like Morihei Uyeshiba (the founder of aikido), lived well into the twentieth century.  But how many of us have aspired to reach the levels of skill that such men achieved?  It’s much easier to look at their examples and say, "Wow!  He was a really great master!  I sure wish that I could reach that level of skill."…and then forget about it.

Here’s a hint…those masters didn’t do that; they didn’t engage in mere wishful thinking.  A dream minus effort equals an empty wish.  They knew that and they didn’t daydream about what they wanted to do.  They started walking the path, knowing that they would undoubtedly encounter many hardships along the way.  But that is the only path and anyone who desires to acquire real skill must walk it.

If we don’t aspire to reach their levels of skill what is the future of the martial arts that we so dearly love?

Can we not aspire to go beyond the levels that they reached? Who says we can’t?

Love,
Sifu

"Absorb what is useful,
Reject what is useless,
Add what is specifically your own."

Determing just what is useful and what isn’t is quite a daunting task and one that should be examined closely.  After all, a goodly number of today’s so-called "mixed martial arts" crowd as well as followers of numerous eclectic martial ways state very clearly that traditional martial arts aren’t entirely applicable to modern combat or combat at all.  They believe that numerous techniques that are taught within the traditional martial arts either don’t work very well or, in some cases, not at all.  This, they say, is why they have chosen to follow their "own paths."

Executing a correct reverse punch, front snap kick, kotegaeshi, or o-soto-gari is a pretty daunting task for most raw beginners who have had little or no previous martial arts training.  The new student can spend hours working on any one of these techniques for a whole month and it still is practically worthless in a real fight.  The reason why is obvious; to develop any technique so that it is truly usable requires a great deal of practice over a period of time!  There are no short cuts.  My teacher said that developing effective technique is like making tea.  It can’t be hurried and any attempt to do so will only ruin the drink.

It would be easy but very premature and terribly foolish for the novice to simply dismiss these fundamental techniques as being "useless."  The same holds true for other, more advanced techniques that he or she will eventually learn.  I’m sure that you’ve encountered techniques that just didn’t work at first.  I know I have.  Still do.  But with patience, some introspection, and lots of practice you’ve been able to see how they should be done, where your mistakes were, and suddenly they become functional!

When you learn a technique that doesn’t seem to work well for you, ask yourself, "why?"  What are you doing wrong?  Sometimes the error lies in the physical execution of the technique but sometimes it is hidden in a less obvious place.  Maybe it’s your timing that’s off - and that can be indicative of a mental/psychological error or block of some kind, can’t it?  Perhaps it’s your approach to the application of the technique or your approach (physical, mental, or even spiritual) towards your training "opponent."  Regardless, the error is thine.  Find it and correct it.  Sometimes it’s the finding of the error that corrects it.

I was recently reading a book wherein the author stated that a particular movement in a basic karate form was placed there by its creator to show future students why they should NOT execute a particular technique.  Seriously.  It involved Pinan San (aka. "Heian Sandan)…the questioned technique involves a lunging spear-hand.  This is followed by a backward pivot which is made while the performer folds his arm behind his back in the manner of a "hammerlock."  The book’s author believes that Master Itosu (who created the five Pinan katas) was showing students that if they tried to execute this kind of spear-hand thrust, the opponent could wrap them up in a hammerlock.  The succeeding movement then shows how to escape from that particular elbow twist.

How absolutely absurd!  Why would any martial arts master bother to teach students incorrect technique through a kata?  This idea is beyond ridiculous.  Obviously, the author never bothered to study the bunkai (interpretation) of this particular kata in any depth…Rather than do that, he came up with a wild conclusion that Itosu was warning students not to perform a particular technique in a certain way.  Were that true, it would be possible to formulate an almost endless kata based on "what not to do…"

To say that techniques of the traditional martial arts are not effective (in self-defense) is a blatant display of one’s own ignorance, and perhaps, one’s unwillingness to put in the required practice (which is a nice way of saying "lazy").  In days long since past, professional warriors (e.g., policemen, soldiers, bodyguards, and their teachers) relied on these arts for their very survival.  Back then, it was pretty easy to determine if a given technique worked.  If it didn’t, you died.  Those who developed techniques that didn’t work took their failures with them to the their graves.  For the most part, we’ll never know what they were.

The techniques that did work are still with us to this day.  If they didn’t work, they would have been buried long ago.  So, to say that the surviving traditional techniques don’t really work is, in my opinion, a statement made by someone who has never learned genuine traditional technique…or who is unwilling, for one reason or another, to put in the time and training required to develop effective technique.

Beginning piano students dare not say that the classics are worthless and no longer functional!  The masters who contributed to the creation of the traditional martial disciplines are our Bachs, Beethovens, and Mozarts.   

To truly understand a technique and how it should be performed correctly requires at least 10,000 repetitions.  In karate or kung-fu this isn’t terribly difficult, considering that you can easily practice 100 punches each day.  In 100 days you should be able to perform the technique correctly, more or less.  That doesn’t mean it can’t be improved, though.

But that’s not the same as making it workable.  To be able to perform a technique effectively in combat requires much more practice.  You see, the effectiveness of a given technique, whether it’s a punch, a kick, a joint twist or throw from aikido or judo…involves much more than just being able to perform the physical aspects of the technique correctly.  Much.  More.

Back when I trained in forms of Japanese karate, I could not, for the life of me, get a roundhouse kick to work.  Actually, it took MONTHS before I figured out how to do it correctly.  I guess I just had a mental block and I couldn’t imagine how to do it…but once I was able to throw a roundhouse kick, I couldn’t figure out how such a kick would ever be useful in fighting!  I suppose Bruce Lee would have told me to reject it because, as far as I was concerned, it was pretty useless…

Then came Baguazhang.  At first glance, this art seems to have about as much in common with combat as a fish does to a bicycle.  It would have been all too easy to simply toss it away as being some sort of pointless, flowery, Chinese bilgewater.  But I didn’t.  I stuck with it and studied it…in depth.  I examined it carefully, examined myself, examined its strange footwork and body movements…and I practiced and then when I was sick of it, I practiced some more.  And when I had problems making it work (which was pretty much all the time, at first), I stayed with it and figured out WHY I was having problems.

In any given martial discipline, at least a decade (or more) is required if one wants to truly understand the art.  The problem is that most Westerners don’t want to spend that much time in training.  They want "instant martial arts."  We’re accustomed to having "instant food" (which isn’t really food), "instant entertainment", and now we want "instant martial arts."  But there isn’t such an animal…never was, and never will be.

So, rather than absorbing what you find immediately useful and rejecting what you think is useless. just ABSORB.

Love,
Sifu

I don’t pretend to have all the answers.  Heck, I don’t even know many of the questions!  But maybe I can ramble on about this subject a bit and explain some of my personal thoughts about it.

First off, let me say that the spiritual side of the martial arts has nothing to do with religion, per se.  Religion can be defined as the belief in and reverence for a supernatural power or being(s) which is/are usually regarded as creator(s) or ruler(s) of the universe, and a personal or institutionalized system grounded in such belief and subsequent worship.  And let me state that regardless of what some people believe, no martial art requires its practitioners to adhere to any particular religious faith.

Certainly, acquiring a fundamental grasp of the tenets of Buddhism, Daoism, and Shintoism can help students better understand the culture(s) from which their chosen art came, what its originators believed, and how they lived.  But to practice judo one need not engage in the practice of Shinto and you needn’t become a Buddhist in order to study karate or a Daoist in order to train in Taijichuan.

I believe that students begin to get glimpses of the "spiritual side" of the martial arts when they begin to realize that there is more to them than what they see (or otherwise normally perceive).  As they continue in their training (which should be regular and vigorous) they periodically catch glimpses of certain (spiritual) truths and as they encounter and overcome various obstacles - often with the help of a good teacher - they begin to realize that the only real obstacles we ever face are those we’ve created ourselves.  And we’re the only ones who can overcome them - no one can do it for us.

With gentle and loving "nudging" by their teachers, the students gradually push themselves beyond the limits of what they thought possible.  They "do what cannot possibly be done" and "make the impossible possible", one step at a time.  If they keep an open mind and heart as they take these steps they will begin to acquire a better understanding of who we are, what we are, why we are, and our relationship to each other and to all life.

But it doesn’t happen all at once.  Truths come in snippets.  The discerning student will pay attention to these slivers of understanding because one small fragment, which is akin to a piece of a large puzzle, can give rise to so much more (understanding).  One begets two, two begets four, and so on.  Slowly, the student begins to "awaken."  This is, I believe, a natural process and it occurs in every person who devotes him or her self to the study and training of a given martial discipline over an extended period of time.

Those individuals who skip from one martial art to another, who have no real foundation in any particular art and who dabble in this and that, are perpetually learning the "outer shells" of various disciplines and will probably never penetrate beyond the superficial aspects of any given art.

Over the many years that I have taught martial arts I have had numerous people enroll in my classes in the hopes of becoming "enlightened."  They sought spiritual truths first and martial skill last.  The sad truth is that it doesn’t happen that way and although I did my best to explain this fact to them, they persisted in their mistaken beliefs.

Spiritual truths are realized only after the student has "paid his or her dues" in buckets of sweat, endless hours of repetitious tedium, more than a little pain (in fact, we have some types of pain that are referred to as "religious experiences" because you’d swear that you can actually see God!), sacrifice, and great courage (the willingness to do what you cannot possibly do).  The "spiritual seekers" weren’t prepared for this and I don’t recall that any of them lasted for more than a few weeks.

Besides, they were looking for a teacher who resembled what they envisioned as the classical image of an Asian sage, complete with wispy beard and flowing robes.  What they got was a pot-bellied old fart who smokes and makes comments in class like, "You’ve got a nice tush but tuck it in and keep it to yourself, Buckwheat."  I guess it was too much of a let-down.  They weren’t able to look beyond the obvious.

There was a time when martial arts zealots deliberately pushed themselves beyond their own limits.  This can be dangerous, of course, and they understood that but they felt that the risks outweighed the benefits and they went ahead anyway.  Usually, they weren’t seeking any sort of spiritual truths; they simply wanted to test their strength and push themselves further, physcially, mentally, and spiritually, little by little.  Masutatsu Oyama was one such person.

For some people martial arts will never be anything more than a sophisticated form of combat.  Theier hearts and minds are closed to the possibility of the existence of a "spiritual side" to the martial arts.  I think this may often be due to confusing spiritual insight with religion and those individuals who, for one reason or another, have become disenchanted with religion turn their backs on this particular aspect of martial arts.  But I think that if a person trains diligently and pushes him/her self, he or she will eventually come face to face with certain spiritual truths which cannot be denied.

Love,
Sifu

I recall watching a group of students practice one-step fighting in a particular martial arts school some years ago.  The attacker would step back into the usual pre-attack position, executing a snappy low block as he did so.  When the receiver was ready to perform his defensive maneuver he would utter a strong chi-he (kiai) and the attacker would execute a powerful lunging thrust.  The receiver would step back, block the attack, and deliver a crisp counter-attack.

Sound familiar?  Sure, it does.  It’s the usual one-step fighting drill.  Except for one thing…

The participants were standing at least eight feet apart.  When the receiver executed his blocking technique he never touched the aggressor’s arm!   And when he counter-punched his fist was at least four feet away from the attacker’s body!

Naturally, I asked the instructor why the students didn’t touch each other at all during this common training exercise.  He told me that he didn’t want them to bruise their arms or risk striking each other if their blows weren’t adequately controlled.

Good Lord.

Well, these folks will be in great shape if they’re ever attacked by a strong gust of wind.

Now, don’t get me wrong.  I certainly don’t advocate uncontrolled violence as a training tool.  I remember visiting another martial arts school whose members engaged in full-contact sparring within two weeks of enrollment!  The neophytes, who had no real knowledge of martial arts technique, were thrown to the lions (the more experienced students) like so much raw meat.  To say they got the stuffing pounded out of them would be a serious understatement.  The instructor reasoned that if one wanted to become skilled at fighting one had to know what it is like to get hit.  Students were told that they had to learn to keep going even if they’d been struck very forcefully because this is what "real combat is like."

Good thing they didn’t teach swordsmanship.

Certainly, I believe that students need to develop strong technique and a strong spirit through rigorous training.  The key word in that sentence is rigorous.  I believe that real martial arts technique and spirit cannot be understood or developed except through the application of controlled violence.

Beginning students are unable to understand this concept and it has to be presented to them very gradually.  But as they grow and develop their skills, they must learn to accept this fact and train accordingly.  Violence is, after all, why the martial arts were originally developed.  They were not cultivated to help their followers discover their "inner child", as a panacea for various ailments, or for thrilling audiences.

I recently told my students that they would learn much more from pain and discomfort than they ever would from sheltered contentment.  In traditional Japanese martial arts there is a term describing this type of practice.  It is nangyo (in Chinese, nanhang).  It refers to hardship (nan) and a road which is traveled by many people, perhaps a crossroads.  This is an accepted part of the traditional martial ways; a necessary ingredient for the development of true skill and understanding.  The Chinese usually refer to this particular aspect of training as chi-ku (literally, "eat bitter").

In contrast to the aforementioned karate school wherein participants never touched each other, the former head of the Japan Karate Association, Master Masatoshi Nakayama (dec.), recalled that when he was training under Master Gichin Funakoshi during his college years his arms would be so sore and bruised from blocking his partner’s attacks that he could hardly lift them.  Another kendo master spoke of being struck so hard on the front of his helmet (men) that it knocked him to his knees and splintered his partner’s shinai.

Students of the legendary Morihei Uyeshiba (founder of aikido) recalled how his vise-like grip would leave bruises on their wrists and Americans who trained in judo under the revered Kyuzo Mifune spoke of being thrown so hard that they were rendered unconscious.  My own teacher, Master W. C. Chen, remembered seeing exhausted classmates bow, run out of the drill line, and vomit.

Some of these things would be considered a tad excessive by today’s standards but it gives you an idea of what traditional training was like "back in the day."  It was not done because the instructor was a sadistic brute who wanted to puff out his machismo for all the world to see (although such instructors, if that term can be applied to them, have always existed).  The instructor’s first and only concern was for the students, to help them develop real skill as opposed to something that only looks good but has no real internal substance.

In time, students develop a strong sense of self-confidence.  They don’t fear being attacked because that happens every night that they attend class.  Some years ago one of my students was forced to defend himself against what I call an "Americanus Vomitus" (otherwise known as a common "puke").  When he told me about it he smiled and said, "I wasn’t really afraid of the guy at all.  Heck, I get punched at by professionals at least three times a week in the training hall!"

For the teachers of the traditional budo ("martial ways"; in Chinese, wu-dao) it’s a delicate balance; how far to push the students and keep the violence inherent within the martial arts under control.  Naturally, no competent teacher wants to see a student get hurt but some minor injuries are unavoidable and to be expected.  Anyone who’s spent much time in the martial arts has had his or her fair share of split lips, strawberries, bruises, and the like.  Some have even broken a small bone or two.  It happens; it’s simply the nature of the beast and a necessary part of the developmental processes of the budo.  But it is the responsibility of the instructor and senior students to do their best to ensure that the violence never escalates beyond a certain level.

As a student’s skill increases the attacks he faces in the training hall must be more realistic until, at an advanced level, they are real.  That is, if he fails to perform his defensive maneuver correctly he may well be knocked on his tail.

At the same time, students must (gradually) learn that a bloody lip isn’t the end of the world and it’s still possible to continue training even after getting smacked in the ribs.  Chi-ku.

Love,
Sifu