Giri

At Okinawan Empty Hand blog, there was a recent post on Giri, or "Duty/Obligation." An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

Giri [義理]

"The burden hardest to bear."

What “giri” is (義理): the core idea

Giri (義理) is a Japanese concept usually rendered as duty / obligation, but it’s broader than “following rules.” Major references describe it as a socially recognized “right course”—a sense of honor, dignity, and appropriate conduct in relationships that keeps human ties stable.  

A very useful way to see its full range is the Japanese dictionary definition (Kotobank / Digital Daijisen), which lists multiple senses, including:

• “the correct logic/rightness of things; the right path a person should uphold,”

• “what one must do or repay to others as morality/role-based duty,”

• “something done because of social ties (付き合い) rather than desire,”

• and even “in-law/affinal relations” (義理の母, etc.).  

So giri isn’t only “I must”; it’s also “this is the proper line (筋道) between us.”  

The philosophy around giri: the moral logic behind it

1) “Gi” (義) points to righteousness/rectitude

The first character 義 (gi) is strongly associated with “the right way / moral principle,” famously also a core Confucian virtue (五常). That moral flavor shapes why giri can feel like ethical correctness, not mere compliance.  

2) Giri lives inside a network: on, gimu, ninjō

In classic cultural analysis, giri is often discussed alongside:

• on (恩): a received favor/benefit creating a moral “debt,” and

• gimu (義務): duty/obligation (often framed as weighty, sometimes lifelong), and

• ninjō (人情): human feeling, empathy, personal desire.  

A long-running theme is the tension giri vs. ninjō—what you ought to do versus what you feel.That conflict became a central dramatic engine in Japanese literature and theatre.  

3) Not just “feudal control”: dignity and relational consciousness

Britannica’s framing is important: giri is not best understood as top-down feudal morality, but as a traditional consciousness of honor/dignity and social awareness in human relations.  

That’s a philosophical distinction: giri is less “obedience to authority” and more maintenance of trustworthy social form—showing you’re the kind of person who keeps faith with relationships.

The “art” of giri: where it shows up in Japanese art and storytelling

Giri becomes “art” most clearly in drama and literature, especially works that stage impossible choices between obligation and feeling.

• Chikamatsu Monzaemon’s plays are a canonical example: Britannica notes a recurring motif of giri (“duty”) in his works, tied to social consciousness and motives in human relations.  

• The broader cultural idea of giri–ninjō is widely treated as a classic thematic pair in Japanese drama.  

Why this matters: art doesn’t present giri as a slogan; it explores how people break under it, redeem themselves through it, or find humane compromise.

The practice of giri: how it works in daily Japanese life

Think of giri as relationship-maintenance behavior with recognizable “scripts.”

1) Gift cycles (clear, observable practice)

Two highly visible traditions:

• Ochūgen (summer gifts)

• Oseibo (year-end gifts)

A peer-reviewed medical/cultural note describes these as established gift-giving traditions in Japan.  

Popular explanations (less academic but consistent) explicitly connect them to maintaining obligations and respectful relationships, especially with bosses/teachers/clients/relatives.  

2) “Showing up” and reciprocity

Giri often appears as:

• attending events because the relationship requires it (funerals, work functions),

• returning favors (お返し / reciprocal gifting),

• avoiding leaving someone “in your debt” socially.

This aligns with dictionary senses like “repay/serve others as a matter of role/morality” and “doing something due to social ties.”  

3) Modern shorthand examples (everyday language)

Contemporary Japanese even has casual labels like 義理で参加する (“I’m attending out of obligation”) and 義理チョコ (“obligation chocolate,” i.e., courtesy gifts). These usages match the dictionary and Wiktionary descriptions of giri as socially compelled action.  

How to “practice giri” well (without becoming trapped by it)

A practical way to treat giri as a skill (not a cage):

1. Name the relationship and role: boss/teacher/client/family/friend—giri is role-sensitive.  

2. Choose the proportional response: the minimum sincere action that maintains dignity (a note, a small gift, showing up briefly).

3. Balance with ninjō: Japanese culture repeatedly frames the human dilemma as living with both outer duty and inner feeling.  

4. Avoid counterfeit giri: if you’re only performing giri to manipulate appearances, you keep “form” but lose the dignity/honor core Britannica highlights.  

 

 

Growth in the Dojo

At Budo Journeyman, there was recently a post regarding what takes place in the dojo. A person entering is not the same person when he leaves. Below is an excerpt. The full post may be read here.

 

I started my career path as a high school teacher of art and design in 1982, and I can confidently say that no matter how thorough the training process is for teachers is, nearly all of the valuable skills are accumulated across your career. (I also know this because I worked as a subject mentor and tutor for teacher training students).

This is the same with martial arts instructors, but with understandable differences and caveats. More of that later.

In 2025 (and into 2026), I am still going in to schools and teaching across the curriculum, but on days when it suits me (I officially retired in 2018) and I am still learning how to be a good teacher, 43 years later.

The main rule.

A solid measure of success is when the individual who leaves the classroom/Dojo is not the same person who entered it.

Over time I made a specific commitment to myself; one that applies in both the classroom and the Dojo, and it is this:

In the unwritten contract between the teacher and the student, a solid measure of success is when the individual who leaves the classroom/Dojo is not the same person who entered it. If the student has not changed during the lesson, in small or larger ways, then something has broken down in the contract.

It’s a great point for reflection for both parties. Education is not something that is ‘imposed’ on us, we are supposed to be in a learning environment designed to help us to flourish and reach towards our potential (we never achieve our potential because that possibility with humans is almost limitless). The teacher/Sensei is the example, the facilitator and the mentor, and many other things on top.

Of course, it is entirely possible that it is not the student who gets sloppy over the contract, but the teacher. There can be many reasons for this but one of the main problems can be complacency. There are others, like; an ego that overrides the student needs; a fixed mindset, stuck in an orthodoxy that they never really understood, or just a failure to subjugate their own requirements over those of their students.

But what are these possibilities for change?

Self-knowledge is a huge benefit, as long as you have enough self-awareness to pin it down. Youngsters struggle with this and it often occurs to them retrospectively. Adults are much more open to self-reflection and to reviewing the effects of experiences in the Dojo or the lecture room, this is because they have a more developed timeline and don’t wrestle with finding perspective. They are also more likely to be able to navigate a challenging experience, or a failure in a reflective way, rather than let it crush them. Summed up in one word, resilience.

(It’s worth looking into the idea of the ‘growth mindset’ versus ‘fixed mindset’ a concept championed by psychologist Carol Dweck).

Adults don’t have it all their own way, because youngsters are often the ‘blank slate’. But that has to be handled sensitively. From experience, I would say that information should be drip-fed at a steady and manageable rate. With adults, you can engage on a higher intellectual plane; but, never talk down to adults (school teachers often have this problem).

Too much or too little? A game of tennis.

Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi in his groundbreaking research on Flow States says there is a sweet spot for maximal development. He gives the example of a tennis player faced with different opponents: If an opponent is too easy for him to deal with, he can become bored and demotivated, considering it a complete waste of time. Whereas, if the opponent totally outclasses him and he finds himself getting hammered; again, his motivation drops to zero and the exercise becomes demoralising and futile. But if the opponent is maybe one notch above his own ability, then he rises towards the challenge and it can become an amazing growth experience.

 

 

The Evolution of the Samurai

At Let's Dive into Japanese History, there was an interesting post about the evolution of the samurai from their earliest roots, to becoming the elite warrior caste. 

 An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

 

What is a Samurai and what is a Bushi?

I wrote this a while back regarding Yasuke, but it applies to anyone—including the Japanese—who was not a samurai by birth but achieved the status through service to a lord. The meaning of “samurai” evolved significantly over the centuries; by the Meiji period, the term meant something very different than it did during the Heian period, 1,000 years earlier. By the Sengoku period, being a samurai was largely hereditary—you were born into the class. While there were exceptions, such as Toyotomi Hideyoshi, these instances were incredibly rare.

Due to the shifting nature of the words bushi and samurai, a “grey zone” has developed in our understanding, especially in recent years. Modern cultural shifts and pop culture heavily influence these perceptions. Yasuke’s appointment as a samurai (or hatamoto) fits perfectly into this grey zone of how we perceive the rank. Furthermore, people often fail to consider how historical events were received in their own time. They may not realize that a modern word or term has evolved into something slightly different from its original meaning. The Japanese language, in particular, has changed drastically, even over the last 100 years.

The Etymology of the Warrior

To understand this, we must look at the etymology of samurai and bushi. The character 武 (bu) in the word 武士 (bushi) refers to a person who fights with a weapon, while the character 士 (shi) means a man or gentleman. Together, bushi literally refers to a “warrior.”

On the other hand, the word 侍 (samurai)—which was also used to refer to men who made their living through military force—is derived from the word saburau, meaning “to wait upon” or “to serve” a person of high rank. It is thought to have originated from the prefix moru, meaning “to watch over” or “to guard.” As the etymology suggests, a samurai was a member of the warrior class who specifically served the nobility, such as the aristocracy or the Imperial Family.

In other words, samurai were a higher class of warrior than ronin, ashigaru, or general bushi who lacked a specific master. While ronin are often portrayed in myth as “poor, masterless samurai,” the term simply meant a samurai who was not currently in the service of a lord.

The Rise of the Bushi

The origins of the bushi can be traced back to the Nara period under Emperor Shomu. The Imperial Court sent administrators to local landholders to control taxes and consolidate imperial influence in regional areas. By the Heian period, these local landowners held significant power. However, conflicts frequently broke out as they competed for land, trade routes, and wealth.

To manage these conflicts, local lords began recruiting and arming farmers with bows and swords. After receiving basic training, these men were expected to protect their lord’s lands. The lord could call these farmers to battle at any time, and they were duty-bound to obey. This is the origin of the bushi, which is quite distinct from the origins of the samurai.

The Evolution of Service

As mentioned, the kanji for “samurai” means “to serve.” From the mid-Heian period onward, samurai served the Imperial Court and the nobility, providing personal protection or being dispatched to the provinces to quell rebellions.

However, the term samurai did not originally refer only to warriors. As seen in the word 侍女 (jijo—lady-in-waiting), the character for samurai simply meant “servant.” This included government officials who served closely with the nobility, acting as cooks, assistants, and caretakers.

Over time, this definition shifted. The most significant change occurred during the Sengoku period, when the “samurai” became a complex class system with multiple ranks. If a farmer showed exceptional courage in battle, he could be promoted to the lowest rank of samurai. Toyotomi Hideyoshi is the most famous example of this; he rose from a simple sandal-bearer for Oda Nobunaga to become the de facto ruler of Japan, though such a meteoric rise was exceptionally rare.

By the start of the Edo period, the term samurai was used broadly for warriors of hatamoto rank or higher—those who had direct access to the Shogun.

Why the Confusion Today?

Why is it that despite these crucial historical differences, the terms are used interchangeably today? The reason lies in the Edo period (1603–1868). During this long era of peace, most samurai transitioned from being battlefield warriors to serving as administrators and public servants for the Shogunate and various feudal lords. As a result, the boundary between bushi (the warrior) and samurai (the servant/official) became blurred, leading to the interchangeable usage we see in modern times.

 

Martial Arts and Longevity

Below is an excerpt from an interesting post at Budo Journeyman. The full post may be read here.

 ... I did my own survey of available dates for deceased masters of tai chi and bagua, a total of 47 individuals going back into the 18^th century.

After crunching the numbers, the average lifespan came out as 76 years old, with just one person hitting the 100 years mark and only four making it past 89. The bagua people seemed to live much longer than the tai chi masters.

76 is okay, but it’s not world breaking. Certainly, as far as I can see, all that antioxidant green tea and ginseng, plus the magic herbs, did not really make a jot of difference.

Another study which happened after Covid said that those who kept their body and soul together during lockdown through tai chi exercise increased their lifespan. My thought on that; if you had enough motivation to get yourself out of a chair and actually do something then there must be a quite potent force of positivity about you – but it doesn’t have to be tai chi, it could be anything moderately active. Those types of people do far better than others who might be inclined to slump into negativity, it’s common sense really.

After looking into this and trying to establish some kind of truth, it started to look ridiculously complicated and unlikely to find any definitive truth. The main problems seem to be:

·       How can we trust the claims of people who say they have lived beyond a feasible lifespan? Evidence for the advanced age of Li Ching Yuen is really unconvincing, because in his time, records were chaotic or just non-existent. Claims of extended lifespans in Japan seem to come out of flawed statistics (some people even illegally claiming pensions for dead relatives, which has skewed the data) and besides any health gains that Japanese people used to be able to claim have been ruined by the introduction of the western style diet. Recent studies have suggested that in Japan prostate cancer has risen from almost zero to western style highs because of the heavy involvement of dairy products that hardly ever featured in the Japanese diet.

·       How do we know that long life isn’t just a result of lucky genes?

·       How do you account for just bad luck, catastrophic disease, wars, famine etc?

From the martial arts perspective; just reading around the subject I come across all kinds of medical pseudo-science, involving claims of ‘massaging of the organs’, boosting the endocrine system, ‘nurturing internal strength’ etc. etc.

Human health is much more complicated than this hocus pocus would like us to believe. But, I suppose we have to just keep trying.

As you read this post I am practising my pigeon-walk at this very moment – but, I have to be honest, it’s making my neck ache.

 

 

Yin and Yang in Our Personal Training

Below is an excerpt from a post at Zen Sekai - Japan 2 @ 70, regarding the authors's reflections on his many faceted approach to his own personal training. The full post may be read here.

 

I always enjoyed Kali, working with a partner, feeling the rhythm, the practical flow.
When I first took an interest in it, it was back in Los Angeles, not far from the Tai Mantis school I was training at. 
The Kali Academy, founded by Danny Inosanto, had a reputation. Mostly because of the students who wanted to be the next Bruce Lee; he had taught there, Jeet Kune Do.

There was a friendly rivalry between our schools. Someone once asked me, “What do you want with that stick-fighting stuff?” 
I laughed, because I already knew the answer: the same thing I wanted from everything, understanding through motion.

Chiang Mai , The Yearly Return

Recently, during my yearly training pilgrimage to Chiang Mai, I made a pleasant discovery: a Kali school tucked away in the same city where I usually study Wu-style Tai Chi.

I started Wu Tai Chi years ago after learning it was more internally focused than Yang, yet still retained combat practicality…a kind of bridge between stillness and application. Another big plus in Chiang Mai is that my teacher speaks English, and I have partner to train with. That might sound small, but it makes a world of difference.

Even when I work with my own students, the experience is different. Their foundation is built on what I taught them. When training in a new style or under a different system, I have to dial back both skill and ego. That’s often harder than learning a new move.

Keeping the cup empty, that’s the real discipline.

 

 

 

Is Budo Relevant Today?

Over at The Budo Bum, the author gives his opinion on the question of whether Budo study is still relevant in our modern society. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

How can budo be relevant in the 21st century, especially koryu budo, those arts established before 1868? It’s not as if anyone is training for combat with swords and spears. Close combat now is rifles and grenades, with drones quickly making even those look a bit out of date. What’s the point of training with archaic weapons, besides acting out fantasies of being samurai?

Each generation of students is responsible for understanding how their art is relevant to the world they live in. My teachers did it in their time. I did it. Now it is my students’ time. No one can do it for them.

Koryu budo training hasn’t changed substantially in hundreds of years. Through the practice of carefully developed kata, students learn and master structure, movement, timing, spacing, techniques, and refine their mental abilities so they can move and act calmly and smoothly even under extreme pressure. People throw criticism at the training method because it doesn’t emphasize competition. I’ve written critiques of competition in budo before. I won’t repeat them here. Informal sparring was always part of koryu training, even if it was almost never considered important enough to codify.

Sparring doesn’t make budo relevant. Knowing how to punch, kick, throw, choke, hit with sticks, and cut with a sword aren’t particularly relevant skills in 21st century industrialized societies. I don’t know about anyone else, but I can’t think of many lifestyles where you might expect to need those skills. We’re not all going to be police officers, bouncers, or soldiers. What makes koryu budo relevant is all the stuff that made it attractive to samurai during the 250 years of the peace enforced by the Tokugawa Shoguns. It’s not techniques that win in conflict, it’s all the other stuff. The Taisha Ryu masterwork, Kaichu, found in Unravelling The Cords - The Instructions of a Master in the Tradition of Taisha-Ryu says a little about techniques, and a lot about the mind. Takuan Soho’s The Unfettered Mind has nothing to say about technique at all, and yet it has been prized by the swordsmen of Yagyu Shinkage Ryu for four centuries.

So how do you make koryu budo ryu that are hundreds of years old relevant in the 21st century? The difficult part is learning koryu budo. Making it relevant is the easy part. No, we don’t fight in the streets with swords and spears and staves and naginata. We still fight though. Conflict is inherent in life, and the conflict we are most likely to encounter is the same kind of conflict that samurai throughout the Edo Period in Japan were most likely to encounter: social conflict. The Edo Period was more than 250 years of peace in Japan. Close combat skills were not in high demand. The mental skills and strengths that good budo training develops were though; and are just as useful when people aren’t physically attacking you as they are when your opponent is trying to physically demolish you.

Budo training is not just technical. My budo training turned out to be useful in all sorts of places I didn’t expect. It helped make me a better negotiator in business. In the dojo people regularly try to throw me to the ground, choke me unconscious, or beat me with sticks. Sometimes they succeed. People I deal with in business relationships get upset, yell, pound the table, and get right up in my face, all in an effort to intimidate and bully me. After getting used to real physical consequences in the dojo, people who get upset and emotional in meetings come off like a 2-year-old having a tantrum. It is sound and fury, signifying nothing. I wait for them to get tired, and then we do it my way.

 

 

The Round and Square Forms in Taijiquan Practice

At his Classical Tai Chi blog, Jim Roach has some interesting thoughts on two modes of practicing the taijiquan form. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

My own teacher, Stephen Hwa, Ph.D., did seminars for Jou Tsung-Hwa's students and he told me in an email that Jou Tsung-Hwa was “…someone who was in search of the truth in Tai Chi, and I would like to meet him…”. Master Jou was the author of The Tao of Tai-Chi Chuan.  He used the analogy of a film to explain the movement of Tai Chi. He stated that when viewed as individual, static poses, the movements make no sense. The proper motion and meaning are only perceived when the "frames" are put together and performed fluidly as a continuous sequence. The "Film" analogy teaches several core concepts of Tai Chi practice that can aptly be applied to Classical Tai Chi. 

In the numerous styles, there is really only one that has a “round” form and a “square” (fang) form. The Wu Style, with all its own derivatives, often surprises people with the direct opposite requirement between Square and Round.

The direct opposite requirement is not unique, however:

I am echoing Master Hwa as I relate my own experience. Just think how one learns the art of calligraphy. My own teacher echoes this in the video link. My own experience had me learning Chinese Calligraphy, how to write in print form (brush and ink, of course). Then I studied a smidgen of cursive calligraphy. The differences between these two writing forms are analogous to the differences between those two Tai Chi Forms.

Square Form is analogous to the block printing of (pinyin) Kai Style, or what is called “Kai Shu”. The round form is analogous to Tsao Style or "Tsao Shu/Cao Shu" or the cursive script.

In Square Form, as in calligraphy, movements occur along relatively straight lines between points (the start and end points of inflection). The Round Form, with its curves, has the curves passing through those points. The Square Form is like a template for the Round Form. As you see, the curves go through the points where the lines meet.

Again, merely echoing my teacher, who was a Ph.D. engineer and scientist at Xerox Corporation.  Like the Calculus of Mathematics; however, I would point out that the Round Form is like the calculus, which integrates a tiny segment of a curved motion as a straight line to form the curved motion. A Square Form is like taking one of the small straight lines and expanding it into a straight movement. The way of the universe uses principles that govern everything that appears unrelated.