Classic Japanese Martial Arts Documentary

In 1978, Budo: the Art of Killing, a documentary on Japanese martial arts was released.

 Despite it's unfortunate title, it remains a classic and may be viewed below.

Enjoy.

 

The Rising Phoenix

Who among us hasn't had their regular practice shattered by the events of our lives? 

 Some of us never recover. The rest of us pick up the pieces and figure out a new way to carry on.

Maybe we must find a new teacher or even a new martial art.

Or start a new school.

Over at Kenshi24/7, there was a recent post describing how a job change led to the author founding a new kendo club, so that he could continue his own practice.

Below is an excerpt. The full post may be read here.

 

Back in 2014 I wrote how I made a deliberate change in my kendo life by deciding to focus on asageiko more. I had attended morning keiko since about 2009 (well, 2005, but that wasn’t few-and-far between and doesn’t count), but I went full-morning-mode in 2014 (Mon, Wed, and Fri: three times a week). After  my daughter arrived in 2017, my after-work kendo life mostly stopped and, instead, I focused almost entirely on asageiko and work sessions. 99% of my kendo at this time became kihon based. 

When the pandemic struck my asageiko sessions dried up and so, after a year, I decided to take matters into my own hands and began (starting February/March 2021) running my own morning sessions. When my usual asageiko re-started (in 2022) I decided to keep hosting my sessions as well… which meant some weeks I was doing asageiko every weekday. On top of that, I had my normal six keiko/week at work, and the occasional degeiko or Eikenkai session and what have you. Oh yeah, and I was constantly taking my students to shiai as well. 

Needless to say, I was doing a LOT of keiko. A lot. 

Sadly, this period of my life has come to an abrupt halt. 

I started working in my current school in autumn 2008. Almost immediately I took over the running of the kendo club and, for the last 17 years, through rain and shine, good times and bad times, I have been at the helm. I’ve taught hundreds of students, some of whom have gone on to pass yondan and godan. 

It was with a sad heart that on the last day of February this year I was told I was being transfered school in April. This is something that happens to all public servants in Japan, but I had been told – due to the uniqueness of my position – that a move would be highly unlikely. 

Still, I had actually expected a move to happen eventually, perhaps in the next three~five years, and had already had some schools (with good kendo clubs + near my home) in mind. Anyway, after the order came, I had to wait another week to find that the school I am being moved to is not only super far from my house, but the kendo club there had been shuttered, seemingly due the impact of the pandemic (no teacher to guide them through). 

Due to the distance of the school, my normal asageiko sessions have become almost impossible to attend (I can go during test seasons, days off, and the like). Added to that, I can’t run my own sessions anymore  because all my asageiko friends work in central Osaka. The number of weekday keikos I could do from April, because there is no kendo club in the new school, went from ten down to two (evening sessions at my police dojo).

My kendo life was turned upside down in an instant. 

At this point I had two choices: 1) wait for four years and apply for a transfer (that’s the minimum time you have to do before putting in a request)… but even there is no guarantee the school will even let me go (I’m a good teacher!); or 2) re-boot the kendo club. 

There was a kendo-jo in my new school… but the question was, given the current state of the kendo population amongst young people in Japan, could I even recruit any students? 

Once I knew what was happening and where I was going, I immediately set to work: within a day I already knew that there was an almost unused kendo-jo in the new school, which was a good start. It was communicated almost straight away (teachers have networks of colleagues – remember we all get moved around) that some kendo-crazed teacher was en-route to posses it.  

Arriving on April the first, the subject of kendo came up immediately, with many of my new colleagues taking an interest. I discovered almost immediately that the club that had been there for more than 50 years folded just prior to the pandemic. The kendo teacher that had been there retired a long while back and, with no replacement sent, the students ran things themselves for a few years. Due to this, over time, numbers sunk very low and when the pandemic hit it – and with nobody to lead them – the last nail was struck. 

My first job was to check out the condition of the kendo-jo and what it was being used for. I was pleasantly surprised to find the dojo, although bare of any ornamentation, was in very good condition. At least, the floor was. Bogu and various kendo bits n’ bobs had been left discarded in the storage areas and nothing was really kept in order. Usage wise, the baseball club used it when it was raining, and the music club used it for the odd concert. Hmmm, I thought. 

So, what does it take to start a kendo club in a public high school in Japan? Well, in the spirit of sharing my kendo experience with you, let me give you a brief rundown. 

Part one: get some members 

If I was to start a new club I of course needed students. I created some posters, stuck them up around the school, and waited. My new school has a rule that you cannot start a new club up without collecting ten interested students. Considering the downward spiral of kendo population in Japan of late, I had little confidence I could manage, so I was more than a bit concerned. On the very first day I went to put up posters – even before I put my first one up – a second year boy came to find me and ask about joining: “I heard about the kendo teacher in [my previous school] is famous, everyone knows about him” he said! 

Within a week I had collected enough students to start a club, more than enough. My final total was 15, which is three times more than my old school managed to gather this year. Go figure. 

 

 

Three Principles of Kendo Training

Below is an excerpt from a post that appeared at Kenshi 24/7. It is a translation of a treatise by a senior kendo teacher on the priciples of kendo training, which may be of interest to all martial artists at large. 

The full post may be read here.

This small piece was taken from the book “Heisei kendo reader” by Sakuma Saburo, published in 1997. Hanshi hachidan, he passed away at the age of 84 four months before the publication of the book.

The Three Principles of Kendo Training

1. Pressure the omote (of the shinai) and strike the ura (of the shinai).
2. Pressure the ura and strike the omote.
3. Strike at the moment the opponent moves (debana waza).

In kendo, the “front” (表 omote) and “back” (裏 ura) are defined based on the opponent’s right kote. The side with the right kote is considered the uraside. It is important to have balance between these three principles. 

Until about the third dan, many practitioners are simply excited about jumping in and landing strikes or winning matches. However, around the fourth or fifth dan, they begin to reflect more deeply and ask, “Sensei, what is seme?” This is a difficult question to answer. I explain it as follows:

“For example, to pressure (seme) men means to express a feeling of attacking it with strong spirit and determination.”

When you aim your kensaki at the opponent’s left eye and pressure their men, they may instinctively raise their hands slightly in defense. In that instant, you can step to the left with your left foot and strike their kote. This is an example of pressuring the omote and striking the ura.

Another example: If you move your kensaki under the opponent’s shinai and pressure the right kote as if attacking it, they will likely shift their shinai to guard their kote. At that moment, you can (returning your shinai back to the omote side) quickly leap forward and strike their men. This demonstrates pressuring the ura and striking the omote.

The third principle, debana,  refers to attacking at the exact moment your opponent begins to move. In The Book of Five Rings (Gorin no Sho), Miyamoto Musashi explains this concept:

• When you see the opponent’s movement with your physical eyes, it is called “ken no me” ( 見の目 seeing).
• When you sense their intention to move before they actually move, it is called “kan no me” (観の目 perceiving).

Anyone can use ken no me, but kan no me is much harder to develop. Only through long years of training does the mind’s eye become sharp enough to anticipate the opponent’s actions. True mastery is achieved when you can strike at the precise moment using kan no me.

Kendo is not something that can be learned through last-minute cramming like a school exam. Some people return to the dojo for the first time in months, just before their grading exam, expecting to pass. This is a serious misunderstanding. 

Kendo requires continuous dedication, both in spirit and technique. The key to mastery lies in persistent training while thinking deeply and with the aim of constant self–improvement in mind.

 

 

Complacency in Combat

Below is an excerpt from an excellent article that appeared and Kenshi 24/7, about how our martial arts training after a time can become fossilized ... or not. The full post may  be read here.

In less than three month’s time I will turn 50. How I got to this age so fast I have no idea: I certainly don’t feel 50 (I look about 70 though!!!). It also feels like I arrived in Japan only a moment ago when, actually,  I’m in my 22nd year here. Something that does feel like I’ve been doing for a lifetime, however, is writing kendo-related websites. Anyway, with the big 5-0 coming up something I read by the famous Mochida Moriji sensei many years ago has been brewing in my mind, a copy of which has been pinned to my wall for at least a decade:

“In Kendo, until the age of fifty, one must study the basics with great dedication and make them one’s own.

Most people who think that they have mastered the basics are, in reality, still in the learning phase. This misconception leads  many people put study of the basics on the back burner. 

It took me fifty years to embody the basics of Kendo. My true training in Kendo began after I turned fifty*. This was because I started practicing Kendo with my mind/heart/spirit*.

At sixty, my legs and hips grew weaker. To compensate for this weakness, I relied on my heart. I worked hard to strengthen my weak points by using my heart.

At seventy, my whole body became weaker. This time, I practiced not moving my heart. When the heart stops moving, the other person’s heart reflects in my mirror. I made an effort to keep my heart calm and unmoved.

At eighty, my heart stopped moving. However, occasionally, stray thoughts still enter. I am now training to keep stray thoughts from entering my heart.”

* In the text Mochida’s “fifty years” is kind of mixed-up between “age” and “time practised.” His father taught him kendo initially, starting from the age of six, so we can infer it to mean “age” rather than length of time.

* Mind/heart/spirit: translation of 心 in Japanese is often not obvious. In this situation maybe “spirit” is the most apt, but I left “heart” in as it is a bit more… poetic.

* Date unknown but we can guess it was sometime between 1965~early 1974 (after turning 80 but before passing away in Feb. 1974)

Yeah, so I am basically 50. Realistically, I have achieved the highest grade attainable to me in kendo. In that sense, I am “done” and my kendo is “complete.” Of course, if you have read kenshi 24/7 over the years you know that I don’t actually think of kendo like this, but I do know people that use grade as a barometer (or at least seem to) to “completion” – which in itself is not necessarily bad, unless you actually do consider that kendo is something that can actually be“completed.” 

People with this mindset stop proactively learning and, retreating into their own kendo, shrink rather than expand. Not everyone is like this of course, but I have seen people like this, and continue to meet people like this even today. In the past I would’ve just branded them “lazy” but that is dismissive of their hard work until that point so, instead, I’ve settled on “complacent.” 

Fighting complacency is harder than you might imagine. In my case, I feel that I have achieved a somewhat good understanding of kendo mechanics, even if my execution is still only “moderate” at best. It would be relatively easy to just chill out, rest on my laurels, and enjoy my next few years of keiko. In fact, I’ve gone through at lot over the years, so I deserve some chill time, right?

 

Over a decade ago I wrote about a particular sensei who stated that there was value in attempting kendo’s highest grade, even if there was no realistic hope of passing it. Another time, I overheard a senior hanshi stop someone at the Kyoto Taikai and applaud them for attempting hachidan: “If you stop attempting it” he said, “your kendo will fall to pieces.” Whether the person had an actual chance of passing was irrelevant (often unsaid but sometimes intimated is the value of the attempt increases in proportion to the surety of your failure).

[Actually, I am actually in two minds about this: in theory it sounds solid, but the fact of the matter is it is a burden to attempt something where the chance of failure is 99% or more. Financially, it all adds up: travel, accommodation, testing fees, even a single attempt isn’t cheap (I know people that have tried over 20 times…). Anyway, I digress.]

 Over the past few years, first due to the arrival of my daughter then because of the pandemic,  I’ve found myself getting complacent (not lazy – I still do loads of keiko), in particular the amount of degeiko I do has been cut drastically: I used to travel to this-and-that keiko-kai and/or dojo in the Kansai region, and very occasionally wander further abroad. Nowadays, I only occasionally manage degeiko – well an adult degeiko that is. With my kendo club we do a lot of renshu–shiai and I do kendo with many different students from all over the area. Sometimes other schools have experienced kendo teachers I can have bash with, sometimes not. I also receive a bit of welcome variation in the guest from abroad that visit. In a lot of these cases, however, because people are coming to me (us) it’s psychologically different than travelling to keiko.

The kanji for SHI-AI (試合) could literally translate to “trying something out together” or perhaps a “trial together” which is relatively close to the English “competition.” When we do renshu-shiai I always mention to the students its not SHI-AI (試合) but TAMESHI-AI (試し合い), which – despite being the exact same kanji – emphasises the “trying” part of the experience. That is, the students should  a) test to see how their kendo fairs in front of an (sometimes unknown) opponent; b) not be over worried about “losing” or “winning” as it’s only practice; c) try out various waza or seme patterns to see their efficiency, whether they can actually execute the techniques under stress, and to see what needs improvements, and so on. 

Time to Go

Sometimes, it's time to leave a dojo or school we have been associated with for a long time. There are endless reasons to do this.

Below is an excerpt from a post that appeared at Kenshi 24/7 about the author's decision to leave the dojo he had been associated with for over 20 years.

 The full post may be read here.

...

So, yeah. I’ve been a member of the dojo in question for twenty years. I was appointed to a teaching position pretty early on, and turned down a director position once about ten years ago, before accepting it finally about four or so years ago. In the meantime my official position evolved from “instructor” to “senior instructor” (just a made-up title for a senior member under director).  This was fine, but by about 15 years in I already had the inkling that I had outgrown the dojo.  

( “Outgrown” can mean many things: in this case it refers not only the technical sense, but the groups use as a place of shugyo. ) 

My sensei passed away in 2021 and it is really at that point where I should’ve left. As I said above, I was ready to leave before but I decided to stay because he always showed me kindness and I respected him, a decision I don’t regret. Anyway, so after he was no longer around the group morphed into something else. A senior member who I respected left early on in this process, and I should’ve probably exited at the same time. For better or worse I tried to stick with it, but in the end I knew it was no longer the place for me. 

This is not the first time I have left a dojo. In 2014 another sensei who I respected passed away, and in 2016, after 11 years in the dojo, I felt as if I had no choice and departed. That time was different because I wanted to stay but felt that I was being kind of picked-on by the new teacher (hachidan = infallible). I already had a role in the dojo and would’ve almost certainly taken up a more senior position soon had this not happened. I remain close friends with my peers in the dojo (all of whom run the group now) and they often ask me to come. About once a year I pack my bogu and shinai and visit the dojo for some degeiko, but never go when the head instructor is there – which is unfortunate because I actually like his kendo…

The title of this article – “Ri” – you of course recognise: it is the last part of shu-ha-RI. Just to refresh your memory, this is from an older article of mine:

The ri (“separation”) stage is one that few ascend to. It is the point where the student has finally soaked up all that their master can teach and, combining it with their own discoveries in the ha stage (both the good and the bad), they create something uniquely theirs. They now become independent of their teacher.

The term Shu-ha-ri (“protect – break – separate”) comes originally, as you would expect, from military tactics. During the 1700s it began to be used in Sado circles, eventually being picked up and popularised for use in budo by Chiba Shusaku sometime in the 1800s. 

[ btw other terms were also imported from cultural arts into budo in the late Edo period, e.g. Shin-gyo-so (Shodo) and Jo-ha-kyu (Noh). ]

In very general terms, this shu-ha-ri cycle exists for anything that is taught and learned. The process of learning/mastery seems to be far longer in budo circles than in many other forms of study, at least nowadays. Is budo mysteriously somehow more difficult to acquire, or is there something else to it? If you look back a few decades or so you will see that the very long gestation time we see nowadays didn’t seem to be the norm. An easy example is that kendo grades only went to godan (people involved with increasing the grades post-war later wrote that in hindsight they shouldn’t have bothered). Anyway, I seem to have gone off-topic.

I guess my point is that after many years of practice at a particular place, it is natural to feel a re-adjustment of your position. You get older, your life changes, people come in and go out. Maybe the older members, including your sensei, pass away or are now no longer able to keiko, and you find yourself in a position of responsibility. As you have aged so to have your priorities changed, and maybe even your passion. Your role in the dojo as well as the dojos role in your life have transformed. Things happen.

I kind of fought my initial feeling to leave the dojo, but it built up over time to such an extent that it was probably obvious to everybody that it was no longer the place for me… it is time I made my own place.

 

 

What is Your Training Style

Below is an excerpt from an article that appeared at Kenshi 24/7, on different personal styles of Kendoka. The full post may be read here. 

What's your training style like?

Seito-ha (正統派)

My kendo is, I’d say, 95% bog-standard, super orthodox kendo. Sure, there are things that I do my own way, and some waza I prefer over others, but in general my kendo is basically of the margarita pizza variety: easy to prepare/make, mostly satisfying, and very little can go wrong with it (=not much to complain about). Sure, it’s ok, but not many people will travel to a pizza shop in another town just to have some.

In other words, even if you haven’t done kendo with me before you pretty much know what to expect:

Practice menu
- Lots of kihon
- Lots of kirikaeshi, uchikomi, oikomi
- Emphasis on correct execution of individual waza

Oji-waza choice
- Against men: debana men, degote, kaeshi-dou
- Against kote: kaeshi-men, aigote-men, suriage men

Jigeiko style
- Proactive “makko-shobu” style (see below)
- Fundamentally my central goal is to defeat my partner by debana-men

As you probably realise, my kendo can be kind of predictable, and isn’t flashy in the least. Maybe it’s even boring.

However, this type of “seito-ha” kendo – that is, the “orthodox style” – has an important (and highly attractive, at least to me) feature: a proactive “makko-shobu” style based on debana-men.  “Makko-shobu” (真っ向勝負) refers to a proactive, confrontational style. There is no (or we at least try to minimise it as much as possible) running way, blocking, use of the dreaded “amashi” waza, and overly flashy techniques or hikiwaza are generally de-emphasised. Debana waza (in particular: men) is where it’s at. 

 “Waste no more time arguing about what a good man should be. Be one.”

All the quotes in todays article are said to be from Marcus Aurelius

(I suggest re-reading the popular five-part “Pursuing the spirit and modern kendo” series, a translation of an essay by Morishima Tateo sensei)

As you already know, when two “seito-ha” kenshi face each other (assuming they are of equal skill) it can look a little bit (to the inexperienced kenshi) un-energetic or even boring I dare say. Seme is subtle and done with a combination of the spirit, kensen, and right foot, not feints, mysterious twirling of the shinai, and – of course – with shinai-to-shinai contact. The last one is extremely important, as the very conduit of communication is via this. 

Seito-ha kenshi know one another when they meet, and enjoy the battle for debana men. If they are struck, they admit defeat graciously. 

Nanken (難剣)

Like the section above, this part will be generalised… even more so because of the nature of what’s being discussed. 

 “If you are distressed by anything external, the pain is not due to the thing itself, but to your estimate of it; and this you have the power to revoke at any moment.”

Literally, nanken means “difficult sword.” This term has been used throughout the history of kendo to refer to those whose kendo was, to put it nicely, awkward. This doesn’t mean that they are weak or don’t have shiai (or grading – at least in the past) success, just that your average  “orthodox” kenshi struggles to cope with them. Perhaps their timing is different, their rhythm feels“off”,  their swing is larger or smaller than normal, they favour non-standard waza, and so on. It is almost as if they are speaking a slightly different language. Some other “features” include:

- their kendo is usually based on hitting and not being struck, so they like to evade or dodge, often bending their head or even body out of the way of attacks;

- sutemi is often lacking, which leads to hitting while standing in place (with no fumikomi);

- hitting out with their arms (zero fumikiri and often no fumikomi) then running away backwards (related to the above);

- overuse of feinting or whirling of the shinai;

- it is very common for them to just stand and wait for something to happen with no forward pressure;

- some (generally older people) fight from a very close distance;

- there is zero “aiki” so it doesn’t feel “friendly.”

(Some of these factors of-course lead to the timing being “off” as mentioned above)

Obviously, anyone who does jigeiko or shiai before acquiring a good grounding in basics will go through a sort of “nanken”phase. Only “sort of” because your average beginner will often honestly attempt to convert kihon into jigeiko use, which is very difficult even for the experienced. Usually, the less experienced will go back to kihon, work on it, then attempt to use what they have worked on in jigeiko, cycling round and round slowly getting out of the beginners phase and into a more “orthodox” style. 

However, some people never seem to get out of their “difficult” phase. Why, I am not sure. This is different from my kendo experience, so it is hard to comment on, but I’ll try anyway!

1. They believe that their kendo is effective.  By doing or acting differently you can often surprise or even deceive people in a manner that opens them up to be struck. Of course, this is perfectly “valid” in a competition and ippon may be awarded, reinforcing their tactic. This is of course absolutely fine (and to an extent is expected) in shiai for lower ages and ranks. Some, however, will persist in doing this during jigeiko (not only shiai) throughout their entire kendo career. 

2. They don’t care. This is of course connected to the above. It might also be the case that kendo is just a hobby, something they do for fun sometimes. They aren’t aiming for hachidan or anything, and have no interest in it above and beyond having fun. That’s cool too, I guess (it’s not me however).

3. They don’t practice enough and/or have no direct model. A “model” of course refers to both an instructor (physical skill) as well as a teacher (guide). Again, this is something that is difficult but not a disaster: it just takes time, travel, and extra effort to improve… assuming the desire is there.

4. Something perceptual inside them is different. This is hard to explain and I am not a scientist or anything, but some individuals seem to have a different perception of time (3D space, interval, distance, etc) than others. Of course, this is wholly in reference to myself (perhaps it is me who is “off”). This is something I’ve become acutely aware of as a teacher of high school students (and younger) for over 20 years. This is not something that can be “cured” or “fixed” rather, it has to be understood for what it is. I believe that this is probably the most influential factor in the “nanken” scenario. People like this can still have successful kendo careers despite being “out of sync” with the majority of others. 

So yeah, some people end up having non-standard “difficult” kendo. Numbers 1 and 2 above can be problematic, but the potential for change (should the person wish it) is there. Number 4, however, is different. 

“Because a thing seems difficult for you, do not think it impossible.”

 

93 Year Old Kendoka

The video below was found at the end of a post at Kenshi 24/7 on relative outlook on Kendo in Japan and abroad. An except from the article is below. The full post may be read here.

Modern kendo in Japan has been intrinsically bound with (and to) the education system for well over a century  now. Also, as you no doubt know,  kendo in the police system (yes, it is a slightly separate thing – nor particularly technically, but in purpose) has always been a highly influential factor. Of course, educational kendo and police kendo were highly cross pollinated in the past (not now unfortunately).  Due to such influences kendo was, at least in generations past, seen primarily as a tool of education, both physical and mental. Building up to and during the Japan’s highly militarised era’s, it was also used explicitly as a tool of “soldier creation” and to engender nationalism. After WWII a concerted effort was done to democratise kendo, but in the end most of the teachers were of the old school variety (and if not, then students of them). 

Since it essentially evolved in such a serious situation, it comes with no surprise that kendo is – and is still seen to be – a serious activity.  At least that the image here in Japan.  

Multitudes of kids clubs can be found all around Japan, and I’m sure many readers have experienced keiko there. I wonder, however, if you talked to the teachers about what their purpose is, that is, their kendo philosophy? 

Kids kendo clubs here are generally (not always) community based affairs. Parents elect to have their kid “study” kendo  – often kendo is referred to as NARAIGOTO (“something to be studied”), in the same vein as things like as piano, abacus, English, or shodo, for example. Of course, you’d send your kid to a nearby dojo, not travel too much. The vast majority of parents chose kendo not because of the physical benefits for their kids, but because it can (or is supposed to) engender confidence and manners. Instructors are almost always unpaid, generally older, and the clubs are run by parents (= usually the mothers). Of course, there are some for-profit private dojo, but there are not so many, and I guess don’t make much money (otherwise there’d be more). Keiko will usually be tough (not violent) and kids may be pushed about and cry a lot. In general, a kid doesn’t have the freedom to quit either. Anyway, the point is that kendo – at the very start of a young persons kendo career – has seriousness already baked in. 

[ The above, however, breaks down when kids start older (junior or senior high school age) and do kendo under younger kendo teachers, or perhaps just amongst themselves. It looks as if these type of kendoka have increased over the last couple of decades…. ]

Outside of Japan, in my now admittedly limited experience, kendo seems to be very more of a social activity rather than a community based one: a once or twice or even three times a week affair with some drinks afterwards. There might be some kids in the club, but maybe not that many, and those that are there are treated softly so that they don’t quit. There may not be any older people with decades of experience (kendo and life) to help teach the kids or act as mentors or role-models to young(er) adults. Obviously, this is a generalisation.

Morning Training

Over the years I've tried many different home practice routines. Some years ago I came to conclusion that in order to practice at home regularly, I had to bite the bullet and get up earlier and practice before the day's events began intruding upon me.

One aikido dojo I trained at even had a 6 AM class for early risers.

Below is an excerpt from a post that appeared at Kenshi 24/7 regarding Asakeigo, or morning practice. The full post may be read here. Enjoy. 

 

A number of years ago I talked about a change in my kendo “mode” and in particular my flip-over to a sort of asageiko-main routine (despite not being a morning person). I had been an on-and-off asageiko person since about 2009-ish I guess (from about 2005 I did asageiko very occasionally, maybe once or twice a month, so that doesn’t count). By “asa” keiko I am of course referring to morning practise. Oh, and just to be clear, “morning” means keiko starting at 7am or earlier. A 9am start doesn’t qualify!

After my daughter was born in 2017 I basically stopped going to evening keiko almost entirely, just doing keiko in the morning and at work in the afternoons. 

As I mentioned in a prior post my asageiko sessions came to a screeching halt at the beginning of the pandemic as all the police dojo in Japan closed their dojo. After a year with no restart in sight I started my own morning sessions at my work dojo from about March 2021. Eventually the police dojo restarted, and I am now attending two asageiko sessions, averaging maybe 3-4 weekday mornings every week, sometimes more, sometimes less. 

My journey from a very-occasional morning keiko person, to an on-and-off one, then an asageiko-main person is complete. I still hate getting up in the mornings (especially in winter) but now even the thought of doing kendo after 6pm seems alien!

In today’s article I want to briefly give you guys a rundown on the content of my asageiko… in case anyone is interested! 

 

Seeking the True Way

Over at Kenshi 24/7 there was an excellent post on they study of Budo through Kendo. I think the post would benefit anyone who studies martial arts. Below is an excerpt. The full post may be read here.

 

Those who seek to study kendo must never forget to follow The Way ("michi"). People follow a path to a destination, there is no need to rush down it; instead follow it correctly. In other words, following a path accurately is something that naturally protects the person who walks down it.

If you truly seek this way, you must first (aim to) cultivate/discipline the self, and with this spirit face your opponent. This is the essential meaning of kendo. All humans have (or have the potential to have) a beautiful spirit; through self cultivation you can work to share this with others.

If you forget this spirit and merely find joy in striking and defeating opponents, well that isn't real kendo.

People who do kendo shugyo should seek the true way their entire lives and become a good *person.

92 Insights into Kendo

Below is an excerpt from an article that appeared at Kenshi 24/7. In the article, the writer describes the history of a vintage book written on Kendo, and the author's "92 bits of wisdom."

I think this list would be of interest  to all martial artists. The full article may be read here.

 

1. Kendo is about striking the opponents heart with yours.

2. In shiai, neither wait nor rush, go with the flow.

3. Kakarigeiko should be short and executed at full throttle. 

4. A good maai is one in which the opponent feels close to you yet they feel it far; you should be able to strike at anytime with ki-ken-tai.

5. Both legs should act in tandem; striking with your whole body from your legs is the basis of good kendo.

6. When initiating a strike, your opponent will telegraph their intention; strike their intention.

7. The eyes are a window to the heart; when your opponent intends to strike their eyes will signal their intention - strike in that instant.

8. True strength lies in good technique, not in strong strikes.

9. Doing keiko every day is like the piling up of daily delivered newspapers.

10. A kodansha who does un-spirited keiko is inferior to a shodan.

11. If you enter tsubazeriai quickly strike and move away; in tsubazeria be careful to relax yet not be careless. 

12. The moment after a mutual-strike (ai-uchi) is decisive.

13. During keiko, always aim to get shodachi.

14. Watch the opponents movement careful and strike when they either enter in or step back.

15. Chudan kamae is the state where your heart is true with no wicked thoughts in mind; be sure you are gripping the shinai correctly.

16. Maai exists in physical space as well as mentally; from there you should be able to strike anytime in ki-ken-tai.

17. When facing an opponent you must first read the opponents mind and strike them first.

18. When facing an opponent if you have no confidence or are unsure whether to strike but do so anyway, your strike will fail.

19. In kendo you should not only think about winning or losing, but seek to understand the spiritual depth found through practice itself.

20. You shouldn’t try to forcibly attain grades, rather, through keiko you will naturally acquire status (respect).

Three Crows

Over at Kenshi 24/7 was a post about three famous kendoka who were the best from their dojo; the "three crows."

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

 

Late afternoon summer 1930, Hongo-shinmasago-saka (in modern day Bunkyo-ku). A tallish slender young man, about 19 years old, walked up to the entrance of Yushinkan, the dojo of Nakayama Hakudo. Dangling on the shinai bag that was resting heavily on his right shoulder was another bag with his bogu in it. In his left hand he carried a further bag, filled with clothes and other sundry possessions. Putting his bags down, he slid open the door and called out “gomen kudasai.” After a few moments a young man appeared. 

“My name is Nakakura Kiyoshi. I’ve come up from Kyushu to join the dojo.”

“Come in, sensei has been expecting you.”

---

As the time for keiko got nearer, more and more people started appearing at the dojo. Nakakura dropped his stuff off in his allocated space in a room on the second floor. He changed into his keikogi and took his bogu down to the dojo. Being new there he didn’t know anybody, nor the routine. 

A young man who looked to be a little bit older than Nakakura approached him:

“My name is Nakajima Gorozo. I teach kendo at keishicho and before that I lived in this dojo and studied under Nakayama sensei for years.  And who might you be?”

“Oh really? How about a match then?”

Nakajima had been a live-in student (uchideshi) at Yushinkan for six years before – at Nakayama’s recommendation – being employed at keishicho. An “old timer” if you like (despite being only 22), Nakajima was incensed at the impertinence of the newcomer. He might have been tall (for people at the time) but what he had in height he lacked in manners. His thick regional accent probably meant he was from the middle of nowhere, meaning his kendo would almost certainly be terrible. Even though it was his first day in the dojo, he needed to be taught a lesson:

“Wait here.”

He motioned over to his good friend Haga Junichi, who was eyeing the encounter from a distance. Haga had joined Yushinkan four years earlier and, being the same age, he and Nakajima had become good friends. Haga was currently teaching at the Imperial Guards and was notorious both for his rough, even violent, keiko as well as his gruff manner. Nakajima spoke:

“This guy needs a lesson in manners.”

Haga nodded. 

“New guy, put your men on.”

What followed was not as Nakajima had imagined. Yes, Haga was full on – vicious tsuki, strong katate-han-men, full on taiatari – but Nakakura was mostly coping with it, and even striking back. In the midst of it one threw the other and they were both lying on the dojo floor grappling. The battle was going on forever, and neither looked like they would concede defeat. After a while Nakajima stepped in and stopped it.

Taking his men off Haga turned to Nakajima and said:

“Well, he seems like an interesting guy.”

---

This article will very briefly talk about the “sanba-karasu” or “three crows” of Yushinkan: Nakajima Gorozo, Haga Junichi, and Nakakura Kiyoshi. “Three crows” was a sort of nickname given to the three strongest individuals in a field, and in this case it was the three best (young) kenshi in Yushinkan. They not only sparred and competed together, but they formed a close and long lasting friendship. 

The Psychological Pressure of Attacking in Martial Arts

Seme is a Japanese arts term which means "to attack" but implies a kind of psychological pressure. Below is an excerpt from an article that appeared at Kenshi 24/7 on Seme. The full post may be read here.

PART ONE: From seme to strike: understanding the process

The following will briefly list the four stages of the seme process mentioned in the article, from intention to attack to strike. 

A. Kizeme (draw in for the attack)

The first thing is to have the intention to attack. This is mainly WILL but also implies movement of the body and sword as you apply pressure on your opponent. 

The more mature a kenshi’s kendo is the less physical movement tends to happen. 

B. Tameru / infer response 

As your intention manifests itself and you “close in” on your opponent (not necessarily in the spatial sense) you “hold off’ on striking immediately and, watching your opponent closely, challenge them: “so, what are you going to do?”

The more experienced the kenshi is, the better they can control the opponent and infer the most likely response they’ll make. This inference can often be made somewhat successfully because those with more experience have done more keiko with more types of people and can recognise not only physical seme patterns but are good at reading the psychological aspects of seme-ai.

C. Partner intuits they will be struck

At this point your opponent, perceiving the incoming attack, will feel under pressure to react – they have a decision to make: strike back or dodge/block? Alternatively, they may be unable to choose either and simply stop indecisively (termed “itsuku” in Japanese).

If one of the four sickness occurs in them at this point (fear, surprise, confusion, or doubt) they will find themselves in a bad situation quickly.

D. Strike

If the opponent:

1. attempts to strike first, do some sort of oji-waza (response inferred/baited); 
2. stalls, strike them (mentally defeat);
3. breaks their posture, strike whichever area is open (physically defeat).

Of course, things don’t always go as smooth as this, and there is a lot 
of to-and-fro between both kenshi in the midst of the seme-ai. In mature
kenshi especially, there will be a lot of back and forth between stages
A and B on both sides before a “sickness” appears and stages C and D 
occur.  

100 Matches in Kendo

One of the things Kyokushin Karate is famous for is the "100 Man Kumite." This is where the karateka fights 100 consecutive rounds against a fresh opponent every round.

Mas Oyama, the founder of Kyokushin, didn't think this up himself. This is actually an older practice from other martial arts.

 Below is a documentary on a modern kendoka who fought 100 kendo matches. Enjoy.

  

 

The Scourge of Keishicho

Over at Kenshi 24/7, there was a fascinating article on a period of kendo history. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

The political revolution that occurred in Japan across the entire second half of the 19th century brought in a slew of changes in all aspects of life for everyone in the country. The coup d’etat on the 3rd of January 1868 was the principal political event of the Meiji Restoration, but it took decades after that for the new nation to become a fully functioning modern industrialised country.

Kendo-wise, it is a super interesting period. Prior to the restoration event, there were professional kenjutsu instructors: some were samurai who taught bujutsu in their domains while others ran private dojo in cities and towns (and even taught commoners). After the restoration kenjutsu suffered badly (domains were dismantled in 1871), with most people giving it up completely. Sakikibara’s Gekken Kogyo, first held in 1873, was the spark that lit a new interest in kenjutsu, but it was Kawaji Toshiyoshi’s 1879 Gekken Saikoron, which led to kenjutsu instructors being employed in the fledgling Keishicho starting in 1881, which really saved things. 

Although I had done articles in the past or talked about many of the “first batch” of modern kenshi, e.g. Naito Takaharu, Monna Tadashi, Takano Sasaburo, and the like (i.e. Butokukai/Busen and Koshi related; sons of samurai who taught at domains but who never did themselves), I’d like to expand on that by introducing, now-and-again, the generation before – those that were actually domain kenjutsu instructors during the upheavals, somehow weathered the process, and directly influenced people like Naito and Takano. 

Today’s article is a brief bio of Takayama Minezaburo. 

September the 3rd 1865 (or 67), about 4pm. Two students of Momoi Junzo’s Shigakukan, Takayama Minezaburo and Akiyama Takichiro, were out shopping for the dojo (live-in students had to clean the dojo and cook for themselves) when they spotted a commotion. Listening in, someone said:

“Momoi dojo’s Ueda-san cut someone down in Matsuda!!!!” 

(Matsuda was the name in a restaurant in an area which is now Ginza)

They ran to restaurant as fast as they could only to be greeted with a lot of Shinchogumi guarding the vicinity, at least one of whom they knew:

“Don’t worry, Ueda-san is safe.”

On hearing the news Takayama ran back to the dojo to tell Momoi, who shook his head and said:

“What?! Again?”

(Ueda Umanosuke killed two drunk samurai: one was cut in the head and died instantly, the second was impaled on the end of Ueda’s sword and died shortly after. He spent three years in the gaol for the incident but it didn’t hurt his future career as a top police kendo instructor at Keishicho).

Takayama Minezaburo 

Takayama Minezaburo was born in 1832 (or 35 depending on the source*) in Ozu domain, Ito province (now Ehime prefecture in Shikoku) to a samurai family who taught Confucian Studies. When he was seven years old his father was relocated to Edo and brought his son with him. 

*(Note that it has been difficult to pin-point 100% accurate dates for this article, and some sources have been contradictory and/or confusing. I have tried my best to unravel things.)

At some point Takayama started to learn kenjutsu under Fujikawa Yajiro (Jikishinkage-ryu) before eventually studying with Kondo Yanosuke (Itto-ryu Chuya-ha), and finally with Momoi Junzo at Shigakukan (Kyoshin meichi-ryu; many famous Meiji-era kenshi would spend time at Shigakukan). The exact length of study and dates are unknown, but what we do know is that Takayama made the switch to Shigakukan at quite a late age – sometime in the early 1860s. He would’ve been around about 30, unmarried, and lived in the dojo – a rare combination for someone his age. 

The politics of Japan at the time are very complex and those trying to make a living via swordsmanship faced tremendous difficulty, especially after the events of 1868, and things for Takayama were no different. 

At some point after the event at Matsuda described above in 1868, Takayama relocated to Kyoto and started to instruct kenjutsu at Toda Ishinsai’s very large and very popular dojo in Kawaramachi. It is during this time that Takayama would make a connection that would shape his entire life. 

Meeting

Takayama was from the same province as Toda, as well as also being a Jikishinkage-ryu swordsman. As Toda was older and didn’t teach much anymore, he soon allocated the daily instruction role to Takayama, who by that time was a skilled fencer. 

The dojo, based as it was in centre of Kyoto (which was still, for a time, the seat of the imperial court) was a mecca for kenshi from all corners of the country, many of whom were ronin and (soon to be ex-) samurai. There was much political talk going on, and not a little intrigue. Here a young ambitious samurai from Hirado province (now Nagasaki prefecture), Kuwata Gennojo, was sent to collect information (and gossip). He wasn’t the most committed of spies though. 

Kuwata (Shingyoto-ryu, later Muto-ryu) loved kenjutsu so much that it was almost as if his mission was forgotten – he went to the dojo daily and practiced with earnest. He was especially inspired by Takayama, who was tall and lean – Kuwata was small and stout – and at least five years his senior. Kuwata’s kenjutsu was no match for Takayama’s either and the relationship (despite Kuwata already having a Menkyo-kaiden in Shingyoto-ryu) was very much a teacher-student one. 

 

 

The Last Man Standing

Below is an excerpt from a post that appeared at Kenshi 24/7. It reads like a scene from a samurai movie - a new teacher arrives at a dojo and mops the floor with the senior students, all of whom had a chip on their shoulders.

The full post may be read here. Enjoy!

When Miyazaki Mosaburo, then 35 years old, walked in to the Butokuden as a newly minted kendo instructor at the end of the summer of 1927, the young busen students weren’t aware of who he was. Well, perhaps they heard rumours, but they certainly weren’t ready for what was about to happen. 

At almost 180cm, he was a good deal taller than everyone else there. His 94 kgs would’ve been equally as impressive to the lean kendoka that huddled together earlier that day and conspired together to knock him off his perch. Unlike nowadays, it was normal (even expected) for students to go full out and attempt to physically overpower those senior to them, to test them as it were. It was never going to work out how they planned… 

In 1909, the young 17 year old Miyazaki became a live-in student of the Butokukai’s head kendo instructor Naito Takaharu. He came to Kyoto to enter the Koshuka of the Bujutsu Kyoin Yoseijo – martial art teachers development school – but why Naito chose him is unknown. Perhaps it was the potential that lay within his physical stature, or perhaps it was the young mans taciturn nature (which he would keep for his entire live), who knows. At any rate, young Miyazaki lived with Naito and his wife for a number of years (exactly how many years we are not sure, at least three, potentially more). 

We know how he spent his time there for the first three years because he kept a diary detailing his habits as well as his (and Naito’s) comings and goings (only three years worth have been found). As a a historical document it is invaluable. 

During that time he cleaned Naito’s house, looked after his wife when she was ill, prepared breakfast, attended Kusonoki sensei’s lectures at Nanzenji (often along with Saimura Goro – an article for the future),  as well as attend keiko at the Butokuden. His proximity to Naito sensei is unrivalled (except perhaps with Shinohe Taisuke), and he was almost certainly extended certain privileges in later life because of it. 

Despite not being as well known as some of Naito’s other early students (Saimura, Mochida, Nakano, Ogawa, Oshima, Shimatani), it is almost certain that he was his favourite. Naito ensured that Miyazaki stayed in in a junior instructor position when he graduated, found him a good job in Mie prefecture, and called him back to Kyoto when a Busen teaching position became available. Which is where our story started.

The number of student positions available each year at the full time Busen course was extremely limited (by this time the Yoseijo had evolved in to Busen proper). Those that managed to enrol had to be not only physically able, have prior experience, and pass a difficult entrance exam, they also needed some sort of recommendation letter as well (from someone of standing or a prior graduate). Most kendo students who went through Busen did so in the Koshuka or speciality (kendo or judo) only course. Students there did not attend academic lectures and their keiko was set at a different time (though the teachers were the same, and many full time students joined it as well). 

Many had other jobs and most stayed only for a short duration. In later years (1920s) students on the full time course would be awarded government approved teaching certificates (allowing them to find work easily). At any rate, there were two tiers of students, with full time students being the cream of the crop.

The students that Miyazaki faced in the summer of 1927 were those from the full-time course. When he himself went through Busen almost 20 years earlier (its forerunner, the Bujutsu Kyoin Yoseijo) as a Koshuka, the difference between the full and part-time students was minimal. Now, however, the full time students had an air of superiority about them.

The students plan was simple: tire the old man out and beat him up. 

The first student that was sent up was a senior, fourth year student. His job was to non-stop attack the new teacher and exhaust him, allowing the other students to beat him down. The plan didn’t work. The opening kirikaeshi was intense. By the time it had finished his fighting spirit had dwindled. When jigeiko started he tried to strike kote-men and was sent flying on his back. Striking his head on the Butokuden floor, he was concussed.

Kiai Training

Below is an excerpt from a post at Ichijoji about a severe form of training that took place in an old school of swordsmanship in Japan. The full post may be read here.

Some time ago I wrote about the hard training methods that developed in or were promulgated from the Meiji period (1868- ) onwards. Whether these were an authentic continuation or re-creation of the experience of bugeisha in the past is a moot point. The information I could find pointed to a strong influence from sources outside the martial tradition. 

One of the traditions I described, popularised by the Ichikukai (One-nine Society) and labelled in a general way as misogi, seems to have developed from a Shinto base and developed a fierce, Zen inspired overlay (with nods to the teaching style of Yamaoka Tesshu), involved continuous ringing of a hand bell while chanting, and which lasted for a period of several days. Tohei Koichi, the famous aikido teacher engaged in this training.

A variant, or at least, a very similar style of training is described by veteran budo practitioner Roald Knutsen in his book Rediscovering Budo from a Swordsman’s Perspective. Knutsen, whose personal experience tends to pre-date many of the current crop of writers on these kinds of things, sees this kind of training relating to Shingon mikkyo, and suggests connections through to the roots of bugei, likely renewed by individual practitioners in their personal travels and connections with esoteric teachings such as those of the yamabushi.

...

   Early on the first morning the students knelt in formal line with a few domestic dojo members behind forming the second row. Each visiting student was handed a small handbell, or ‘kane’, to hold in his left hand. they were required to throw out their arm to sound the bell and shout a loud kiai – ‘Ei – the movement timed by the slow beat of the large dojo drum. This exercise was repeated endlessly at the same measured tempo for two hours before the practise ended. That first day they had two more sessions, a total of six hours. Needless to say, their arms became very heavy and tired; their voices, too.

...

   The fifth morning came and most felt better for their rest although somewhat stiff. They assembled in the dojo and put on their kendo armour before continuing with the usual kiai training, but this only lasted for an hour. Then, facing them on the senior side were a number of tough-looking senior yudansha. A violent practice followed in which there was no way in their present condition they could hope to hold their own. Each of the seniors seemed to be harder than the one before … and the practices were interminable, but at last the drum called a halt. The dojo master now announced that they would all be required later to fight one-point matches, success or failure depending on the result. They were then dismissed.

Both my Kendo informants recalled the prospect of these matches as daunting and, in each case, their respective opponents looked uncompromising and hard. With little or no reserves left within them, this situation was close to facing a deadly enemy on the battlefield; desperate in the extreme. While each steadied himself for what was to come, the senpai reminded them of the teaching:

‘Don’t look with your eyes; see with your mind!’

All three masters recalled that they took standing ‘rei’ towards their opponent, they followed it with a great kiai – and the senpai at once struck the drum to signal the match was at an end!