Thoughts on Lineage

Over at Thoughts on Tai Chi, there was a good post about lineage; what it does and does not mean. The full post may be read here. An except is below.

What exactly does it mean with a lineage in Tai Chi? And does training within a lineage mean to learn a more complete art, and does it lead to a fuller understanding of Tai Chi Chuan?

Ideally, it should. A lineage means that all of the knowledge in the same style, have been preserved and standardized by the founder of the lineage (or by the founder of a branch of a larger, older lineage). Thus, lineage is something style-specific, and this is maybe my main critique of “lineages”, that is cements the idea that there are “styles” in Tai Chi, something I personally disagree with on a fundamental level, even though I accept that “style” is generally accepted in the Tai Chi community.

What is positive and on the pro side with a lineage, is that you, can study an at least somewhat complete curriculum, and that the standard of what is taught in the schools of the lineage is the same and regulated. With other words – you can usually expect some kind of standard.

However, what is taught through lineages is not always as complete as claimed. All schools, styles and branches have their own limitations, though “lineage” might be the best example of a real problem of modern Tai Chi teaching, though their teachers often claim that what they teach is the superior school of Tai Chi. Why?

First, let me paraphrase something a martial artist said. Someone I have great respect for expressed himself very well when he said, well, I think it was something like this:

When you are looking at a performance of a high-level martial artist, you are only watching the results of that person’s, training. You are not seeing the training, how the person got to that level.

It sounds very simple and obvious, but there’s something important to learn here. Namely – that you don’t know exactly how a person achieved a certain skill just by looking at him or her. So what does this mean? Well, the problem is that when people associate a person with a style or lineage, they are mostly making assumptions based on simplifications, a simplified view on how to reach a certain point of development and achieve skills.

You could take a look at many practitioners, teachers and masters and and examine their backgrounds to understand better what I men. Let’s simplify the problem with taking myself as an example. So now, if you know how a typical Yang style Tai Chi curriculum usually looks like, and I said that I was a Yang Style practitioner, you would associate the skills that I myself can show and demonstrate, were developed by studying Yang Tai Chi and doing the typical training in this style. So, here immediately, you would do a mistake if you thought that I have achieved all of my skill only through typical Yang style practice.

By assuming I am mainly a Yang style practitioner, you woudn’t take the full extent of my background in consideration. You would not take into account such things as that I have learned things from other styles, or through cross-training in different internal arts, or by meeting up with different practitioners from various styles and schools. And you would not take into account that I’ve read tons of martial arts books and adapted methods and techniques from other schools into my own Tai Chi.

 

 

Kata and Flow Drills

There was an interesting post over at Budo Journeyman about distilling drills from kata. The full post may be read here. Below is an excerpt.

Chiefly about Naihanchi, but can apply to other scenarios.

Introduction.

It could be argued that any kata sequence can be turned into a useful paired drill, but it depends on how contrived and prolonged it is.

Back in the 1990’s I had an itch I felt compelled to scratch. It was all about Naihanchi kata. I just found it perplexing and frustrating; I honestly didn’t get it.

Clearly, in Wado karate it held a very important position. It wasn’t just an add-on, an oddity, but instead had a central position in the wider curriculum. However, anything beyond ‘just do it, then do it again’ was just not delivering for me.

I pushed into every available corner to try and figure it out. I consulted experts from other systems (I still have a box file of letters, printed out email replies and photocopies sent to me by the then leading scholars). But, the pieces still didn’t sit together easily.

It very quickly became apparent that any explorations in the direction of how the techniques from Naihanchi actually functioned at a practical level, just led me into a quagmire of reverse engineering.

Reverse Engineering.

Definition: ‘Reverse engineering (also known as backwards engineering) is a process or method through which one attempts to understand through deductive reasoning how a previously made device, process, system, or piece of software accomplishes a task with very little (if any) insight into exactly how it does so’.

I had a very interesting and honest email exchange with an expert in the field of kata interpretation (I won’t name him here). I asked him about his published applications of Naihanchi (Tekki Shodan)? He was very open with me; he admitted that he used the process of reverse engineering and said he had applied a ‘bunch of stuff he learned from Aikido and Judo’ to come up with some of his conclusions.

The problem seems to be that, apart from the above-mentioned researcher, nobody wants to admit to reverse engineering, because in doing so they lose any claim to a timeline that goes all the way back to 19^th century Okinawa, or maybe beyond. With reverse engineered kata ‘authenticity’ starts and ends with the instructor who created it.

Oldest version?

In the process of my research, I came to the conclusion that the nearest I was ever going to get to an oldest original version of Naihanchi was from Okinawan Shorin Ryu. But even there, nobody seemed to be prepared to put forward an explanation of what was really going on with kata. (Motobu was an interesting case, but my feelings about his interpretations was that they were idiosyncratic to him).

To continue the story. Curiosity got the better of me when I stumbled across an explanation of Naihanchi that was just too intriguing to ignore…

Nathan Johnson and his book, ‘Barefoot Zen’. Naihanchi as a flow drill.

I read the book first, before I visited Nathan Johnson’s Dojo in Southampton. The actual trip down was the first weekend in June 2001.

(His organisation is ‘Ko-do Ryu’ or ‘Zen Shorin-Do’, a synthesis of different stylistic approaches).

I had previously spoken to Nathan on the phone before I decided to drive down from Essex to Hampshire and experience this for myself.

 

 

 

 

Switching Styles

There was recently a good post over at the Budo Bum on Substack regarding switching styles. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here. 

While browsing reddit, I came across a user who said they were a member of the Ki Society for ten years but had recently moved to an area without any dojos within commuting distance. They asked whether it would be possible to transition to Aikikai, which does have local dojos, without having to start over from scratch.

I’ve heard similar questions many times. Someone has been training for a while in one style of martial arts and wants to train in a different style, and to be recognized in the new style at the same rank they are in the previous style. I get it. The thinking seems to be, you’ve invested a lot of time in a style and you want to be recognized for that. It feels like you’ve wasted your time if you have to go back to beginner status in a martial art that is similar to the one you’ve been training in.

I have to ask: why are you training?

Are you training to acquire rank and status in an obscure martial arts organization? (Let’s be honest, most martial arts organizations are obscure in the world we live in. Outside their own members, few people even know they exist.)

Or are you training to master yourself and a martial art?

The fact that this question is being asked suggests that said person is training to acquire rank and status, which I will admit are important to a lot of people for a lot of reasons. I just don’t think they are of much real value or relevancy to the practice of any form of budo.

 

We train for many reasons: to become stronger, to defend ourselves, to become better fighters, to be physically respected, to improve ourselves as human beings, to master deeper principles that are taught through training, and sometimes just for the joy of it.

Sometimes this is simply stated as: “I want to get a black belt.” Which often stands in for: I want to be stronger, a better fighter, and be physically respected.

Clearly the questioner likes training. The problem here is that they are very attached to the rank and status they have achieved in the Ki Society, and they are confusing the symbols of achievement for the real achievements, which are the skills and growth they have acquired through training. I’m sure the Aikikai wouldld not consider giving them equivalent rank, simply because the syllabi are not equivalent. Their skills, though, would not disappear just because they are training in an Aikikai dojo rather than a Ki Society dojo. They would still have their physical and technical mastery regardless of the color belt they are wearing—and if that isn’t respected by the new group members, I doubt it would be a place you want to train at anyway.

Looking at the question from a slightly different angle, after 10 years of regular practice, your understanding and mastery of the Ki Society syllabus should be pretty solid. Training with the Aikikai is a great chance to see the art from a slightly different perspective, and perhaps work on aspects of Aikido that haven’t been emphasized in the current dojo. The Aikikai and the Ki Society have differing pedagogies, but ikkyo, nikyo sankyo, yonkyo, iriminage, and shihonage are the same techniques in both organizations. They simply use different methods to teach them.

The only thing you have to lose by training in a different dojo is your attachment to your rank. In exchange you gain new perspectives on your art, new training partners, and new opportunities to grow.

This is an instance where ranks and their acquisition is definitely a negative influence on budo training. If we didn’t have all of these ranks, it would be easy to go into a new dojo and be a beginner there. We wouldn’t be “giving up” any rank or status. After all, it takes time and effort to achieve any rank in budo, and Rank Hath Its Privileges. Who wants to just give up anything we’ve worked so hard to achieve.

Each organization has their own requirements for their ranks, and to be recognized as a 1st dan in Iaido in the International Kendo Federation has nothing whatsoever to do with being recognized as a 1st dan in the All Japan Iaido Federation. Their test requirements are different. They require demonstrated skill in different kata. If I were to go into an Iaido Federation dojo, I would go straight to the lowest rank in the room. Sure, I know something about Kendo Federation Iai. I’ve managed to get to 5th dan in the Kendo Federation Iai system. I know nothing of the Iaido Federation’s Iai system though. I don’t even know the kata they use for training and testing. How could I expect to be recognized as a 5th dan by the Iaido Federation when I don’t even know the basics of their kata?

An Aesthetic of Taijiquan Practice

Over at Thoughts on Tai Chi, there as a recent post about the poetry within Taijiquan practice. I believe this applies to any martial art. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

 

The real poetry in Tai Chi is in its simplicity. The problem is that it’s nothing you can show to others, it’s something invisible.

All high arts strive towards simplicity. Why? Because you can judge all high art forms by the perfection in its details. And here is the thing: The more simple something is, the harder it is to perfect.

• Holding one high note is harder than just sing “anything”
• Making pottery perfectly straight, thin and absolutely even is harder than making curvy shapes
• In Chinese calligraphy, single brush strokes should be practiced thousands of times before trying to connect two together.

There are so many more examples that would make the same point. But it is also the same in martial arts. Even though I am not a fan of Japanese martial arts in general, I still think they often do a better job at this than in the Chinese. Just look at Kendo, Iaido or Japanese bow arts – they are all about perfecting one single strike, one single shot. Endless repetition of something seemingly simple.

Even a seemingly crude and unsophisticated style as Karate, compared to Chinese martial arts, does something very well. It only has a few types of kicks and punches that are repeated and perfected. Here is something I really respect, the philosophy that less is more. Or like Bruse Lee famously said: “I don’t fear someone who has trained ten thousand kicks once, but someone who as trained one kick ten thousand times.” This is a generalization of course, but it certainly makes a good point.

And I believe that this type of mind-set is also something that separates great Tai Chi practitioners from the mediocre ones. The mediocre ones are always obsessed about visual appearance. They like to train in Chinese traditional clothes, they like a ceremony around the practice and in class, and everything around the art. And obviously – they like collecting forms, both empty handed and weapon forms.

And the worst Tai Chi practitioners do everything out of own vanity and ego, they want to feel they know something “special” and look pretty while practicing. Some are lost cases. How much they train, they can never understand Tai Chi, because they are not interested in the art itself, but they use it as a tool to feel superior to others.

And on the other side of the spectrum, there are those who only focus on the perfection of every single movement they do. Just to raise hands, or turn to the right, becomes something very difficult, something they spend years and years to perfect. They practice on how to feel how the balance and weight distribution in their own body changes by every little small shift and movement. They study years and years to embody the simple Tai Chi principles in every movement and all of the time.

Poetry means to cut away everything unnecessary, and to strive for the most simple and clear expression possible. You can show poetry through words and sounds. But when you achieve it in Tai Chi, it looks like “nothing”. Because you can’t see it.

Just Show Up

At the Applied Methods blog, there was an insightful post about the standards we apply to ourselves. Below is an excerpt. The full post may be read here.

 

Every dojo has its own rhythm, its own expectations, its own way of doing things. Mine is simple: if you train here, you show up. Not perfectly, not endlessly, not more than your life allows - just consistently.

Recently someone suggested that expecting this might be a “privileged stance that lacks empathy”, or that speaking about commitment somehow conflicts with the values of karate. The ‘dojo kun’ was mentioned.

That tells me something important, and it has nothing to do with training schedules.

It shows how easily a standard can be mistaken for a judgment.

In the dojo, commitment isn’t measured by how many classes you attend. It’s measured by what you do with the time you can attend.

I’ve taught people who could only train once a week because of work, family, or life pulling in every direction. They were some of the most dedicated students I’ve had. They showed up, stayed connected, and kept moving forward. There was nothing lacking in them.

But that is not the same as the student who could train but doesn’t, or the one who never shows up when injured to watch from the sidelines, or the one who talks about wanting to improve but never takes even the smallest step toward it. Those patterns aren’t about circumstance. They’re about choice. And instructors see that difference immediately.

 

A Teacher's Perspective on Martial Arts Instruction

Below is an excerpt from a post that appeared at Budo Journeyman regarding the author's insights into the challenges and rewards to teaching his martial art. The full post may be read here.

Hopefully, there is something here for everyone, whatever stage you are at.

Previously, I have written two pieces on my view of how to work towards taking a grading exam: Tips on Karate Gradings. Part 1, Preparation. - by Tim Shaw. And: Tips on Karate Gradings. Part 2. The Grading itself. This piece has crossovers with that but goes into the area of general development.

Here I am going to map out the short and the long trajectory. Instant jumps forward and those that take a while to work out.

Flipping the switch.

This is an easy win. One piece of information, a position in kata, an approach presented by the Sensei and your mind grasps it straight away and, with hardly any effort you fix it – just like flicking on a light switch.

It is really useful to students to be able to identify the ease of such an adjustment. All ‘wins’ are valuable and convince them that progress is really happening.

Maturation – Time to bed-in.

This is based upon steady input and larger/smaller adjustments; but also lots of hard work and repetition. The good habits need establishing and time to solidify. The weaknesses and bad habits that students pick up need overriding and eliminating; it can’t happen like the flick of a switch.

As an instructor, you can measure how successful this is by putting the student under pressure to see if, or when, the wheels fall off.

Example; solo kata instruction:

The Sensei drip-feeds the adjustment, then the hard work of repetition begins. At the right time the teacher gets the student to rip into full-bore runs-through, and if the adjustments have not bedded in, and they go back to making the same (earlier) errors, then it’s ‘Yikes’ and back to the drawing board – Sensei face-palm, then more repetitions.

Self-revelation.

Not as obvious as you might think; but if it happens properly, it’s the one that the student (and the Sensei) value the most, as it came from the person’s own sweat and mature reflection. Truly Nectar from the Gods.

BUT… I have seen it used as a fig leaf, a cheap ‘get-out’ for the Sensei.

The bull***t side of this is when the student is told, ‘you just have to repeat and repeat and repeat and the higher level will reveal itself’. Yes, at base level, the logic is sound, but…

It can also be a convenient fantasy. The student is caught in a bind and the unscrupulous Sensei gets away Scott-free.

Here’s how it works; If the student fails to reach the next level, the Sensei convinces them they just haven’t worked hard enough. The responsibility is put squarely on the student’s shoulders, while the Sensei just sits back. Add to this that the student can’t question it, because it looks like they are being entitled and whiney, wanting it all on a plate. Typical Catch-22.

However, this type of self-revelation can happen and should happen, but it comes out of thoughtful and targeted micro-clues supplied by the Sensei to coax the student to join up the dots so that they can truly own it. This rests on the soft skills of the Sensei, to really know the student and read the situation.

 

 

 

 

 

The Aesthetics of Kata

At the Ichijoji Blog, there was an interesting essay about kata and it's role in developing the necessary mental qualities required for combat. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

It's well into 2026 now, but the catalyst for this rather freewheeling essay was something that is particularly noticeable around the end of the year, when everything is thoroughly swept and tidied in preparation for the New Year holiday – the aesthetic of neatness and simplicity. 

You can almost feel it as you walk along the streets, even in some of the downtown areas. It is also there in the stripped down aesthetic of the tea ceremony, as well as the look we have come to call, however erroneously, ‘Zen’. More to the point, in terms of this blog, it is also reflected in the clean lines and spare movements of many styles of Japanese martial arts.

Simplicity and chaos

Yet, in reality, this simplicity exists alongside a dense visual clutter that is common in many aspects of daily life: street signs, websites, kimono designs, homes and offices – sometimes overwhelmingly so. Even the natural world seems chaotic –  with plants and insects in great profusion in untended parts of the city, let alone the countryside.

It might very well be that, from very early times, when land first needed to be cleared for agriculture and habitation, people felt a need to bring some sort of order to the world, and strong, precise boundaries became important, the decisiveness of the boundary line being a statement in itself. In a form of agriculture that involves flooding rice fields every year, there is also a very obvious value to marking clearly what is going to be underwater, and what is not. Many of the farmhouses themselves, some in the countryside no longer, can look like raised islands, mounted on a base of stone. A similar effect can be seen in some of the famous rock gardens.

Certainly, there is something attractive in the way inessentials can be pared away and clarity imposed upon the seeming chaos of the natural world, and this has become a feature of the Japanese aesthetic. 

The chaos of combat – distilled but disorganised?

Combat is another kind of chaos so it may not come as a surprise that a similar approach can be seen in the way unpredictability is reduced in Japanese martial arts by concentrating on the essentials, both in the clarity of the movements themselves, and the variety of movements or techniques that are taught. 

These are typically organised in kata, which may be seen as a distillation of a vast array of potential techniques, rather than a full catalogue of techniques or an approximation of a realistic exchange.

A distillation it may be, but one that may appear somewhat ad hoc, with little obvious sense of organisation (in many cases) beyond the progression through the various kata. To an outsider, this can seem lopsided or incomplete (and perhaps to some insiders, as well), but is this just a matter of perspective? Could it be analagous to another well-known aspect of Japanese aesthetics –  asymmetry (fukinsei)? This is often mentioned as an important feature of Japanese aesthetics (coming from China, of course, and closely linked to Zen), and although few in the west would think anything unusual about asymmetry in design, it may be that this kind of principle in knowledge is more difficult to appreciate.

If a more profound framework exists, it is well hidden. (Which is not to say the art itself or the skills it develops cannot be profound). Instead of a broad organising principle, there are fundamental movements, examples of approaches or solutions to particular problems – a set of ideal or abstracted responses. The shape of the whole remains undefined – the student seeks depth of understanding – a refinement through which he or she develops the ability to deal with the unrehearsed nature of real combat.

 

 

 

The Mind and Structure in Taijiquan

At Thoughts on Tai Chi, there was recently a post about the how the mind creates the structure of the body, and how if one's mind is disturbed, the structure becomes compromised. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here. 

If you tense up because your opponent is strong, you will break your own structure even before he does anything.

Everything starts in the mind. But as Tai Chi is doing, we can say that when you perform or apply Tai Chi, it starts in the body.

The mind-set, or the natural state of just being, could be understood as Wuji, or non-differential But as soon as there is the intent of action, there is Taiji. Here I mean the philosophical concept “Tai Chi” where Yin and Yang has separated and work together through the movement of opposites. Here I separate the philosophical term from the shorter form of Tai Chi Chuan through the spelling. It’s not something recommended to do, but I think it’s a pedagogical thing to do and this is not an academic paper.

But the mind-state must be be correct for the movement and structure to be correct. The mind-state that is developed and deepened over time, is called “Wuxin” or “No Mind”. This is when the heart and mind is still and kept empty, calm and relaxed. It’s called “No Mind” because the heart is kept still, when neither unwanted thoughts or emotions can arise.

But here is the krux – to feel and know if your mind is tense or not, might be hard to understand. Why do we never talk about a tense mind? Worries, thoughts, and things we need to figure out or deal with, can make our mind tense. And then we get stuck in this state of tension though we don’t recognize it as such. It gets a habit just like tensing the shoulders or neck, or keeping the breath high can become a habit.

But again, we rarely talk about a tense mind. We should. So we can learn to relax better. Not only to relax the mind, but the body. The body’s tension and level of relaxation is directly dependent on the level of calmness of the mind.

Because if you can’t relax your mind, the breath will rise, and you will become “top heavy” and unstable, so your root will “float”.

Understanding and controlling this relationship of mind, body and breath, is obviously especially important when you are against an opponent, friendly or not.

Whatever you do, you need to first mind the integrity of your own structure and balance, and always keep it intact. In whatever you do, how small or big the thing you do – or if you stand or move, you need to keep your balance and structural integrity first and always. Structure in Tai Chi is relaxed, it is something that needs to be taken care of by itself. The body must stack itself naturally by itself, from the ground and up, naturally and without you trying to interfere.

This is something hard, something you need to practice a lot and learn how to feel. But you will lose it all if you tense up your mind.

 

The Aging Martial Artist

At Zen's Sekai, the author recently posted his thoughts regarding his Taijiquan and Kyudo practice in the context of aging. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

"I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free." - Michelangelo

Most people assume that aging means gradual loss: less strength, less speed, less range, less ambition.

Taiji and Kyūdō quietly disagree. They do not promise to keep the body young.

They promise something more durable: integrity without excess. Aging Reveals, It Does Not Automatically Weaken.

In external systems, youth is an advantage. Speed forgives errors. Strength covers imbalance. Endurance masks inefficiency.

But aging removes these buffers. What remains is structure, timing, and honesty. Taiji and Kyūdō are not practices that compensate for aging. They are practices that age well because they remove what aging cannot support.

Taiji: When Less Effort Becomes Necessary

Wu Taiji is often misunderstood as “small” or “gentle.” In reality, it is economical. As the body ages: Excess muscular tension becomes costly Overcorrection leads to injury Forcing posture creates fatigue instead of stability

Wu standing and movement strip practice down to essentials: Vertical alignment Ground connection Continuous expansion without strain.

Nothing in Wu requires speed, depth, or amplitude. What it demands instead is accuracy. And accuracy improves with age, if ego steps aside.

Kyūdō: The Shot That Cannot Be Forced

Kyūdō offers no advantage to youth once form is learned.

Strength does not improve release. Speed does not improve timing. Desire does not improve accuracy. In fact, these often make it worse.

As practitioners age, Kyūdō naturally refines itself:

Draw becomes quieter Kai becomes deeper Hanare becomes less dramatic and more inevitable. The body learns what the mind cannot command.

This is not decline. This is distillation.

The Shared Principle: Non-Interference

Both Taiji and Kyūdō are built on the same foundation:

Remove what obstructs natural organization.

Aging supports this process by making interference expensive.

Excess tension hurts,

Poor alignment fatigues quickly,

Emotional forcing destabilizes balance. Youth can ignore these signals. Age cannot, and does not need to.