The Bokuto

Over at Ichijoji, the author recently had an interesting post about a bukuto (bokken) that he recently bought. 

These training swords come in all sorts of wood, shapes and sizes.

My own favorite is one that I bought for attending Kushia Sensei's kenjutsu class, where he taught his family style of swordsmanship. This specimen is made of white oak and is larger, more dense and heavier than the generic red oak ones you typicall come across. It is a weapon in it's own right.

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

...

It’s probably a bit older than the others – 30 or 40 years old, I should think, judging from the colour and feel. What attracted me was the balance – it’s reasonably heavy and feels good in either one or both hands.

It is an unusual length, too, somewhere between the normal shoto (short) and long bokuto. That makes it useful both for practice and, if the need ever arose, as a weapon. Bokuto, Miyamoto Musashi notwithstanding, are not designed as weapons. They would do in a pinch, but the normal practice type are a touch too light, and are not as versatile as something like a jo, the short staff used by the riot police here.

That is not to say they are not capable of serious damage – getting whacked around the head by a piece of oak is not going to be good for anyone’s health, but their length makes them susceptible to grabbing and less effective in close quarters. 

The other interesting feature of this bokuto is that it has a squared-off tip. This is slightly unusual these days – most bokuto have kisaki (tip) resembling that of a real blade. I don’t mind this, but I certainly wouldn’t choose this design for my main practice bokuto. 

As there are more than 100 different designs of bokuto, (https://www.seidoshop.com/blogs/the-seido-blog/01-the-different-types-of-bokken-a-visit-at-the-horinouchi-workshop), it would not be surprising if among them, there was something like this. On the other hand, the tip looks quite banged about, and it is possible it got damaged somehow and was cut off.  It also looks as if it might have been cut down purposely to its current length – this is certainly not a standard length, and the tsuka (the end of the hilt) has been cut off square, without the edges being rounded at all (unlike the kissaki). 

Careful examination shows evidence of use – a few marks on the mine (spine), and some marks on the side – some of these have clearly been done with a sharp blade, more likely a practice sword than a real one.

Some koryu styles have bokuto specific to their style, (and there are differences within styles, too) but many make do with what is available. Kendo and aikido tend towards the standard types for kata work and heavier types for developing strength and body connection, but I’m sure there are variations there as well. I have tried some rather poorly balanced bokuto in the past – no doubt mass produced, probably for kendo(?), (although you get poor quality ones sold as souvenirs) and I would not be very happy if I had to use them on a regular basis. 

I have seen comments online about issues connected with weight – I never had any specific instruction on this from my teacher, but on the subject of swords, he once explained that it was good for lighter, less strong practitioners to start with heavier swords to develop the structure to be able to handle them well, and for stronger practitioners to use lighter blades, so they could develop their sensitivity for the weapon. This was under supervision, of course, and with the unspoken corollary that they would eventually progress to a sword that suited them better, if necessary. (Having used several quite heavy swords of varying balance, I can say I have benefitted, but they were not always comfortable to use).

 

 

 

 

Walking the Circle

At Zen Sekai's blog, there was a recent post about yet another martial art the author is studying and how he sees all of his practices come together. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

There are worse things one could do in one's retirement. I admire his efforts in his continuing and expanding his studies.

For myself. as an essentialist, I find myself going more deeply into fewer things.

Training Beyond Combat …

Over the years, I have touched BaGua Zhang only in passing.

My main studies have been Shaolin, Northern Praying Mantis, and Tai Chi, with occasional contact with Xingyi and BaGua. Not from lack of interest, but from lack of the right teacher.

There is an old saying: when the student is ready, the teacher appears.

What is less often said is that the teacher rarely, if ever appears in the way, place, or time one expects. As shown in my recent contact with my Shakuhachi Sensei.

Many years ago, my Shaolin Mantis Shifu taught me a BaGua “form.” It was long and complex, and it took me fully two years to complete. Yet when I finished, I felt unfulfilled. I had learned a form, but it felt empty. Over time, I forgot it. What remained were fragments: basic circle walking and a few foundational ideas. I practiced these occasionally, analyzing the movements, but something was still missing. It felt unbalanced, ungrounded.

Later, much much later, I went to Thailand to study Theravāda walking meditation. I wanted to understand its intention and purpose. Deepen my own Buddhist practice. . I found it interesting, but, if I’m honest, somewhat boring. Mechanically sound, spiritually sincere, logical, yet lacking richness. While practicing, a thought kept returning: BaGua could serve the same ends, but with more depth and dimensionality.

Eventually, I found a BaGua school in Osaka with teachers that came periodically from China. The location was perfect, close to home, and I thought, finally, this is it. Right in my own backyard. But after several contacts, and requests for a visit to talk, being side-stepped, it became clear the focus was more on membership and affiliation than on transmission. I let it go.

Next, I found a teacher online in Europe. Access was easy. I learned walking palm changes and expanded the “vocabulary” of what I already remembered. I studied, added, and practiced. Still, something felt incomplete. The movements were there, but the depth I was seeking remained elusive. The timing was bad for group Zoom class, so I accepted what I could…

Then, almost accidentally, I came across a school in Thailand. At first, I dismissed it. It was in Bangkok, a city I felt no pull toward. Too urban, too crowded. Big cities are big cities, not my thing. Even though I was already traveling to Thailand for Taiji, Kali, and Buddhist studies, BaGua there in Bangkok didn’t register as a priority. I enjoyed Chiang Mai I could learn and relax.

But the school kept appearing in my feed. I watched more closely. I read the philosophy. I observed the training videos. What truly caught my attention was a short section about a woman in her seventies, living in the UK, who traveled yearly to Thailand to train. Her story, combined with the teacher’s principles and approach made me pause to pay attention.

Curiosity ripened into a contact.

We connected online. Distance training, post-COVID, is now normal. I decided to try an online private session, with the idea possibility of supplementing it later with in-person training during a future trip to Chiang Mai. A short flight. Affordable. English instruction. Warm weather. Good food. Physical and spiritual cultivation. It felt… doable and complete.

The first Zoom session was immediately beneficial, far beyond BaGua in my head vision alone. What was being taught was not “more movements,” but foundation. Principles rather than choreography. Almost instantly, these ideas transferred in my mind to Kyūdō, Tai Chi, and Buddhist practice. Also surprisingly to Shakuhachi. Although in Zen we say there is no duality. Still it is a bit surprising to see it in real time.

Gold had been found.

A Shared Axis

It became clearer that BaGua, Kyūdō, Tai Chi, and Chan are not separate paths, but different ways of walking the same ground. This was something I felt, understood already, even with my small understanding. In Chan/Zen there is no duality, as I said. Now this became more concrete. Tai Chi teaches balance through continuous yielding. Kyūdō reveals stillness in a single, unrepeatable release. Chan points directly to what remains when nothing extra is added. BaGua moves between them, asking the body to change direction without losing its center. There is no straight line toward understanding…only responsiveness. The bow, the step, the turn, the breath all arise from the same quiet place. When the center is stable, movement becomes effortless, and direction is no longer a problem. “Movement within stillness, stillness within movement.”

“Form is emptiness, Emptiness is Form”…Zen Heart Sutra.

 

 

 

In Memory of Quintin Chambers

At Ellis Amdur's Kogen Budo blog, there was a remembrance of Quintin Chambers, one of the first westerners to study classical Japanese martial arts in depth. Below is an excerpt. The full post may be read here. 

When a big bell tolls, the sound seems to sink into your soul, affecting you deeply.  In the Japanese koryū community the news that Quintin Chambers Sensei had passed most surely had that very same effect.

He trained in judō and aikidō, but when he found the koryū, he became enthralled by it. Quintin was one of the foreign koryū pioneers in Japan that trained under both Shimizu Takaji Sensei in Shintō Musō-ryū (SMR) and Otake Risuke Sensei in Katori Shintō-ryū (KSR).  Shimizu Sensei authorized him to instruct in SMR which he did in Hawai’i.  He taught the art to a group that always remained small; the required fee was sincere effort and thought about the art.

Describing Quintin’s demeanor is actually quite easy.  He was the quintessential British gentleman until he wielded a weapon.  You then faced a serious warrior with impenetrable zanshin. Quintin’s body was sinewy; the intent he exuded could be imposingly dangerous. However, he was absolutely not a typical budō jock.  This became immediately obvious as he spoke with the British Received Pronunciation acquired in England’s Public School System and at Cambridge University.  He could, for example, wax eloquent on languages, classical music, and politics.  Both his technique and language were precise.  Quintin taught the omote techniques but consistently sought the ura, insisting that the omote can get you killed.  Since KSR is a strong sword-based tradition, he also had great insight for the uchidachi side of SMR.  He thought the path of training is not a matter of how many years you must strive; rather, it was how many decades.

We remember him fondly and respectfully.  Anyone who trained with him knew it was an honor to have done so.  The good knight’s name and reputation will resonate long into the future.

 

From Joe Cieslik

I was fortunate in my travel plans and was able to visit and talk with Chambers Sensei several times before he passed. Right up to the end, he was concerned about his students and their training. He treated everyone with courtesy and respect. Because of his consideration, his students always tried to reach the high bar that he set. He accomplished a great deal in his life with talent, integrity, intelligence, dedication, athleticism and an innate generosity. I feel the world has lost someone completely irreplaceable and is a lesser place.

From John Howland

To anyone who knew him, any description of Quintin Chambers, the public man, would present an easily recognizable constellation of features. He was gentlemanly, charming, and considerate of others. His deep, resonant voice carried easily–he might have made a fine opera singer, but he always kept his volume down a few notches below oratorical. He was erudite and witty. His humor never coarse, but sometimes (oh, so gently) biting.

Quintin is well-remembered for his compassion. He loved animals and had an optimistic view of humankind. He once said, “Wherever you go, anywhere in the world, you find good people. That is the norm.” His handsome, angular features (sometimes pensive, sometimes creased into a boyish grin) were unforgettable. My wife always referred to him as “Dear Quintin.”

In contrast to his privileged background, Quintin chose to be a man of the common people. He denounced the vestiges of the class system in England and complained that his accent would make him unwelcome in a cockney bar. He was content to spend more than half-a-century living in the gentle climate and multi-ethnic diversity of the Hawai’ian Islands.

Chambers the critic was a somewhat different animal. His intense desire was to seek the combative utility beneath the pedagogical norms and performative aesthetics of the ryūha. It is well known that he and his training partner, Donn Draeger, conspired to establish what was then the International Hoplological Research Center in Hawai’i. What is less known is that one of his main reasons for volunteering to leave Japan before Draeger was the concern that his young son not be brought up in the Japanese public school system. He explained, “Their critical thinking is zero.”

Quintin the warrior was a man of highest integrity who expressed a willingness to fight for a cause at a moment’s notice. This was the man who ordered his students to hold back while he went, alone, to deal with a motorcycle gang who had threatened violence against one of them. Teacher, critic, warrior, friend; for all of these we are ever indebted.

From Gendai Budo to Koryu

Over at his substack, Peter Boylan had an interesting article about the transition one must make from a modern budo (judo, karate, etc) to a traditional martial art (kenjutsu, etc). An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

The vast majority of people practicing budo today are training in gendai budo. These are loosely defined as schools that were founded after the end of the Tokugawa Shogunate in Japan in 1868. The first gendai budo, Kodokan Judo, was founded by Kano Jigoro based on his training in the Tenjin Shin’yo Ryu and Kito Ryu jujutsu schools, and then refined through a tradition of fighting open challenge matches against all comers.

Kano Shihan molded his Kodokan Judo to be suitable for teaching in Japan’s new public education system as a way of preserving and handing down the teachings of classical jujutsu to future generations. This required tremendous reworking of how the jujutsu was taught and transmitted. Kano was inspired by Western ideas about education, and, as a result, he transformed the old school jujutsu into a system that could be taught to large groups with a clear ranking system that is as objective as he could come up with. Kano’s system starts with techniques, then adds randori (sparring), a system of competition, and finally kata for learning the more subtle aspects of the art, as well as those many parts that aren’t suitable for use in a sporting environment.

Budo schools in Japan up to Kano Shihan’s time were generally small and focused on personal instruction. Their culture discouraged the open teaching of their skills and required loyalty to the school. Transmission in these schools is primarily kata based, and the skills are practiced with lethal intent rather than any thought of fair competition, where everyone goes home healthy and whole afterwards. Gendai budo generally take a sporting view of things - everyone is equal and equally armed.

Learning koryu isn’t like learning gendai budo. Instead of a sporting environment based on fair play and safety, koryu assume that everyone is heavily armed and that “fair” means a big gathering where people often drink too much and get in fights. This makes all the difference in the training atmosphere. There is nothing sporting going on. It’s serious learning, and making mistakes can hurt. Students coming to koryu budo from gendai budo have some mental adjustments to make. They have to get over the idea that a “fair fight” is in any way a good thing and start thinking in terms of maximizing every possible advantage.

The oldest koryu, arts like Takenouchi Ryu, come directly from battlefields. Others come from more peaceful times. But, even during the Edo period, Japanese cities were filled with people carrying weapons who were happy to use them. All koryu work hard to transmit hard-won understanding of what it takes to survive fights that are usually asymmetrical. There is no assumption that things will be fair and everyone will have the same weapons. In fact, outside of kenjutsu schools, the assumption is generally that things are not fair and that your training partner is not armed the same way you are.

Starting with the assumption that things aren’t equal changes the nature of training tremendously. It’s all two person kata, which sounds easy because you know the techniques ahead of time. It’s anything but that. In Shinto Muso Ryu, you start out with a 128 cm (roughly 4’) staff, facing a swordsman with a sword that is a little more than a meter (40”), and the person with the sword is a senior teacher who is cutting to hit you. They’re not cutting somewhere in your vicinity. They are cutting 7 cm (3”) into your head. If you don’t move, it’s going to hurt. All of the training is like this. The margin for safety is always tiny. If you don’t move enough, you’ll get cut. If you move too much, you’ll leave an opening that the teacher will exploit and cut you. 

 

 

 

 

Northern Tai Mantis Kung Fu and Sifu Paul Eng

Over at Zen Sekai's blog, there was a recent post where the author described Tai Mantis kung fu and recalled his instruction under Sifu Paul Eng. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

Yesterday was the Anniversary of the the birthday and passing day of my Tai Chi Mantis Shifu. Paul Eng. He was my second Tai Chi Mantis Shifu, the First was Kam Yuen. They were related. He passed away Ed a couple of years ago go. Eng Shifu was about 10 years ago. I first started with Kam Shifu and received my teacher certificate from him. (Northern Shaolin Tai Chi Praying Mantis)

My training included Northern Shaolin, Lohan, Seven Star, Tai Chi Mantis, Ba Qua, Hsing Yi.

Later I trained with Eng Shifu received advanced training and admission into the inner circle of Tai Chi Mantis Society via him. This post is in Honor of him.

Historical Context of Tai Chi Praying Mantis

Praying Mantis boxing (螳螂拳) developed in northern China as a family of related systems rather than a single, uniform style. While popular narratives often trace all mantis boxing to a single founder, historical evidence suggests a gradual evolution, shaped by regional methods, battlefield experience, and individual refinement.

Within this family, Tai Chi Praying Mantis (太極螳螂拳) represents a principle-oriented expression rather than a purely technical divergence.

Relationship to Other Mantis Systems

Seven Star Praying Mantis (七星螳螂拳) is the most widely known branch and is often treated as representative of all mantis boxing. However, Tai Chi Praying Mantis differs in emphasis:

Seven Star favors: Direct aggression Strong percussive force Clear, decisive striking combinations Tai Chi Praying Mantis emphasizes: Listening and sensitivity Adhesion and redirection Lighter contact leading to control

Both are aggressive systems, but their methods of arriving at dominance differ.

The Meaning of “Tai Chi” in Tai Chi Praying Mantis

A common misunderstanding is that Tai Chi Praying Mantis incorporates techniques from Tai Chi Chuan. Historically and functionally, this is incorrect.

In Tai Chi Praying Mantis, “Tai Chi” refers to principle, not choreography.

Specifically:

Using the opponent’s force against them Neutralizing rather than colliding Alternating yin and yang in timing and pressure Maintaining balance while disrupting the opponent’s

These ideas long predate the modern separation of martial arts into named styles and were part of the broader internal logic of Chinese martial culture.

Tai Chi Praying Mantis applies these principles within a mantis framework — through seizing, trapping, elbow control, and rapid finishing — not through Tai Chi Chuan postures.

Northern Shaolin Influence

Northern Shaolin systems historically served as foundational training grounds, providing:

Structure Conditioning Large-frame movement Long-range striking

Tai Chi Praying Mantis emerged and was transmitted alongside this environment, benefiting from Shaolin’s physical discipline while refining it through economy of motion and tactical intelligence.

As practitioners aged or moved into teaching roles, emphasis often shifted away from large, forceful expressions toward principle-driven efficiency — a pattern seen repeatedly across Chinese martial traditions.

Transmission and Refinement

Rather than being a modern hybrid, Tai Chi Praying Mantis represents a refinement process within mantis boxing:

Reducing unnecessary collision Improving timing and sensitivity Prioritizing control over exchange

This refinement made the system especially suitable for:

Smaller practitioners Older practitioners Situations requiring decisive resolution rather than prolonged fighting

Teachers such as Master Chi Chuk Kai preserved this approach by emphasizing principle over appearance, ensuring the art remained functional rather than performative.

Tai Chi Praying Mantis as a Mature System

Historically, many Chinese martial arts evolved toward lighter, more internal expressions over time — not as a loss of effectiveness, but as a gain in clarity.

Tai Chi Praying Mantis reflects this maturity:

It listens before acting It controls before striking It finishes without excess

Seen in this light, Tai Chi Praying Mantis is not an offshoot or compromise, but a culmination — a system shaped by experience, realism, and the understanding that true skill conserves both effort and life.

Naturalness in Martial Arts

At Thoughts on Tai Chi, there was recently a post exploring "naturalness" and what is meant by this in taijiquan specifically, but it applies to martial arts in general. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

 

Introduction: Naturalness in Tai Chi

In Tai Chi Chuan, as well as in several other Chinese martial arts, the concept of being “natural” (ziran, 自然) or of performing “natural movement” is frequently mentioned.

It is therefore surprising that even some well-known teachers question this term, or appear unfamiliar with its actual meaning. Some of these teachers are highly prolific and often speak at length about concepts such as “qi,” yet their dismissal of naturalness suggests a fundamental misunderstanding of what ziran refers to in classical Chinese traditions.

Statements such as “nothing we do in Tai Chi is natural,” “everything is unnatural,” or “if Tai Chi were natural, it would be easy to perform” are commonly heard. Such remarks reveal a lack of understanding of the classical meaning of ziran and of what is considered “natural” within internal martial arts, Daoist body practices, and related Chinese traditions.

At its most basic and simplified level, “natural” or ziran refers to what is originally inherent to the human body – movement and organization as it is meant to function when it is not disturbed or overridden by artificial or forced control.

The Problem of Unnatural Movement

The crucial point is that most of us are not natural in the classical sense. The way we move and use our bodies is largely learned rather than inherent.

Most people walk, sit, and perform everyday tasks while carrying unnecessary tension in the body: a stiff neck, elevated and shallow breathing, and a tense, restless mind. Movements are often clumsy, and awareness of one’s own body is limited.

When people walk, they frequently hold themselves upright through tension in the upper body, maintaining balance by constantly shifting weight across small, unstable points in the feet, rather than allowing the body’s structure to support itself. Speech is often strained and high-pitched, and movement lacks coordination and ease.

Much of the day is then spent sitting, often without awareness of how these habitual patterns of tension reinforce themselves, gradually making movement even more restricted and inefficient. In this sense, what we commonly regard as normal human behavior is in fact artificial: tense, fragmented, and far removed from naturalness.

These patterns are not innate; they are learned behaviors that run counter to what is natural for the human body.

My late Chinese teacher often pointed out that small children are energetic, resilient, and rarely seem to tire. Over time, however, social conditioning teaches children that much of what they do is wrong: how they sit, move, walk, or behave. In schools, they are expected to sit still, remain quiet, and suppress spontaneous movement.

According to my teacher, this process gradually replaces natural movement with artificial patterns. He emphasized that this observation is not new but reflects insights that have existed in Chinese thought for thousands of years. Animals move with smoothness and ease, and young children do as well. Adult humans, in contrast, often do not.

 

 

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.