Cheng Man Ching 37 Taijiquan Form Circa 1946 Photos

 

A good find. 

Thia is an AI enhanced video of photos used by Cheng Man Ching promoting his "simplified" 37 form in a newspaper. 

 

The Aikido of Rinjiro Shirata

Rinjiro Shirata was a contemporary of Gozo Shioda and a giant in the Aikido world.

Islands in the Stream

At Budo Journeyman there was an interesting post about how karate might have evolved from China to Okinawa to Japan. The full post may be read here. An excerpt is below.

In this piece:

· The original ‘Three Islands experiment’.

· The results.

· My view on where it might take you.

· How that can apply to karate in Japan, and particularly Wado.

· Did master Otsuka get it right?

I like this idea. I came across it on a UK karate podcast (‘The Karate Kitchen’, previously ‘Opinionated Bastards’). I contacted Robert Davis and Andi Kidd to gain their permission to present the theories – full credits at the end of this piece. I hope I get it right. But, anyway, here is my spin on it.

Introduction.

I have seen and read so many theories, assumptions and guesswork, centring around the transmission of Okinawan karate through the vehicle of solo kata.

Some of them are just wishful thinking, others are designed to bolster the pet projects of enthusiastic (and entrepreneurial) karateka who operate on the fringes, but are driven to prove that they are right and everyone else is wrong.1 But, nobody wants to admit that they just don’t know.

I do find myself pleased that there are some serious researchers on the ground in Japan and Okinawa, who are trying desperately to unearth the true historical facts, but, boy, what an enormous challenge. My fear is that the horse has long departed the stable, and all you are left with is the traces of what the horse left in in the stall, good luck in picking through that.

(Anecdotes from westerners who have been over to Okinawa suggest to me that the remaining indigenous ‘masters’ are busy backfilling the vacuum).

Anyhow; here is the ‘Three Islands’ project. What a great idea!

This came out of a seminar, an experimental project to set up a real and theoretical ‘Stanford Prison’ style project, relating to kata transmission.

Island number one.

This is the very beginning, where the team, the controllers, design a new short karate kata, something not seen before, concocted in secret.

This first ‘island’ is the origin location of this theoretical kata and the home of a kind of ‘master creator’. This originator supposedly comes with a huge conceptual framework in the fighting arts. The kata is used as a mnemic, or a kind of crib sheet for his students to learn the full comprehensive system from. The kata is, in part, a distillation of the system’s principles and a set of crunched-down pre-packaged lessons. The students are taught the kata inclusive of the Henka, Ohyo etc.

I don’t know how they organised this bit, but in the later developmental time-line the students become fractured and have to work on their own, and drift into their personal preferences, playing to their strengths, resulting in bits getting lost or (if they were not fully understood in the first place) overwritten. With no access to the original master/creator it’s an imperfect transmission.

Island number two.

On this island, a student turns up who learned the original kata, but not the applications or the logic of the master/creator. The form/kata develops some traction and is widely taught, but a crucial point is that the inhabitants of this island haven’t been living in a vacuum, they have their own take on fighting logic, perhaps gleaned from their own historical circumstances, so they are not ‘babes in the woods’. All the same, this imported form/kata holds enough attention for them to develop it and refine its practice. Basically, mould it into any utilitarian purpose they want (e.g. aesthetic or athletic).

What they did with the kata, and what it turned into, created a high degree of formalism within an exercise format. They also leaned into an urge towards standardisation, where it would be easy to say that someone was not doing it ‘differently’, they were doing it ‘wrong’, no space for flexion or interpretation.

Island number three.

As we island hop, this is where it really starts to happen. The kata is exported to yet another island location and is again greeted with enthusiasts wanting to explore this ‘fighting form’. But, they feel compelled to give the individual sections of the kata some meaning and so, from scratch, they start to reverse engineer; to work out how the movements might be interpreted as fighting sequences which are effective techniques against potential aggressors. They are making it up. However, like with the previous islanders, they have some ideas they can inject into the mix based upon their indigenous defence arts.

In the final rounding off…

In this theoretical island world, the original kata, complete with the entire cultural context, with the full encyclopaedic knowledge, is presented side-by-side with what the final island came up with. The comparison between the two couldn’t be more extreme. My guess is that all the subtleties are bleached out, and that final islander’s ideas are simple clip-together answers that are reluctant to move beyond the literal form. Also, consider the group who only knew the form!

Kendo Testing Criteria

Previously, I had posted about the kendo 8th dan exam, which is perhaps the most difficult rank examination in the world. Below is an excerpt from a post that appeared at the Kenshi Journal, regarding the testing criteria for the dan ranks. There is certainly more to kendo than bopping someone on the head! 

The full post may be read here.

In the Yoshinkan Aikido organization within which I previously trained, the last physical test was for 6th dan. On successfully attaining 6th dan the aikidoka was regarded as a shihan, or "master teacher" and was fully authorized to teach all of the approximately 3000 named techniques.

A close examination of the official Standard Guideline for Dan/Kyu Examination reveals that rank progression in Kendo and Iaido is far more than a simple test of physical speed or athletic agility. The grading criteria outline an intentional, decades-long evolution, moving from foundational mechanical execution to strategic match control, theoretical rationale, personal dignity, and ultimately complete mind-body integration. I will first start with Iaido and then move on to Kendo.

The Iaido Promotion Criteria is:

Shodan to 3rd Dan: (1) Correct appearance and etiquette. (2) Precise Nukitsuke and Kiritsuke. (3) Precise Chiburi and [blade]angle. (4) Precise Noto 

4th Dan and 5th Dan, same criteria as Shodan to 3rd Dan with addition of the following criteria: (1) Mental composure (2) Metsuke (gaze) (3) Kihaku (vigour) (4) The unison of Ki(spirit), Ken(sword), and Tai(Body).

6-Dan, 7-Dan, and 8-Dan: The Jitsugi examination for 6th Dan to 8th Dan will take into consideration all the assessment points relevant to Shodan through to 5th Dan with the addition of the following two elements and an expected higher overall level of technical proficiency.  (1) Riai (Understanding of the rationale behind the techniques) & (2) Fukaku, Hinkaku (Grace and dignity, therefore, demonstrating one’s own style which is dignified and elegant.) 

Most promotion examinations (Shinsa) are conducted via ZNKR Iaido to evaluate a practitioner’s technical precision, spiritual focus, and adherence to etiquette across the standardized Seitei Iai kata. Examiners judge candidates using standardized checkpoints that accumulate in expectation as a student advances.

From the brief test criteria explained above it can be understood that the evaluation spans three primary categories:

1. Etiquette & Manners (Sahō / Reihō). Candidates are evaluated from the moment they enter the court to ensure respect, safety, and proper handling of the sword:

• Entry & Posture: Entering with correct footwork, uniform adjustment, and holding the sword at a 45-degree angle with the thumb securing the guard (tsuba).
  
• Bowing Protocols: Demonstrating respectful bows to the altar/shomen (~30 degrees) and to the sword with proper hand placement and posture.
  
• Wearing the Sword: Smoothly inserting the scabbard into the belt (obi) and tying the sageo cord without awkward readjustments.

2. Technical Execution (Jutsu-gi). Examiners look for exact alignment and fluidity across the twelve kata.

• Nukitsuke (Draw & Strike): Ample scabbard pull-back (saya biki), drawing from the body’s center (hara / tanden), and precise blade orientation before release (saya banare).
  
• Furikaburi (Overhead Swing): Bringing the sword overhead in a backward thrusting motion past the left ear while keeping the tip (kissaki) at or above horizontal.
  
• Kirioroshi (Downward Cut): Executing a continuous, decisive cut without hesitation, stopping the left fist in front of the navel with the kissaki slightly lowered.
  
• Chiburi & Nōtō: Correct form during chiburi and smooth, attentive resheathing (nōtō) without breaking focus or looking down.
  

3. Spiritual & Physical Principles

• Ki-Ken-Tai no Ichi (Unity of Spirit, Sword, and Body): Full martial spirit (kihaku), correct posture, and striking simultaneously with correct footwork.
  
• Zanshin (Sustained Awareness): Maintaining physical posture, alertness, and mental readiness after executing cuts.
  
• Metsuke (Gaze): Directing eye focus (Metsuke) outward toward opponents rather than staring down at the sword.
  

The primary distinction between beginner and intermediate levels lies in the transition from basic mechanical execution to complete technical precision and classical school integration:

• Beginner Standards (3rd Dan & Below):
  • Technical Accommodations: Examiners allow minor accommodations for beginners (e.g., slight footwork adjustments or pausing in uke nagaeshi positions). Beginners are permitted specific physical leniencies while building core stability (hara) and basic mechanics. For example, beginners are allowed to draw the sword directly toward the cutting target rather than drawing toward the center of the face first, pause briefly in intermediate positions like uke nagashi in Sanbon-me or waki gamae in Jippon-me, rotate the scabbard downward before drawing in Gohon-me, or adjust the scabbard tip (kojiri) when placing the sword during zarei.
    
  • Evaluation Focus: Grading at these early levels focuses on foundational etiquette (reiho), learning proper trajectory, avoiding shoulder tension, and establishing core balance.
    
• Intermediate Standards (4th & 5th Dan):
  • Strict Standardized Execution: Candidates must demonstrate seamless technical proficiency alongside classical school (koryū) training. Intermediate candidates must eliminate all beginner accommodations and execute every Seitei Iai kata with uncompromising technical correctness.
    
  • Mandatory Koryū Integration: The sources explicitly state that for 4th and 5th Dan practitioners and above, Koryū (classical school) training becomes indispensable. ZNKR Iai and koryū are designated as “the two wheels of one cart” (kuruma no ryōrin), intermediate practitioners cannot rely on standardized federation forms alone and must actively study ancient lineages to master the art’s deeper technical and spiritual foundation.

While the sources do not detail administrative pass rates for 6th–7th Dan examination panels, they define the overarching technical and spiritual metrics required for advance higher-level promotion as:

• Shin-Ki-Ryoku Ichi (Unity of Mind, Spirit, and Power): High-rank candidates are judged on achieving full unity between mental focus, martial spirit (kihaku), and physical power generated from the principles of the sword rather than muscular force.
  
• Shinken Shōbu Mindset: Demonstrations must convey the gravity of an actual duel with a real sword (shinken), demonstrating unwavering presence, sharpness (sae), and seamless, sustained awareness (zanshin) throughout.
  
• Concealed Internal Control (Kokyū): Advanced practitioners must demonstrate refined breath control (kokyū). The waza should ideally be completed in a single breath, or controlled so that breathing is completely imperceptible to an opponent.
• Refined Posture & Awareness: High-level performance requires complete mastery of enzan no metsuke (a broad gaze like looking at a distant mountain), precise blade-handling, and fluid movement that reflects decades of koryū refinement.
  

The official requirements to be eligible for the 8-Dan examination are:

• Age Minimum: The candidate must be at least 46 years old.
• Practice Period: The candidate must undergo a mandatory practice period of 10 years or more after earning 7-Dan before applying.

8-Dan: “Someone who reached the innermost secrets of Iaido and has attained total mastery of technique

The Best Teacher.

Pain.

At Budo Journeyman, there was an article discussing pain and it's place in martial arts training. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

 

No matter how much I gritted my teeth and tried to dig into my resolve, I could not take another mawashigeri into my thigh. On about the fifth one, I started to fold. The deadening, deep muscle pulsing was just not going away. It was a throbbing pain that seemed to radiate well beyond the contact area, I could even feel it in my groin.

And this was a DRILL…

The backstory.

 Richard Barrett was the instructor of the UK branch of the Jundokan. He had trained under the late Miyazato Eiichi in Okinawa and his approach to Goju Ryu karate was very traditional, including lots of conditioning. For a while I made the fairly regular trip to his Dojo in Essex and really gained from the perspective he presented (this was around 1989).

No matter how much I gritted my teeth and tried to dig into my resolve, I could not take another mawashigeri into my thigh. On about the fifth one, I started to fold. The deadening, deep muscle pulsing was just not going away. It was a throbbing pain that seemed to radiate well beyond the contact area, I could even feel it in my groin.

And this was a DRILL…

The backstory.

 Richard Barrett was the instructor of the UK branch of the Jundokan. He had trained under the late Miyazato Eiichi in Okinawa and his approach to Goju Ryu karate was very traditional, including lots of conditioning. For a while I made the fairly regular trip to his Dojo in Essex and really gained from the perspective he presented (this was around 1989).

 

Add to that the issue of pain tolerance. Take for example the beekeeper. Research says that in response to bee stings, they feel exactly the same level of pain as everyone else, but their immune response mounts a much more powerful and precise counteraction. It is the familiarity of the pain of the initial sting that helps them to minimise their shock and reaction.

Shock.

 Old time UK karate guy, Bob Rhodes, was recently interviewed and at one point was asked his opinions about toleration and response to pain. His view was that in fighting people often have trouble separating pain from shock. 2 I think he is right, and I am convinced that shock comes in many flavours.

In response to a hard punch to the face, the brain and body go through so many micro-calculations all at high speed; some of them are autonomic (you have zero control over them) but others overlap each other in a nano-second.3

If this happens in a contest situation where (clearly) things have got overheated, evidenced by the uncontrolled strike, at the back of your mind you are aware that there are parameters and guard rails. However, if it is a real-life situation, an attack by a stranger in the street and taking a punch to the face, the shock level doubles considerably. (In my pre-karate days, as a teenager, this happened to me).

If those kinds of attacks are part of your life and you are brought up surrounded by physical violence, levels of endurance and certain kinds of toleration might well develop. In my early life, fights were commonplace, from schooldays onwards. Mostly you learned how to read the situation and avoid them, but sometimes you couldn’t.

I would imagine, if you took a poll to find out how many younger contemporary martial artists had ever experienced a violent attack, those who had would be in a tiny minority, particularly in this modern age4. Ironically, that would also include instructors who are teaching people self-defence! But. Of course they are not going to confess to this fact; their students just ‘assume’.

 

Tinkering

A Lifetime of Tinkering

Inhabiting a Life

“Philosophy practiced is the goal of learning.” - Thoreau

There comes a time when a man has to decide whether he is still in the arena of life. I do not mean whether he is winning, or whether anyone is watching. I mean whether he is still willing to take part: to remain curious, test himself, change his mind, work on his body, learn something difficult, and to be altered by what he learns.

I see men around my age beginning to throw in the towel. They are turning to mush physically, mentally, and spiritually. I do not say that with contempt. Age brings real losses, and every man carries burdens that are invisible to everyone else. But I want no part of surrendering before surrender is required of me.

The image that stays with me is the man in the arena who refuses to leave. He may be slower than he once was. He may have scars, limitations, and less time ahead of him than behind. None of that disqualifies him. He is still practicing, paying attention, and becoming.

This essay is not the announcement of a philosophy I have finally completed. If anything, it is a report from the workshop. My life has been a lifetime of tinkering: trying something, observing what happens, making an adjustment, discarding what no longer works, and beginning again. The phrase may sound modest, but I have come to think that tinkering is serious business. It is how an abstraction acquires hands and feet. It is how a belief becomes a practice, and how a practice slowly changes the person who performs it.

I have read philosophy, Eastern and Western, for most of my life. But Thoreau’s sentence provides the standard: philosophy practiced is the goal of learning. An idea may be elegant, moving, or profound, but what does it look like when I get out of bed in the morning? Until an idea reaches life, it remains unfinished.

For years I might have said that I practiced martial arts. Increasingly, I think martial arts have been practicing me. I began with techniques, forms, teachers, traditions, and the ordinary desire to become more skillful. Somewhere along the way, the boundaries became less clear. I may not have found many answers, but the questions kept dropping away. What I learned in practice began appearing in the rest of my life, while changes in the rest of my life began appearing in my practice.

Training under a senior Japanese instructor in Aikido taught me something about Budo, which is the study of the Way by means of Japanese martial arts. I found that idea useful, but limiting. There are plenty of Ways, so I coined the term for myself: "Budo with a small b."

This may be what I mean by budo with a small b. Not a particular martial art, not necessarily even a martial art, but the habits of attention learned through sincere practice and carried into the whole of life. The small letter prevents the word from becoming monumental. It brings the Way down from the sign above the dojo and places it underfoot: meeting resistance, receiving correction, and beginning again.

“If you cannot find the truth right in front of you, where do you expect to find it?” - Zen Master Dogen

That question turns my attention away from some imagined elsewhere. The material is already here: this body, this marriage, the dog walk, the books at hand, the Taijiquan form I have practiced. This is not the scenery surrounding the real work. This is the work.

Recently, while practicing, I noticed tension in my shoulders. The tension had probably been there for years. I did not defeat it or command it to disappear. I noticed it, simply stayed with it, and allowed muscles that had been freeloading to begin doing their proper share of work. In the days afterward, my posture changed. I stood straighter, my chest opened, my shoulders moved back, and perhaps my thinking became a bit clearer. Nothing had been added. Something unnecessary had begun to fall away.

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

That small event contains much of what practice has taught me. Progress is not always the acquisition of another ability. Sometimes it is the removal of interference. I do not imagine that a perfected self is hidden inside me, waiting to be uncovered. But I do recognize the carving away of unnecessary tension, old fears, habitual captivity, and limitations I once imposed upon myself. Much of my tinkering has been a process of subtraction.

What is actually necessary here? Once I can perceive what is actually happening, I may discover that much of what I was defending was never under attack. The body learns to stop wasting itself.

This has changed what training means to me as I grow older. Physical training is not an attempt to pretend that I am young. It is a refusal to become absent from my own body. Strength and mobility are ways of remaining available to life. The workout, the walk, and the form practice are ways of inhabiting the only body through which I will ever meet the world.

“If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.” - Thoreau

A tradition is not a cage, but neither is it raw material for whatever I feel like inventing. It is a standard against which I can test my understanding. A tradition may be received intact, but once it has been deeply absorbed, it can only be expressed through the individuality of the person who carries it.

I remain loyal to several traditions, even though I no longer feel the need to be bound by them.

"I am an artist at living. My life is my work of art." - D. T. Suzuki

Are we not all artists with our lives as the canvas? That statement once might have sounded grandiose to me. Now it seems practical.

Art is not a performance staged for an audience. It is made from the ordinary materials of a life: conversation, attention, and repair. Much of it disappears as soon as it is made. Its medium is time, and its only proof is the quality of the life being lived.

Art is the artist and any artifacts he's made are the flotsam and jetsam of his passage through life.

You cannot paint with someone else’s brush. I can learn from teachers, borrow methods, and submit myself to standards; I should. But no teacher can perform my practice for me, and no philosophy can inhabit my particular life in advance. Eventually, what I have learned must pass through my own hands. This is not a license for self-indulgence. It is responsibility. If my life is my work, I cannot blame the brush.

The metaphor of art also leaves room for experimentation. Reality supplies the test. I have become less interested in defending every past choice as though consistency were a virtue by itself. A discarded opinion may be evidence that attention is still alive.

I have noticed opinions and preferences falling away, as have some self-imposed limitations. This is not indifference. It feels more like becoming less encumbered. Each abandoned certainty returns a little energy that was being spent maintaining it. There is more room to see what is in front of me. Recognition is different from figuring something out.

Figuring proceeds step by step and can tie itself into a Gordian knot. Recognition cuts through the knot. Suddenly I see that I have been tightening my shoulders, living by a borrowed assumption, or obeying a boundary that no longer exists. The change may have been prepared by years of practice, but when it comes, it arrives all at once: of course.

The movement works in both directions. When I discover a new connection or release unnecessary tension in my practice, something may shift in ordinary life. When something loosens in ordinary life, my practice changes too.

This reciprocity has made it impossible for me to regard practice as a compartment. A dojo can have walls, but the Way does not. The real measure is not only how the Taijiquan form looks during an hour of practice. It is how I stand in the kitchen, how I respond when plans go wrong, how quickly I notice that I have contracted, and whether I can release what the moment does not require.

The same principle applies to reading. I own more books than I will ever finish, and I am content to close one that is not speaking to me. This is not disrespect for books. It is respect for attention. The purpose of reading is not to accumulate completed titles or borrowed conclusions. It is to encounter something that can be recognized, tested, and perhaps lived.

A sentence may become a seed crystal. Around it, scattered experiences suddenly assume a pattern. But the pattern remains provisional. Life continues to add material for me to test and either integrate or reject.

I no longer imagine a final version of myself waiting at the end of all this work. "A work in progress" is not an apology attached to the title. It is the nature of the thing. Completion, for a living person, would be indistinguishable from stopping. The goal is not endless dissatisfaction with myself, nor a frantic program of optimization.

I cannot claim meaningful mastery of anything. But I think I have come to understand something large. The form is never merely the form. The body is never merely the body.

Tinkering begins with affection for the thing being worked on. I adjust my practice because I intend to remain in it. I train the body because I live here. I examine a belief because truth matters more than possession of the belief.

A discipline sincerely followed opens into everything else. We begin by trying to learn an art and may discover, years later, that the art has been teaching us how to learn, notice, change, and remain.

Discipline is not rigidity. Discipline gives me a structure within which I can become less rigid. It is a gentle persistence, a “returning to the mean” after whatever life throws at me. This is the essence of tinkering.

I haven't, by tinkering, assembled a system so much as accumulated an ecology of practices which interact with and illuminate one another.

A life of tinkering depends upon things one does not casually discard. Change becomes meaningful because it occurs against a background of commitment.

The Stoic concept of amor fati - the love of one's fate - belongs here too. On social media, people sometimes ask what we would change if we could go back in time. My answer is nothing.

Alter one event and I do not merely repair an isolated mistake; I create a different life, populated by different people and culminating in a different man looking back. Who can say that life would be better?

To inhabit a life is to accept its material. The artist does not begin with every possible canvas. He begins with this one: the one in front of him. Give me this life, the one I am living right now.

Acceptance is not passivity. Loving the material does not mean refusing to shape it. On the contrary, it makes the work possible. I can accept my age without surrendering to it, accept my history without being imprisoned by it, and accept my limitations while continuing to test whether they are real.

The art lies in knowing what must be borne, what can be changed, and what can simply be released. That knowledge does not arrive once and for all. It is cultivated through a lifetime of tinkering.

So I remain in the arena. Not to prove that age has no effect, and not because I expect some final triumph. I remain because participation is the point. There are still things to learn and assumptions to examine, still strength to build and friendships to deepen. There is still more of this life to inhabit.

Philosophy gives us castles: courage, wisdom, tranquility, the life of an artist. Practice lays the stones beneath them, one ordinary day at a time.

Acceptance without resignation. Discipline without rigidity. Tradition without bondage. Practice without a fantasy of completion. Tinkering without dissatisfaction with the thing being tinkered with.

The work will never be finished. That is not its failure. That is its life: a life inhabited. 

The Daito Ry Aikijujutsu of Nubuhito Yamamoto

 

First Female Disciple of Yang Cheng Fu

 

Boring Practice

Over at Thoughts on Tai Chi, there is a nice article on what it may mean to be bored with one's practice. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

It is my opinion that if you're bored in your practice, then you're not doing it right.

I’ve actually never really understood why people ask about if Tai Chi is boring. You know – doing the form, practicing the same exercises over and over again. No, I’ve never found it boring. There’s just too much going on to be bored. Just keeping to adjust your own alignment and keeping relaxed as you you move, and as the balance keep changing, is not as simple as it could seem. Perfecting something seemingly simple is not something you do just by repeating movements. You need to be aware, practice with awareness, or as the Chinese say: “use heart“.

Well, you really need to put your heart in what you do. If not, well, frankly said – it would become boring. But if you do put your heart into the practice, I don’t think form practice could become boring. I find the opposite to be truth – not that I am excited every time I practice, but opposite to time moving slowly, I find the time moving fast. If I practice a whole Yang form, slowly and focused, the time just flies away and after the session I wonder where the time went.

But here is the thing with time: it is something psychological. If you don’t like what you do, or if you do something you don’t want to do and just wait for the time to pass, then the time will pass slowly. And that goes for everything you do.

You need to fill the time with meaning. Which means that you have to like what you do, because only if you like something you do it doesn’t become boring. So to answer if Tai Chi is boring, I would first ask if you like the practice or not, and if you find it rewarding.

And here is something I want to be honest about – I don’t believe that Tai Chi is for everyone. In the long-term specifically, I think you need to be of a certain personality, or rather – have a sort of mind-set to stay a Tai Chi practitioner. It demands a certain kind of view on reality and yourself. I say this because I have seen practitioners suddenly stop and give up their Tai Chi after even 30 or 40 years of practice. Some people just made a full stop, while others drifted towards other internal arts as bagua, harder styles as White Crane, and yet others towards arts as Yoga or similar.