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.

 

 

Reminiscing

At Ellis Amdur's Kogen Budo Blog, there was a recent post where the author reminisces about his early days training in Japan ... in Chinese martial arts. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

 

In 1977, thanks to an introduction from Donn Draeger, I began training with Wang Shujin. Here is a video that spans from the  the early 1960’s (black-and-white) to a year before his death (color), when I met him.  We would meet at a temple near Shibuya, if I recall correctly, and in the bitter cold, try to imitate him as he went through his version of the Nanjing Synthesis taijiquan form. This form was created by Chen Pan Ling (here a portion performed by his son, Chen Yun Ching). Wang’s form was very different – he emphasized the elements of xingyiquan and baguazhang that Chen included in this form.

Wang had first started going to Japan to teach in the late 1950’s, I believe. There were several reasons for this: First of all, he was a practitioner of a syncretic religion called Yiguandao. Wang was a high-ranking member of this movement, and engaged in missionary activities, both in Taiwan and in Japan. Secondly, Wang was sponsored in his visits to Japan by Toyama Ryūsuke, one of the sons of Toyama Mitsuru, the founder of the Gen’yosha (‘Dark Ocean Society’). What people do not realize about the uyoku, the so-called Japanese right-wing is that they were intimately intertwined with religious movements, both within Japan and elsewhere. [Toyama was closely associated with the Oomoto-kyo of Deguchi Onisaburo and hence, Ueshiba Morihei of aikidō as well.] Many of men of the right were profound idealists (among the most dangerous of people) and others saw religion as a perfect avenue to move people in the direction that they wanted them to go. The early tairiku ronin (‘continental adventurers’ – agents provocateurs, spies, terrorists) were in large numbers Nichiren and Jodo Shinshu (the Nishi and Higashi Hongwanji) Buddhists, as were some of the most significant strategists who drove the invasion of Northern China.

Toyama Ryūsuke was also closely associated with Shindō Musō-ryū jo. Toyama Mitsuru sponsored various martial arts organizations, particularly from his home-town of Fukuoka, and his leading successor, Uchida Ryōhei was a practitioner of, among other things, this medium-length stick art. The Toyama family had sponsored the sponsors of Shimizu Takaji, the famous teacher of this art. Wang initially stayed at Toyama’s mansion, and through this connection, met and associated with many prominent Japanese martial artists. [NOTE: I have portrayed a lot of these men and this milieu in historical fictional form in Little Bird & The Tiger}.

There are lots of stories about Wang that, not being there, I will not waste time repeating (these often are merely, “He was the strongest man I never saw . . .”). I think, however, that it is probably hard to appreciate how formidable he was from looking at videos: he was really fat, and although he’s certainly agile in the earlier films, if one is not familiar with the purpose of his training, it all seems to be stilted, flowery or senseless. I will recount the only incident that I witnessed, for which I will give a little background.

One of Wang’s teachers was Wang Xiangzhai, the founder of dachengquan, also known as yiquan. This martial art was an attempt to distill the essence of the already pared-down pugilistic style of xingyiquan, focusing on solo training, particularly ‘post standing.’ Among Wang’s fellow students was Sawai Ken’ichi, who founded a Japanese version of this art, which he called Taikiken. Sawai was a very pugnacious man, and both he and Wang used to have training groups on the grounds of Meiji Shrine. Acquaintances of mine, some of whom studied with one or the other, told me that Sawai used to walk over to Wang’s area and berate him, saying he was wasting his time teaching baguazhang, xingyiquan and taijiquan: all he needed was dachengquan! Wang used to laugh and keep on moving. Sawai was a friend of the founder of Kyokushin Karate, Oyama Masutatsu. They had a close relationship and students of each would cross-train with the other. Thanks to this connection, some of Oyama’s students also trained with Wang Shujin. When I was practicing, one Kyokushin karate free-sparring students was among us; a very hard looking man, with a face scarred with numerous splits from kicks or punches to the face.

Wang was very ill at that time, perhaps a year before his death. He had a melanoma which had metastasized, and as one can see in the later portion of the linked video, his legs were stiff. He used to shuffle rather than walk. So, please understand, what I am about to describe was not a fight, or even a free sparring session. Wang asked the karateka to take a punch at him. He brushed it past his face – his forearm was about as big as my calf – and embraced him around the lower back, simultaneously smashing his belly into the man’s torso. It knocked all the wind out of him, and he collapsed to the ground, wheezing. [Wang thought this funny, and I recall his rumble, like an elephant digesting, that passed as his laugh]. So, what I saw was circumscribed – but lord, was it powerful.Wang was renowned for this. He would allow anyone to punch or kick him anywhere below the neck. Beyond that, he could absorb the punch and pulse it back out with such power that one risked a dislocation of the shoulder.

But I must confess – at the time, I didn’t get it. I saw how strong he still was, even while he was gravely ill. And I’d heard from others, Donn Draeger among them, what an absolute powerhouse he was when younger. But I could not see how standing around in the cold, trying to imitate him as he moved through a ninety-nine movement taijiquan form would do anything for me. [As I have written elsewhere, on a couple of occasions, I came early and saw him by himself, assiduously going over very simple movements as well as various post-standing exercises, something I was later informed was the key to his power. He practiced them four hours or more a day.]  At any rate, I didn’t get it, and after a couple of months, respectfully resigned the class, and moved on to Muay Thai.

One thing that always stuck in my mind, however, was his ability to take blows, particularly full-on kicks to the groin. And unlike some tricksters, he wasn’t cocking his pelvis forward at the moment of impact, or messing with timing so that he didn’t receive the full impact. By all the accounts I heard, he just stood there phlegmatically and took the kick, expressionless. And he did this with some of the most formidable karateka in Japan, in public demonstrations.

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.