The Great Hammers of Xingyiquan

 

 

Warrior Monks of Japan

Zen's Sekai thought this  link would be of interest. It's at article that appeared at BudoJapan about the history of the storied warrior monks. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

Introduction

Esoteric Buddhism, known as “Mikkyo” in Japanese, had a profound influence on the development of Japanese martial arts. Infusing ritual and philosophy into warrior culture, Mikkyo created a fusion where spiritual practices and martial training became intertwined. This integration gave rise to a paradox: warrior monks caught between Buddhist precepts of nonviolence and the brutal realities of feudal Japan. In this article, we explore Mikkyo’s esoteric practices and how they shaped the evolution of sohei (warrior monks), samurai, kobudo (traditional martial arts), and ninjutsu.

Part 1: The Rise of Mikkyo and the Warrior Monks

The roots of Mikkyo trace back to the Shingon and Tendai sects of Buddhism. Shingon was brought to Japan by Kukai in 806 CE, following his studies in China under the esoteric master Huiguo. After receiving full transmission and authorization to teach, Kukai returned with sacred texts, mandalas, and ritual implements, eventually founding Japan’s first Shingon temple, Kongobu-ji, on Mt. Koya.

Around the same time, Saicho returned from China with the teachings of the Tendai school and established Enryaku-ji Temple on Mt. Hiei. Situated near Kyoto, the temple was favored by the Imperial Court, which helped it expand into a sprawling complex of nearly 3,000 buildings. Together, these mountaintop temples of Shingon and Tendai have remained influential monastic centers for over a thousand years.

However, the generous court donations that Enryaku-ji received came with strings attached. The Imperial Court felt this gave them the right to appoint the temple’s next leader. When Enryaku-ji’s monks refused a court-appointed zasu (abbot), samurai troops were sent in to enforce their decision. The temple yielded, but resentment simmered.

Tension over court appointments continued to rise until the year 970, when Ryogen—Enryaku-ji’s leader—made the decision to create a fighting force to protect its interests. This act contradicted a policy Ryogen had issued earlier that same year, forbidding monks from carrying weapons or engaging in violence. His reversal of policy is made clear in the Sanka Yoki Senryaku (Abridged Records of Mount Hiei), which quotes Ryogen as saying: “On Mount Hiei, in order to guard the true Dharma, to secure oil for lamps, and to defend the temple lands, warrior practitioners are needed. Therefore, monks who are foolish and have the least amount of talent should be assigned to that role.” So when the sohei system first began, it was the monks least suited to quiet monastic life who were chosen to become warrior monks.

The next time the Imperial Court attempted to appoint someone they didn’t like, Enryaku-ji’s warrior monks marched into Kyoto to protest. The Court called in samurai troops for support and a bloody battle began—but this time, it was the monks who were victorious. A document known as the “Taiheiki” captures their defiance: “When tyrants disturb the land, we borrow divine power to drive them back.”

Among these warrior monks, the most legendary was Benkei—a figure woven from both fact and folklore. He began his training at Enryaku-ji Temple but was eventually expelled for misconduct. After wandering the mountains, he took up residence in an old, abandoned shrine that lacked a temple bell. Known for his size and strength, Benkei is said to have stolen a massive bell from Miidera Temple—Enryaku-ji’s main rival. According to legend, he dragged the bell across the mountains to his new home. But when he rang the bell, it would only make a strange sound, as if moaning to return to Miidera.

During the Edo period (1603-1868), theater performances became popular and Benkei came to be portrayed as both fierce and funny. The idea eventually emerged that Benkei had a weak spot—his shin, a spot so tender that even Benkei would cry if struck there. This sensitive area was called “Benkei-no-nakidokoro” (Benkei’s crying spot) and the term is still used today whenever someone happens to hit their shin.

In contrast to Enryaku-ji, Mt. Koya’s Shingon temple was less politically active and never developed warrior monks. However, the Shingon sect’s Shingi branch developed its own militant force at Negoro-ji Temple. Around 1560, the Jesuit missionary Gaspor Vilela visited the temple and described what he saw in his travel diaries: “Their swords cut through armor like tender meat. Their training was intense and the death of one of their members during practice was met without emotion.”

 

 

 

 

A New Arena

Over at Zen's Sekai, there was an interesting post about how with modern times and as we age, the "arena" in which we study and practice martial arts changes. The full post may be read here. An excerpt is below.

When the Test Changes

May 1, 2026 ~ Zen

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Martial Training, Shakuhachi, and Takuhatsu in a Modern World

A thought recently surfaced during practice:

If this were a hundred years ago, the value of my martial training would have been tested through health and combat. Today, as an active takuhatsu komusō, that same training reveals itself through health, sound, and daily life.

The realization was simple but clarifying:
the test did not disappear … the arena changed.

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Martial Arts Were Never About Forms

Historically, internal martial arts were not judged by lineage charts or aesthetic purity. They were judged by outcomes:

• Could the body endure hardship?
• Could it respond under pressure?
• Could it remain functional across years, not seasons?

Combat was one arena where truth appeared quickly. Health was another, slower one. In both cases, incorrect training revealed itself mercilessly.

Today, for most of us, that arena no longer exists.

But the internal requirements, unity, listening, adaptability, non-waste, remain exactly the same.

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A Modern Constellation of Training

My own practice includes:

• Hunyuan Taiji (24)
• Wu Taiji (24)
• Yang Taiji (24, non-government)
• Gao-style Baguazhang
• Taiji Mantis

On paper, this looks eclectic. In the body, it is cohesive.

Each practice trains a specific internal function, and together they form a complete organism rather than a collection of techniques.

 

 

Thoughts on Lineage

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

Kata and Flow Drills

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

Chiefly about Naihanchi, but can apply to other scenarios.

Introduction.

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

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

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

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

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

Reverse Engineering.

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

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

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

Oldest version?

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

Switching Styles

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

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

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

I have to ask: why are you training?

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Aesthetic of Taijiquan Practice

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just Show Up

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

A Teacher's Perspective on Martial Arts Instruction

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

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

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

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

Flipping the switch.

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

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

Maturation – Time to bed-in.

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

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

Example; solo kata instruction:

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

Self-revelation.

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

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

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

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

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

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