Balance in Kyudo

From the Zen Sekai - Japan 2 @ 70 blog. About the author's search for balance in his kyudo practice. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

 

The Quest for Balance in Kyūdō: More Than Push and Pull

In the stillness of the dojo, a single arrow flies. To the outside observer, it may seem a simple act—draw the bow, release the string, let the arrow fly. But to the practitioner of Kyūdō—the Way of the Bow—it is a profound meditation on balance.

Balance is the silent master in Kyūdō. It speaks in whispers, not in shouts. It is not just the physical symmetry of right and left, push and pull, but the harmony of inner and outer worlds, the unspoken conversation between body and mind, effort and surrender, practice and pause.

The Body: Divided, Yet One

At the heart of Kyūdō is the Yumi, the asymmetrical bow. Already, balance is challenged. Unlike the symmetrical bows of Western archery, the Yumi demands a different kind of equilibrium. In the draw, there is not just pull with the right hand and push with the left, but a spiraling expansion of energy—Nobiai—a dividing and yet unifying of forces. The elbows extend outward in opposite directions, and in that division, unity is born.

Balance begins in the Ashibumi—the stance. Feet planted shoulder-width apart, stable like mountains, yet not rooted like stones. The knees remain soft, the pelvis gently tucked. The shoulders must be low, but not collapsed; open, yet not tensed. In the Daisan, the arms rise, and tension begins to accumulate—but it is a natural tension, like a bowstring waiting to sing. It must never become stiffness.

Here, balance is found in paradox: tension that supports relaxation, structure that births freedom.

The Mind: Focused, Yet Free

If the body seeks balance through form, the mind seeks it through stillness. Yet this stillness is not blankness. It is the Zanshin, the remaining mind, the lingering presence that follows the arrow long after it has left the string.

Focus is essential. In Kyūdō, every breath, every blink, every step is a point of concentration. The mind must attend fully to the task at hand. And yet—here again—we meet paradox. That very focus must be free of attachment. The matomae (aim) is precise, but the archer must let go of the desire to hit the target. The kaiken-chu, the release, is cleanest when it arises without self. The archer disappears; only the arrow flies.

To aim with all your heart—and yet not mind where the arrow lands. That is balance.

The Rhythm of Training: Effort and Rest

Too much training, and the spirit hardens. The body grows weary, and the joy fades. Too little, and the body forgets the form, the breath, the center. Balance must be struck in the rhythm of practice itself. The bow does not reward aggression; it responds to rhythm, timing, and sensitivity.

The seasoned practitioner knows when to practice and when to walk away. When to focus on Kihontai—the foundational body movements—and when to simply draw the bow and breathe. There is a time for technique, and a time to let the technique dissolve into presence. 

 

Learning in Martial Arts

At the Shugyo blog, there is a good article about how we learn in martial arts training. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

It can sometimes be very rewarding to teach beginners as they have few expectations and biases and are a mostly empty cup to fill.

Putting your brain into the student mindset

Those of you who have been living in my eyebrows for the last few years will know that my budo interests have been steered towards improving budo coaching through some shallow dives into sports coaching theory. These dives have taken me past the colourful coral gardens of ZPD, scaffolding, the GROW model and other interesting underwater features. These have been very much focussed on the role and workload of the coach/teacher/dojo leader and has treated the receiving side as a pretty much homogenous mass of pink jelly that responds to the occasional blast of sound vibrations or poking with a sharp stick.

This year I have so far spent just over 9 weeks in Japan doing a lot of training in Ishido Sensei's dojo, and a little in other dojos. Something that occurred to me in my latest journeys was a noticeable difference in the responses of students with regard to feedback from various teachers. This hasn't been isolated to Japan; once it came to my interest in Japan I started noticing it in the UK and Europe as well.

Before I jumped into writing this, I did some light academic research looking at various articles on the subject of corrective feedback in coaching. I have extracted a few lines from the articles that I found relevant and interesting to just set the scene. These are not only useful for the student but also a superb set of pointers for coaches as well:

The Organization of Corrective Demonstrations Using Embodied Action in Sports Coaching Feedback

"However, unlike classrooms and medical internship discussions, sports coaching is a bodily affair; there is no “talking through a subject” to get the job of these settings done. Errors then are not a matter of what one knows but what one does. Error correction is a matter of showing the athlete(s) what they did wrong and showing them how to do it right. Talk is an instructive guide on where to find the action, but re-enactment is the central part of this setting’s instructional work."

Five Principles of Reinforcement

"Coaches should strive to use only reinforcement – mostly the positive kind – to shape player behaviours."

"Nonetheless, if you say “well done” when the athlete has not performed the skill very well, it’s false praise, and the odds are that the athlete will know it’s false praise. It’s tough being honest sometimes, but if you have built a supportive but challenging climate and you support your players striving to improve, then you’re in a good position to give honest feedback." 

...

[⚠️ Suspicious Content] I noticed in particular in Japan that the older students tended to skip the disappointment and acceptance stage. They might spend a bit more time improving their comprehension by asking for more detail and confirmation. 

In both Japan and Europe though, the younger and often more talented students seemed to need to go through a disappointment stage and a protracted emotional acceptance stage, sometimes asking for evidence or proof to back up the feedback.

I should add that I have always encouraged the people who have asked to learn from me to be sceptical (I'll come back to this sceptical mindset subject a bit later) of everything including anything that I have taught. This disappointment stage though isn't what I mean; it's an emotional reaction based on a range of the following mindsets in the student:

    "I thought I was doing it right and you're telling me that I was wrong."
    "I have devoted so much time to doing it this way and now you're saying that I wasted my time."
    "You could have told me this sooner."
    "You're being inconsistent in your teaching of the subject."

In one example of this, while I was in Ishido Sensei's dojo recently, there were quite a few other visitors there from Europe and China. One visitor, who will remain anonymous but is a very skilful and dedicated iaidoka from Europe, was training a notoriously difficult seated okuden kata. They were doing it with a lot of speed and fluidity as is appropriate for okuden. After a short while, Ishido Sensei came up to them and explained that they had misunderstood the kihon (basic version) and showed them what they should be doing. The visitor worked on this for a while but was having difficulty achieving "satisfaction". Of significance though was the surprise, or even shock, on the face of the student that what they had been training turned out to be incorrect. When they took a break during training I heard them express disappointment in themselves and were clearly confused. 

And I get it! This person had been instructed a certain way a few months previously (I think by Ishido Sensei) and they were now being told this was wrong. Had the koryu changed? Had they misunderstood the original instruction? 

Trying to resolve the question, had the koryu changed, takes us down a different road that I don't want to explore at the moment in any detail; suffice to say that any instruction will change in time; the teacher's perspective and level changes, the student changes - change is inevitable and we should be always mentally and physically prepared to accept that change. As is the motto of iaido, tsune ni itte, kyu ni awasu (be in the moment, adapt to the situation quickly).

This isn't limited to non-Japanese budoka either. I have witnessed many times even in Ishido Sensei's dojo, Japanese students making sounds of exasperation or disappointment when being told that they were doing something incorrectly, or that there was a "better way". There would then be a period of non-aggressive "arguing" (by this I mean, the student was trying to establish why they were being corrected) and then, after some time, they would then accept the advice and try to implement it. 

 

Happy Fourth of July!

My favorite 4th of July Video:

 

 

Budo Beneath the Surface

Peter Boylan, whose excellent Budo Bum blog I regularly read, is now posting on Substack. Please pay him a visit.

He recently had a post about the essentials of Budo practice, beneath what we see on the surface. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

Budo isn’t all about throws, chokes, joint locks, controls, thrusts, strikes, cuts, and parries, though those are the visible elements. They are what happens when the principles of budo are applied in physical conflict situations. However, there are lots of other things that can happen in combative situations if you’re applying the principles. All effective budo teach movement, timing, spacing, rhythm and strategy. If you control the spacing and timing in a conflict situation, you may never have to use a particular technique. You may create a situation where you are able to simply walk away because your adversary decided they were in a lousy position to launch an attack.

Shinto Muso Ryu Jodo and Kodokan Judo have very different physical techniques, different strategies of dealing with conflict, and different ways of organizing the body. The notions of effective spacing are very different, as are the ideas about movement, rhythm, and timing. In either one, when practiced effectively, you learn to control an adversary from the moment of connection rather than waiting for contact. Before you touch, the instant you become aware of each other, connection is established. Sumo is famous for this. All the posturing and staring at each other before the tachiai is about reading the opponent and trying to destabilize them mentally and emotionally before the start of the action.

I look at Shinto Muso Ryu and there are only 12 basic techniques from which more than 60 kata are built. This makes me wonder, why do we need 60 kata to practice 12 techniques? How many ways do you need to practice applying kihon to be good at them? Before you’re even halfway through learning the kata, your techniques are going to be solid and effective without you having to think about them, so what are the rest of the kata for?

The kata are for teaching you the important bits. The techniques are great, but they aren’t the most important part of what you’re learning. There are important lessons about the essential principles of spacing and timing (ma’ai 間合, which can refer to either one). Spacing and timing is many times more difficult to master than any of the techniques, and far more important. If you don’t understand spacing and timing, the odds of your technique working are small. Understanding spacing is a basic requirement for knowing which techniques can be applied. And timing, as the old saying goes, is everything.

As you move through the kata, you’re introduced to a variety of distances that you learn to be comfortable with. The distances being explored vary from well outside the issoku itto no ma, or “one step one cut” spacing, to being so close to your partner that you are nearly standing on their toes. That seems like the opposite of where you want to be if you’re wielding a big stick, but if you’re not comfortable at close ranges as well as long, you’ve still got a lot of learning ahead of you. Conflict happens at all ranges, and sometimes the safest place to be is right next to your opponent. Spacing in conflict is fluid, so there are numerous kata devoted to moving in and out of the various ranges.

 

 

 

Wu/Hao Style Taijiquan

The 'other' Wu style of Taijiquan.

 

Cook Ding's Kitchen 20th Anniversary

Today is Cook Ding's Kitchen's 20th anniversary. I began this as a place where I could find things that I found interesting, and would know where to look for them again.

So far there have been over 2.6M views of over 2500 posts.  

The "skill stories" of Zhuang Zi (Chuang Tzu) particularly resonate with me, especially the story of Cook Ding, whose attentiveness to his job led to his enlightenment.

Below is the story of Cook Ding.

Prince Huei's cook was cutting up a bullock. Every blow of his hand, every heave of his shoulders, every tread of his foot, every thrust of his knee, every whshh of rent flesh, every clink of the chopper, was in perfect rhythm — like the dance of the Mulberry Grove, like the harmonious chords of Ching Shou.

"Well done!" cried the Prince. "Yours is skill indeed!"

"Sire," replied the cook laying down his chopper, "I have always devoted myself to Tao, which is higher than mere skill. When I first began to cut up bullocks, I saw before me whole bullocks. After three years' practice, I saw no more whole animals. And now I work with my mind and not with my eye. My mind works along without the control of the senses. Falling back upon eternal principles, I glide through such great joints or cavities as there may be, according to the natural constitution of the animal. I do not even touch the convolutions of muscle and tendon, still less attempt to cut through large bones.

"A good cook changes his chopper once a year — because he cuts. An ordinary cook, one a month — because he hacks. But I have had this chopper nineteen years, and although I have cut up many thousand bullocks, its edge is as if fresh from the whetstone. For at the joints there are always interstices, and the edge of a chopper being without thickness, it remains only to insert that which is without thickness into such an interstice. Indeed there is plenty of room for the blade to move about. It is thus that I have kept my chopper for nineteen years as though fresh from the whetstone.

"Nevertheless, when I come upon a knotty part which is difficult to tackle, I am all caution. Fixing my eye on it, I stay my hand, and gently apply my blade, until with a hwah the part yields like earth crumbling to the ground. Then I take out my chopper and stand up, and look around, and pause with an air of triumph. Then wiping my chopper, I put it carefully away."

"Bravo!" cried the Prince. "From the words of this cook I have learned how to take care of my life."

ZhuangZi (Lin YuTang)  

 

 

The Ego in Martial Arts Training

Below is an excerpt from a post at Budo Journeyman, regarding the ego on display (or not) in martial arts training. The full post may be read here.

 

Way back in the late 70’s or early 80’s on a bleak Saturday afternoon in Yorkshire I was attending a seminar in Wado karate with a Japanese instructor, who, for the sake of this article, I will call ‘Sensei N’.

He was pretty much fresh out of Nichidai university and had been in the UK a short while. I hadn’t had much exposure to him on the larger courses, as, being one of the more junior Japanese Sensei, he was usually relegated to teaching the lower kyu grades; while we spent all of our time with Suzuki Sensei. But for this course in Yorkshire, it was just him on his own.

(In the near future I will use Sensei N. as a springboard for another piece to be released at a later date).

He did a really comprehensive, well-constructed lesson and his English was good enough to get across what he needed to communicate and he always did it with a smile. His own techniques were crisp and assured, as you would expect from his years of university karate.

At that time, he had a particular thing about footwork, and drilled us in stance-shifting, up and down the room and explained how important it was for Wado karateka to be light and smooth in movement.

But, on this day there was one incident that for me was to have a big influence on how I viewed what we were doing with our karate and how we related to other people. Something bigger than just a set of technical notes.

A model of humility.

Towards the end of the session, he called us up one at a time to spar with him. Bear in mind that this was in front of the entire class. I watched closely as he very calmly out-manoeuvred his opponents, who were, to some degree, being slightly deferential towards the Sensei, not that it would have made any difference, he was more than capable of dealing with what they had to throw at him.

Then came my turn.

In my mind I felt it would be disrespectful to not present myself in the best possible light; not because my ego demanded it, but because the situation demanded it. There was no space for ambiguity.

In a sparring situation like this, it is important to dig into your reserves and you also have to draw upon your toolkit. At a basic level, here was a problem that had to be solved – respectfully and appropriately.

The fight started out well enough; some good solid exchanges flowed both ways. Then, I must have spotted that he favoured a left stance, and so I went for a footsweep (ashibarai). It wasn’t a full-on take-down sweep, more of a calculated tickle; something I had used many times before, a set-up, if you like.

I honestly thought he would read it, (was he laying a trap for me?) But no, temporarily he was wrong-footed and the sweep tipped him ever-so slightly to his left, and for a nano-second he locked up to readjust his balance; to which I saw my chance and connected with a gyakuzuki; right distance, right timing – but, what had I done?

I had less than half a second to come to the thought that can be summed up with, “Oh no, I’m in for it now!”

I expected him to power up the gears and turn me into mincemeat. (After all, I had been brought up on stories from my seniors where certain Japanese Sensei had broken bones if they thought for a moment that the Westerners were getting uppity).

Had I overstepped the mark? I had the audacity to lay a technique against the respected Japanese Sensei, and was I now going to pay a heavy price?

To give a little background on the cultural dynamics.

International judoka Neil Adams, in his autobiography wrote about randori in the Kodokan in Tokyo, when he was only 16 years old, where he came up against an elderly, highly-respected 9^th Dan Japanese Sensei, and for a second, he was absolutely sure that he had the old geezer bang to rights. But… his coach, Brian Jacks, shouted ‘Adams…No!’ and so he held back.

Obviously, I wasn’t there, but part of me wonders about that story. If that oldster was a Kodokan senior, probably someone who had rolled with Mifune Kyuzo, having seen what the elderly, fragile Mifune could do (through films on YouTube), part of me wonders if the hothead Adams would have been humbled by his interchange with this Kodokan master? Adams said that he heard that if you come up against one of these old guys, the tradition was that you let them have their way and almost ‘throw yourself’.

Yorkshire - What actually happened.

I expected Sensei N. to adjust his determination settings, move the dial to 11 and give me a lesson in pain. I had the cheek to strike the respected Japanese Sensei, and was now going to suffer the consequences.

But no… he paused and then said, ‘nice technique’ and continued exactly as before, no change of speed, no great urgency to ‘get one back’. I know, if he wanted to, he could have taken me to the cleaners. Instead, one simple encouraging comment, then business as usual.

I had plenty of time to think about his response and, in my mind, the simplicity and the humanity behind the choice that he made, the course of action he chose to pursue (or not to pursue) proved the measure of the man, here was someone who was comfortable in himself. Total respect from me.

 

Tae Kown Do Knockouts

Deep down, who doesn't enjoy spectacular knockouts?

The Rising Phoenix

Who among us hasn't had their regular practice shattered by the events of our lives? 

 Some of us never recover. The rest of us pick up the pieces and figure out a new way to carry on.

Maybe we must find a new teacher or even a new martial art.

Or start a new school.

Over at Kenshi24/7, there was a recent post describing how a job change led to the author founding a new kendo club, so that he could continue his own practice.

Below is an excerpt. The full post may be read here.

 

Back in 2014 I wrote how I made a deliberate change in my kendo life by deciding to focus on asageiko more. I had attended morning keiko since about 2009 (well, 2005, but that wasn’t few-and-far between and doesn’t count), but I went full-morning-mode in 2014 (Mon, Wed, and Fri: three times a week). After  my daughter arrived in 2017, my after-work kendo life mostly stopped and, instead, I focused almost entirely on asageiko and work sessions. 99% of my kendo at this time became kihon based. 

When the pandemic struck my asageiko sessions dried up and so, after a year, I decided to take matters into my own hands and began (starting February/March 2021) running my own morning sessions. When my usual asageiko re-started (in 2022) I decided to keep hosting my sessions as well… which meant some weeks I was doing asageiko every weekday. On top of that, I had my normal six keiko/week at work, and the occasional degeiko or Eikenkai session and what have you. Oh yeah, and I was constantly taking my students to shiai as well. 

Needless to say, I was doing a LOT of keiko. A lot. 

Sadly, this period of my life has come to an abrupt halt. 

I started working in my current school in autumn 2008. Almost immediately I took over the running of the kendo club and, for the last 17 years, through rain and shine, good times and bad times, I have been at the helm. I’ve taught hundreds of students, some of whom have gone on to pass yondan and godan. 

It was with a sad heart that on the last day of February this year I was told I was being transfered school in April. This is something that happens to all public servants in Japan, but I had been told – due to the uniqueness of my position – that a move would be highly unlikely. 

Still, I had actually expected a move to happen eventually, perhaps in the next three~five years, and had already had some schools (with good kendo clubs + near my home) in mind. Anyway, after the order came, I had to wait another week to find that the school I am being moved to is not only super far from my house, but the kendo club there had been shuttered, seemingly due the impact of the pandemic (no teacher to guide them through). 

Due to the distance of the school, my normal asageiko sessions have become almost impossible to attend (I can go during test seasons, days off, and the like). Added to that, I can’t run my own sessions anymore  because all my asageiko friends work in central Osaka. The number of weekday keikos I could do from April, because there is no kendo club in the new school, went from ten down to two (evening sessions at my police dojo).

My kendo life was turned upside down in an instant. 

At this point I had two choices: 1) wait for four years and apply for a transfer (that’s the minimum time you have to do before putting in a request)… but even there is no guarantee the school will even let me go (I’m a good teacher!); or 2) re-boot the kendo club. 

There was a kendo-jo in my new school… but the question was, given the current state of the kendo population amongst young people in Japan, could I even recruit any students? 

Once I knew what was happening and where I was going, I immediately set to work: within a day I already knew that there was an almost unused kendo-jo in the new school, which was a good start. It was communicated almost straight away (teachers have networks of colleagues – remember we all get moved around) that some kendo-crazed teacher was en-route to posses it.  

Arriving on April the first, the subject of kendo came up immediately, with many of my new colleagues taking an interest. I discovered almost immediately that the club that had been there for more than 50 years folded just prior to the pandemic. The kendo teacher that had been there retired a long while back and, with no replacement sent, the students ran things themselves for a few years. Due to this, over time, numbers sunk very low and when the pandemic hit it – and with nobody to lead them – the last nail was struck. 

My first job was to check out the condition of the kendo-jo and what it was being used for. I was pleasantly surprised to find the dojo, although bare of any ornamentation, was in very good condition. At least, the floor was. Bogu and various kendo bits n’ bobs had been left discarded in the storage areas and nothing was really kept in order. Usage wise, the baseball club used it when it was raining, and the music club used it for the odd concert. Hmmm, I thought. 

So, what does it take to start a kendo club in a public high school in Japan? Well, in the spirit of sharing my kendo experience with you, let me give you a brief rundown. 

Part one: get some members 

If I was to start a new club I of course needed students. I created some posters, stuck them up around the school, and waited. My new school has a rule that you cannot start a new club up without collecting ten interested students. Considering the downward spiral of kendo population in Japan of late, I had little confidence I could manage, so I was more than a bit concerned. On the very first day I went to put up posters – even before I put my first one up – a second year boy came to find me and ask about joining: “I heard about the kendo teacher in [my previous school] is famous, everyone knows about him” he said! 

Within a week I had collected enough students to start a club, more than enough. My final total was 15, which is three times more than my old school managed to gather this year. Go figure. 

 

 

The Yagyu Clan

Over at Budo Journeyman, there has been a series of posts about famous martial arts families, both east and west. Recently there was a post about the Yagyu clan; famous swordmen in Japan. 

I had no idea that they continued to hand down the art within the family beyond the 2nd or 3rd generation.

Below is an except. The full post may be read here.

 

In this part:

· Iemoto, family traditions passed on.

· The Yagyu school of swordmasters.

Iemoto.

There is a thing in older Japanese culture and the Arts called, ‘Iemoto’ 家元. It means, ‘family foundation’. It is/was to be found in the tea ceremony, calligraphy and traditional music. But, critics say that it suffers terribly from, rigidity, nepotism (clearly; because you are inclined to prioritise family connections over ability); as well as authoritarianism and a lack of a democratic process.

Well, maybe the last two are the most contentious ones. Particularly ‘democratic process’? Democracy is often described as ‘the best of a whole load of bad ideas’. Churchill said, “The best argument against democracy is a five-minute conversation with the average voter”. In current UK politics, he had a point.

You could also make an argument that ‘genes do not maketh the man’, but who is qualified to comment? Certainly not me.

And then there is the idea of a hierarchy of competence based on merit. It’s a tricky one. Have a look at French and Raven’s ‘Bases of Power’, particularly ‘Legitimate Power’ and match it off against ‘Expert Power’. It is unusual for any head of an organisation to not claim that their authority comes from the idea that they are the definitive expert in their field.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/French_and_Raven%27s_bases_of_power

The Yagyu clan. Mid 16^th century to the modern age.

In this deep dive into dynasties, it would be negligent of me to miss out the Yagyu clan of sword masters.

According to the common understanding, currently the Yagyu have taught their system for thirteen generations.

Let me put that in perspective; a sword school that came out of a very practical life or death world, that somehow managed to survive into the current age, when really, through pressure from the modern world, the Japanese abandoned the sword in the 1860’s. How did that happen?

Let me return briefly to Part 1 and the world of Domenico Angelo in 18^th century London. Although, in Europe, the firearm had subsumed the sword as preferred weapon, the Angelo’s (over time) allowed fencing to be turned into a sporting art form where blood was never really drawn.

Whereas, in Japan, the martial arts became almost institutionalised, and despite its antiquated radically conservative image it’s still around, even the Old Schools, the Koryu. In part, it survived into the modern age because of sportification and that there were moves to slap a preservation order on some of the Koryu.

This certainly seemed to happen to the Tenshin Shōden Katori Shintō-ryū school of Bujutsu, of which the teachings of the school were designated an ‘Intangible Cultural Asset of Chiba Prefecture’ in 1960. I accept that for the modern Japanese that kind of martial arts, even though it is a national treasure, is not really hip and trendy; but, amazingly, it’s still hanging on.

The Yagyu.

The story of the Yagyu clan seems very hit and miss; it looks like their fortunes yoyoed and were dependent in lucky alliances.

The beginnings – First generation; Yagyu Munetoshi (1527 – 1606).

Although genealogically the Yagyu clan were well-connected, Munetoshi’s father was a minor landed lord.

Munetoshi, himself, rose to prominence as a military man through a series of unstable alliances before coming to the notice of an up-and-coming clan leader called Tokugawa Ieyasu. By the time that encounter had happened Munetoshi had put away his ambitions to be a warlord and retired to his fiefdom to refine and teach sword skills. You see, in his developing years as a martial artist, Munetoshi had experienced some lightbulb moments through encounters with other skilled swordsmen, notably, Kamiizumi Nobutsuna master of the Shinkage Ryu school of swordsmanship, an experience that both humbled and enlightened him; thus, we see the birth of Yagyu Shinkage Ryu.

The summons from Tokugawa Ieyasu came very late in Munetoshi’s career, but not so late that he was to prove the supremacy of his style by taking Tokugawa Ieyasu’s bokken off him (while unarmed) and knocking him on his ass.

The humbled Tokugawa was smart enough to recognise Munetoshi as an asset and a deal was established where Munetoshi’s son, Munenori, (second generation) was to become hereditary sword teacher to the newly emerging Tokugawa clan and its supremacy as Shogun in Japan.

Development across the generations.

As mentioned above, 13 generations and still around. But, it was not without its bumps in the road. It’s all too complicated to go into here but not all of the Yagyu successors and the various branchings-off seemed to be as skilled politically and socially as their earlier forebears. The clan/school branches did spread out which created a kind of Yagyu Shinkage monopoly, resting in part upon their reputation as sword teachers to the Shogun. But also, that the branches spread beyond the capital of Edo.

Sprinkled among the Yagyu teachers were some big hitters, who became almost mythical and their stories developed into legends and seeped into popular fiction as romantic heroes.

Overall, this is a solid combination that other generational martial arts families could learn from.

Cutting the Ox

Over at James Roach's Classical Tai Chi Blog, there was an article about how to approach one's Taijiquan form practice: like Cook Ding cutting the ox.

This has been my approach. I don't try to practice the form slowly. I don't pay attention to the speed at all. What I do is to try to feel everything that is going on. The result, or rather the side effect is that I practice the form slowly.

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

I've included more info on this, and there is a certain serendipity in Wu’s “ox plow” postures and one of my original articles at Cook Dings Kitchen.

ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡɴ ʀɪᴄᴋ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴏᴋ ᴅɪɴɢ’ꜱ ᴋɪᴛᴄʜᴇɴ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴀɴʏ ʏᴇᴀʀꜱ. ɪ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ɪ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱʟʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇꜱ ᴏɴ ᴠᴀʀɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴍᴀʀᴛɪᴀʟ ᴀʀᴛꜱ. ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴀʟᴋᴇᴅ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴛᴀɴɢʟᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴏᴅʏ ɪɴ ᴘʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴄɪɴɢ ꜱᴇᴠᴇʀᴀʟ ᴍᴀʀᴛɪᴀʟ ᴀʀᴛꜱ. ɪ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴇɴɪᴏʀ ꜱᴛᴜᴅᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴅᴅɪᴇ ᴡᴜ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴀ ꜱᴇɴɪᴏʀ ꜱᴛᴜᴅᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀ ʜᴡᴀ. ᴇᴅᴅɪᴇ ᴛᴏʟᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴜᴘ ᴍʏ ᴛᴀᴇ ᴋᴡᴏɴ ᴅᴏ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴜɴɢ ɢᴀʀ. ɪ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴀᴛɪᴠᴇʟʏ ɢᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴜᴘ ʙᴜᴛ ꜱᴜʙᴄᴏɴꜱᴄɪᴏᴜꜱʟʏ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ. ʜɪɢʜ ᴋɪᴄᴋꜱ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪ ᴅɪᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴛᴏ. ɪᴛ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴇᴄᴏɴᴏᴍɪᴄᴀʟ, ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ʜɪɢʜ ᴋɪᴄᴋꜱ! ᴄʟᴀꜱꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛᴀɪ ᴄʜɪ ɪꜱ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘɪɴɴᴀᴄʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪᴛ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴇᴄᴏɴᴏᴍɪᴢᴇ ᴏɴᴇ'ꜱ ᴍᴏᴠᴇᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ. ʜᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴏx ᴘʟᴏᴡ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ᴄɪʀᴄʟᴇ!


Ox Plow Posture 

Master Stephen Hwa and I have taught weightlifters, ballet dancers, karate practitioners, etc. Some seem to grasp "Yi" martial intent, and some do not. Master Hwa taught for years at a Karate school. For most, I saw that “Yi” was not easy to get, and "intentions" to do something else with the movement usually began to show early on.  


The dancers would not keep their heel down on the back foot and would rise on the toe, with "flourish" movements in their hands.  The weight lifters were incredibly stiff and inflexible around the upper chest and shoulders; the internal discipline of the core would elude them.  

Karate people seemed to be stuck on a permanent type of staccato movement; making movements continuously seemed to elude them.  I recall conversations with one long-time Karate practitioner who said in so many words that he could not understand why anyone called Tai Chi a martial art.  He implies that only Karate (or at least "his" Karate) could be a martial art.


Cook Ding, also known as Cook Ting, is a character from the Zhuangzi, a text foundational to Taoism. He is renowned for his skill in butchering oxen, which he performs with such precision and care that his knife remains sharp for nineteen years, only needing to be sharpened once a year because he cuts rather than hacks. His technique is described as being in perfect rhythm, akin to performing a dance or keeping time to music.


The story of Cook Ding is often interpreted as a metaphor for Tai Chi, emphasizing fluid, natural movements and the harmonization of body and mind. Tai Chi and Cook Ding's butchery highlight the importance of following the natural flow and structure of the activity at hand, allowing for effortless and efficient performance.


The ox plow posture, also known as the Wu Plow Oxen stance, is specific to Wu-style Tai Chi. It is characterized by an inclined posture that appears slanted externally but maintains a straight line from the crown of the head to the heels internally, ensuring the spine remains erect and allowing chi to flow freely. 

 

Keeping it the Family: Aikido and Shorinji Kempo

At Budo Journeyman, there has been an interesting series about martial arts being a family tradition for good or ill.An excerpt from the  final installment, which examines both Aikido and Shorinji Kempo is below.The full post may be read here.

In this final part; keep at the back of your mind these two continuing threads (it will help readers understand the framework of what I am exploring here).

1. The three-generation rule.

2. Iemoto (Family lineage passed on).

Content:

· The adopted son.

· Aikido.

· A brief note about Wado Ryu.

· Shorinji Kempo.

· Conclusion.

Adoption and non-familial transmission.

I don’t want to drift too far off my ‘keep it in the family’ theme but, what if the family pass on the tradition outside of the family; including adoption?

The ‘adopted son’ concept is something found all over the older Japanese martial traditions. Sometimes a promising student will be encouraged to marry into the family to make things easier to pass the lineage on to him. The Japanese do not seem as up-tight as westerners in these things. Modern westerners seem unconsciously aware of blood and genes; perhaps because science has influenced our thinking for much longer than in Japan (there may also be biblical and other cultural reasons).

Also, outside of my current remit, clearly; it’s not compulsory for the traditions to go through the family line, but I want to stay with my theme.

What about the current generations of family traditions in the broader Japanese martial arts?

Aikido.

Aikido seems to have reached its third generation:

· Ueshiba Morihei (1883 – 1969) First generation and founder.

· Ueshiba Kisshomaru (1921 – 1999) son of the above.

· Ueshiba Moriteru (1951 to present day).

Lined up is potentially the 4^th generation; Ueshiba Mitsuteru, born in 1981.

The progression from Morihei to Kisshomaru is an interesting one, something that throws up the issue of generational responsibility.

Put simply; Ueshiba Morihei was a martial artist of almost God-like ability; his son was always going to find that a difficult act to follow. (I would actually say; not ‘difficult’ but impossible). This is an extreme example that appears with other ‘second generation’ family inheritors (see below).

A basic Googling around reveals that there was disquiet when Kisshomaru took over the running of the firm. There were those who said that his emphasis on a particular style of teaching suppressed the idiosyncratic nature of Aikido, and alternative interpretations were not given the credit they deserved.

In part, I am sure that comes from the mercurial nature of the system and its original founder. Kisshomaru was always going to struggle with that.

...

Shorinji Kempo, another example.

Shorinji Kempo is a kind of hybrid Japanese martial arts system, very difficult to categorise. Founded in 1947, it stands out among the other modern styles. Part karate, part jujutsu and supposedly part Chinese Chuan-fa. Is it a religion, is it a cult (in Robert Twigger’s book ‘Angry White Pyjamas’ a ‘friend’ describes it as such – I couldn’t say). Or is it just a well-marketed business? (Current membership figures says 1.5 million members in 33 countries, that is pretty impressive).

 

 

 

BJJ Solo Practice Drills

54 Solo Grappling BJJ Drills in 12 Minutes

 

Gracie's All The Way Down

At the Budo Journeyman blog, is a series of articles about martial arts dynasties. There was a recent post about the celebrated Gracie family of Brazilian Jiu Jitsu fame. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

Still looking at the three-generation rule I want to carousel through other family dynasties.

In this third piece, I will look at:

Gracie Jiu-Jitsu.

I always liked the simple historical fact that the Gracie’s originally came from Scotland. It made me think of ‘The Clans of the Highlands’, you couldn’t get more tribal than that.1

In reading around the subject (another one which I have zero practical experience of) I found myself going down a whole Brazilian rabbit hole, and really had to discipline myself to stick with the ‘three-generation rule’.

This is going to be a lightning tour and I do hope the GJJ and the Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu community will forgive me.

First impressions: the Gracie family really do go for huge families (yet the ‘Mrs Gracie’s’ never seem to get a mention. They must have been heroes in themselves. Incidentally, Carlos Gracie is said to have fathered 21 children, most of them became black belts in Jiu-Jitsu; I wonder if that’s some kind of record?).

So, this leads me to the second observation; patriarchal family structures. I would posit that this particular dynamic promotes a strong brand of masculine-based family loyalty and pride, a distinct kind of energy. Possibly here we see some of the ingredients for success.

Gracie’s triumphant.

I found myself looking for some references on a kind of Gracie family business model. What did the clan get right? Before I fully get into the whole brand identity thing, let me dip into the origins story.

Early decades of the 20^th century. The Gracie family have already worked to develop an entrepreneurial spirit; but this needs a little background.

The beginnings.

It all really starts with a Brazilian chance encounter for one of the early family patriarchs, Gastão Gracie, who in 1916 went into the circus business and came across a Japanese ex-pat called Maeda Mitsuyo who used to be a rising judo star in Kano’s Kodokan from 1895 to 1904. In that same year, 1916, Maeda travel to the Americas and barnstormed his way through open fighting circuits all the way through to his arrival in Brazil. Read up on Maeda’s life; it’s a hell of a story.

 

First generation.

As I understand it, Gastão Gracie did not train under Maeda, but two of his sons did; the elder, Carlos Gracie and younger brother Helio. Both of these are generally considered as first generation of what was to become Gracie Jiu-Jitsu.

This was the founding of the generations.

The impression I get is that this form of fighting, so far removed from Japan, does not deserve the name its detractors give it, i.e. ‘Pseudo-judo’. It has Japanese origins but developed its own distinct identity that suited the environment it was later to flourish in.

Some people say that the Gracie/Maeda style came out of a Kodokan project intended to break the ground impasse; hence the emphasis on the ground game. I am not qualified to comment, but it sort of makes sense.

 

 

Short Swords

At Chris Hellman's Ichijoji Blog, there was an interesting article in the use of the short sword (tanto) in Japanese martial arts. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

The katana is, perhaps, the sword most closely associated with the samurai, but it is worth remembering that the short sword was a consistent part of the equipment of the bushi class throughout their history, and the exclusive right to bear two swords became a defining privilege of that class during the Tokugawa period. It was worn in many situations where the longsword would typically not be worn for reasons of practicality or security, yet it typically formed a lesser part of a warrior’s training.

Swords seemed to have been central to training in many schools of bujutsu, although it is generally acknowledged that other weapons were more widely used on the battlefield. Swords had a deep cultural resonance going beyond mere practicality, also having religious and ceremonial uses, and perhaps this was why they were used as a vehicle for technical and theoretical development of basic principles and skills of combat that could be applied to a number of weapons.

 Nevertheless, specific skills for using the short sword were taught, often in conjunction with jujutsu or similar techniques of body control. The short sword was especially effective in situations where space was limited (such as indoors) or where surprise was a key element. Control of distance and line of attack were especially important, and the ease with which a short sword may be wielded with one hand leaves the other free for controlling the opponent.

 

The inherent disadvantage of the short sword when facing longer weapons could also be used to refine certain skills. Toda Seigen, reputedly the teacher of Sasaki Kojiro, Miyamoto Musashi’s famous opponent, was famous for his use of the short sword. Kojiro developed his skills with the extra-long sword from being a junior training partner for Toda as he further refined his short sword skills. (If you're interested, I wrote some more about that here).

Similarly, some two hundred years later, the eccentric swordsman Hirayama Kozo had his own students train in the short sword while facing an opponent with an extra-long sword to develop their spirit.

 

Hirayama wrote:

 

My swordsmanship is for slaying the enemy brutally. You must use this feeling of ferocity to penetrate directly into the enemy’s heart and mind. (Kensetsu – Sword theory)

 

 

Imperfection, Impermanance and the Transient Nature of Existence

At The Budo JourneyMan blog, there was a nice article about a category of  Japanese aesthetics, Wabi Sabi. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

 

Westerners who have an interest in art and the aesthetic seem to have really picked up on this in the last twenty years. Even if that’s not your zone, it’s worth looking at from a cross-cultural perspective.

Definition: ‘Wabi Sabi’, “Japanese philosophy that embraces beauty in imperfection, impermanence, and the transient nature of existence”.

Broken down; ‘Wabi’ is a kind of subdued, austere beauty. While ‘Sabi’ equals the appreciation of ‘rustic patina’.

Put these two together and you have a meditation on objects and phenomena that contain a type of understated, much loved and even over-used utility. A cracked teacup, no material value in itself, but perhaps it is an adored family heirloom and has some sentimentality, even charm. This can include the simplest of objects, clothing or utensils. It might be something used and worn by being passed through many hands. These are objects that have a rough simplicity to them, asymmetrical perhaps, but they are honest and intimate.

Human interaction.

Here is a quote from English writer (and bespoke furniture designer) Andrew Juniper:

"If an object or expression can bring about, within us, a sense of serene melancholy and a spiritual longing, then that object could be said to be wabi-sabi."

Andrew Juniper wrote the definitive book on Wabi-Sabi in English in 2003, ‘Wabi-Sabi: The Japanese Art of Impermanence’.

(Incidentally; I met Andrew Juniper briefly, but sadly we had no time to talk about Wabi-Sabi as he was too busy giving me a short masterclass in how to make the perfect cup of coffee).

Taking time to ponder deeply about the nature of objects, buildings, utensils, we find ourselves perhaps coming to terms with a mixture of wonder and sadness, a resigned reflection on our own transience and vulnerability.

This is a meditation, an interaction with an inanimate object, given purpose and meaning by us.

Why imperfection has value.

To me, imperfection is the antidote to the mechanism of the production line. I think that instinctively we have a mistrust of perfection; we treat the whitewashed wall with suspicion.

Deliberate artful symmetry can be dramatic, but can also lead to blandness and eventually boredom.

If the imperfections and the asymmetry are given space to occur, or the freedom to happen, then the honesty and the rawness comes through.

In a way, the perfection of the factory product had to happen, so that we appreciate the qualities found in its opposite.

 

 

Wu Family Style Taijiquan 2 Man Sparring Form

This is something you don't see often. The Wu Family Sparring Form.

 

 

Keeping it in the Family

At Budo Journeyman, there was an interesting piece about how the family "fortune" (in this context, martial arts expertise, ie founding a martial art) generally tends to degrade over the generations, within th the family. It's interesting to think about, although there are some counter examples: Aikido is headed by the 3rd generation headmaster as is Shorinji Kempo. 

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

A comparison of examples of ‘martial arts’ that were handed down through the generations, and how they survived, or didn’t.

In this part:

· Domenico Angelo – European fencing tradition.

· In part 2: Yang family Tai Chi.

The three-generation rule, as applied to family fortunes.

There is a theory that, in general, wealth in families only lasts for three generations.

The basic model is that the first generation is the entrepreneur, an individual who makes bold and ambitious moves to establish a reputation, connections, unafraid to go out on a limb, and thus accumulates wealth and status. Quite often, uprooting to another part of the world.

The generations that follow could be threatened by several factors:

· Inheritance passed through too many offspring, which dilutes the assets.

· The inability to weather life’s calamities.

· Internal strife, divorce, fallings out, etc.

· Bad business decisions.

· Poor management; inability to bring people onside, or handle external threats.

· Being blindsided and unable to judge the trends and change with the times.

But you can also include a more poisonous factor; changes in values, mixed in with complacency by just taking things for granted. If you like; a feeling of entitlement, that your pedigree means that the world owes you a living.1

If martial arts skills are family assets (alongside other assets) I think it would be interesting match the above criteria to dynasties of martial artists through a small selection of examples.

Case 1: The Angelo School of Fencing – England 18^th and 19^th centuries.

Domenico Angelo (1716 – 1802) was an Italian-born master of fencing who, through some clever and opportune patronage ended up in London in 1750, initially after an affair with a well-known English actress. But he caught the eye of the very highest in London society, including The Duke of Pembroke and the dowager Princess of Wales. Here was the progenitor, the entrepreneurial start of the line.

Just what was it that defined Maestro Angelo’s unique qualities?

· Amazing courage; in first setting up a business in the heart of a new city (in Soho Square), but also the guts to be able to take on challengers in duels, building up a solid reputation.

· Connections; not necessarily through his own countrymen, (his merchant father actually cut him off when he found out that his son was earning his living through the sword) leading to patronage, and therefore financial backing.

· An excellent pedigree as a skilled swordsman. Firstly, through the Italian method of fencing, but then in Paris, studying under the famous Bertrand Teillagory.

There was an urgency among the English aristocracy for the training of their youth in the art of the sword. This was based upon the perceived risks of all these young bucks running around Europe, getting drunk and doing ‘The Grand Tour’, fresh meat to any ambitious thief, highwayman or footpad. In a nutshell; the skills were in demand.

His significant contribution was the publication an elite folio/book published through the backing of over 300 well-connected aristos. This was to become the Angelo family bible for the next generations; which, as we shall see was not necessarily a good thing.

 

Practicing Taijiquan

At Thoughts on Tai Chi, there was a very nice post on how one should approach practicing the taijiquan form. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

I don’t teach much nowadays for various reasons, but years ago, when I was teaching a group, I was always a bit reluctant to correct students’ postures. Sometimes I did, if a student was lazy or unfocused, but I didn’t really try to show them the exact alignment as “this is how the posture should be.”

Many teachers walk around correcting their students as they do their form, or they let them stop in a posture and walk around them. However, none of my teachers had that habit. I do know a few who do it though. Poor students, I would say — because those teachers aren’t the best practitioners themselves.

The thing is, you need to feel from within—through your own body and experience. Tai Chi, as I’ve stated elsewhere on this blog, is about self-awareness and body-awareness. If you try to adjust your postures according to someone else’s standard, or to how you assume the postures should look, you’re already making a fundamental mistake: you’re approaching your art from the outside in.

But then—how do you learn to feel what is correct? This is the crux of the matter. The problem is, it’s easy to fool yourself—to think you’re balanced, sunk, and relaxed. But is it real sinking? Are you truly relaxed enough?

This is where push hands and other partner exercises come in. They help you feel the real standards of relaxation and balance—because a training partner will challenge your alignment, your structure, and your ability to stay relaxed under pressure. You need to be challenged in many ways and receive input from different directions to truly feel what’s right, and why.

And this is where function can help guide your progress. Even when it comes to Tai Chi forms, there are general standards of alignment—such as the angles at which each posture is strongest. But again, you need to learn how to feel these things—through context and through function.

One of my teachers—the one I respected most—summed it up beautifully. He compared Tai Chi practice and practitioners to sculptures and teapots. A sculpture has shape and form that allow it to stand upright without falling—that’s the only function its balance serves. A teapot, on the other hand, must be usable. You should be able to hold it when it’s hot, lift it when full, and pour from it without spilling. Its shape and balance must serve a purpose.

In the same way, your posture in Tai Chi must be functional. It’s not about looking right—it’s about working right.

Enter the Dojo

At BudoJ ourneyMan, there was an interesting post about the difference between a gym and a dojo. An excerpt is below. The full article may be read here.

I don’t write this post lightly; this has been churning around in my head for some time now, a kind of gadfly burrowing into my brain, so please bear with me as I lay out my argument.

How it works with youngsters.

The best place to start is to consider how we attempt to introduce our kids to activities that may enrich their lives and open whole new worlds to them.

Opportunities for youngsters are presented like a buffet laid out before them by well-intentioned parents. The thinking tends to be; throw all these ‘opportunities’ at the wall and see which one sticks. A messy spaghetti smorgasbord of gym classes, hockey clubs, tennis, gymnastics, dance classes, football, etc, etc. Surely little Jenny or Johnny will find the one activity that floats their boat and allows their talents to rise?

It’s what all responsible parents do; the first steps towards the potential for human fulfilment.

For adults?

I don’t think that stops at childhood. Autonomous adults who no longer have their parent’s well-intended regime imposed upon them reach working age often find themselves searching around for that special ‘something’ that ticks all the boxes, frequently without any real idea of what those boxes are.

As an adult, if you decide to ‘take a class’ in martial arts, is it just that? Identical to taking an aerobics or yoga class?

You turn up, you pay your money, the instructor, with customer service at the back of his/her mind, greets you with a smile. Then, you might be flushed with initial excitement at the novelty (for it may well be novelty you are seeking?) and then just fade away and move on to something else.

The sad thing is that consumer culture has certain inevitable sets of rules and expectations; it’s all designed for you to dip in and dip out. Why should martial arts be any different?

Maybe there is more going on – things that don’t align with the consumer mindset?

If you decide to become involved with a traditional Japanese martial art, the system that you might have ‘dipped your toe into’ could easily be a different beast altogether. In this scenario it is possible that other priorities come to the fore that don’t fit easily with the buyer’s market of the aerobics or yoga classes.

To my mind, this begs the questions which are at the crux of where I am coming from; are you a consumer or a devotee? Are you a customer or a custodian? There is a difference.

For consumers, the aerobics/yoga classes are transactional arrangements. The instructor standing in front of you offers a service that you might want to avail yourself of, at least for a while, a bit like taste testing different cheeses at a newly-discovered deli. You are the buyer sampling the wares; the shopkeeper is hoping that you are going to become a dedicated customer.

However, underpinning the traditional martial arts there is the consideration of a timeline that not only reaches back into the past but also towards a theoretical future. Is it perhaps too extreme to describe this as the elephant in the room?

This is where Memes come in… to explain.

Martial arts as ‘Memes’, the Richard Dawkins version (not the coopted word that the Internet seems to have stolen).

Just to explain. In 1976 Richard Dawkins in his book, ‘The Selfish Gene’ coined the word ‘meme’ to mean how a concept, idea or system is spread (gene-like) generationally by imitation or tradition. This can include religion, philosophy, or even skills-based knowledge, of which I would include the older schools of the martial arts.

To get into the details and the structures of the martial arts, the ones that are passed down generationally; you could say that these traditions/memes can be gifted with blessings, or blighted by curses. To explain what those are is at the root of my argument here.

The blessings.

The accumulated practical knowledge acquired across the generations creates a storehouse of wisdom and experience that is hard-won. If these positive attributes originate from the ‘down and dirty’ skills of hardened battlefield veterans then their wisdom is immeasurably valuable to future generations.

Add to that, if they are passed through the hands of truly enlightened and experienced torch-bearers, who can systemise and supercharge these experiences in a way that can be handed down to a dedicated and eager body of students, then what you have is a stream/tradition/ryuha that has genuine value.

It would be remiss of me not to acknowledge that some of these older traditions cannot really be used as ‘the art of war’, particularly the ones involving antiquated weaponry; but, there is a greater depth involved, one that adds immeasurable value beyond mere mechanical practicality. Within the discipline lays a whole catalogue of principles, ethics, philosophies and the vehicle for human fulfilment.

 This is the upside – this is what happens when things are going well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Great Wave

Over at The Budo Journeyman, there was an article about one of the greatest Japanese artists, Hokusai Katsushika. Below is an excerpt. The full post, with some of Hokusai's greatest works, may be read here.

19^th century European painters have more than their fair share of Bohemians, wild boys (and girls), eccentrics and geniuses; but you don’t tend to think about that with the Japanese. Let me tell you, they are definitely there.

Hokusai was, in his generation, the best of the best. In fact, his sparkling and dramatic artworks have continued to ripple through time; very much like his iconic ‘Great Wave off Kanagawa’ (1831).

Hokusai Katsushika (1760 – 1849) lived a full, if not eccentric, life. The development of his artwork and continued influence moved diverse western artists like; Van Gogh and Monet. But his inspiration and very modern ways of working didn’t happen in a vacuum. It is said that very early on when he was beginning to cut his teeth as an artist he was exposed to French and Dutch copperplate engravings. I am certain that his experimentation with distance and perspective came out of the European tradition.

This is why the ‘Great Wave’ is so famous. Observe the way that mount Fuji viewed through the eye of the wave is diminished and shrunken under the massive movement of the water that appears to engulf it; the panicking boatmen there as a device for further scale references. The subtext is about the comparison of these various entities in size and distance. The earthbound Fuji is humbled by the might of a dramatic moving body of water; the ocean gets its revenge; Nature shakes her skirts.

 Note in ‘Great Wave’ the repeated major and minor spirals; the smaller ones as kinds of ‘claws’ in the water.