ALWAYS WATCHING, EVALUATING, TESTING

 by Phillip Starr

I was a young newcomer to this group. I lined up and stood still, waiting for class to begin. Sifu Chen shouted the command and we all jerked our fists to our hips. The best marching band in the country had nothing on us; we all managed to move in perfect unison. But it was sheer coincidence...

And we stood still, staring forward and not moving a muscle. I wondered what was going on but something told me not to look around. I became a fleshly statue. I remember thinking that we were fortunate that we weren't in my karate class, which began with everyone sitting in seiza!

I tried to maintain a look of fierce determination. Probably looked fairly silly, but I wanted to be accepted by this teacher. I wanted him to know that I could take it (actually, I had virtually no idea of what that would entail). Sifu Chen, attired in his sleeveless t-shirt and sweatpants, walked casually around us, and seemed to be oblivious to our existence.

Then he turned and looked at us. His gaze was gentle enough but he radiated an energy that was palpable. Was he getting inside my head, somehow? He nodded slowly to himself and told us to relax. For some inexplicible reason, I knew better than to completely let go. I relaxed my arms and spread my feet a bit just to get more comfortable but I kept staring straight ahead. I stayed focused and didn't let my young mind relax very far. I knew my teacher was still watching. And in the months and years to come, I'd learn that he was ALWAYS watching.

From the moment he saw us enter his home or the training area (which was a recreation room in his basement), he watched...how we carried ourselves, how we greeted and treated each other, the condition of our training clothes, how we warmed up before class (not just what we did, but out attitudes as well). And he watched during and after class as well. He was always evaluating us, not just in terms of physical condition or martial prowess, but our spirits and what was in our hearts as well.

And he was constantly testing us, often in very subtle ways, to see how we'd respond...not only to doing our best to accomplish what was essentially an impossible task, but also how we responded to failure, criticism, and even success. He was probing, finding out who and what we really were, inside and out. Those who he judged to be worthy (in character and spirit more than mere technique), he'd spend more time and once they reached a certain level of skill, he'd show little “tweaks” - aspects of the art (spiritual and/or mental as well as physical).

When I began teaching many years later, I sought to do the same thing. It's not something that can be assimilated quickly. I'm still working on it...

UKEMI'S IMPORTANCE

 by Phillip Starr

In speaking with an old student, I learned that he was attending regular “meet-ups” of various martial arts practitioners who all practice together in an effort to improve their skills outside of class. This is a wonderful idea but my student made one important observation; NONE of the other participants knew how to breakfall. Only when they ventured to a local kenjutsu school (that also included traditional jujutsu in their training) was he able to practice the various forms of throwing and takedowns that he had learned from me.

I think the absence of proper ukemi (breakfalling) training in many martial arts schools is most unfortunate. I remember my early days as a young boy when I was so excited to begin learning the exotic Eastern martial at of judo. We spent the first lessons practicing various forms of breakfalls and for me at that age, it was great fun! But as I got older, I realized the importance of learning ukemi (at any age) and it had a lot more importance that just being fun...

In learning how to fall correctly, we are doing much more than we think. We're overcoming, little by little, one of the most fundamental human fears (it may, in fact, be THE most fundamental human fear); that of FALLING. From childhood, we learn to fear this thing (usually because we've taken a few nasty spills) and as we get older, the fear grows...unless we do something about it.

A good and caring instructor is necessary. I have always (and still do) teach breakfalls to new students “from the ground up.” They begin in a supine position and gradually work their way up to beginning from a sitting position (on the floor), a squat, and so on. Children generally LOVE the rolling techniques and we make a game of it. I was very fortunate in developing this skill when I was still quite young. It is useful not only for the practice of martial arts, but for daily life as well.

Ukemi is a tremendous confidence booster. When a child or an adult learns how to do them properly, they feel very much empowered! Their confidence, their belief in themselves and their ability to overcome obstacles soars! This impacts not only their martial skills, but their daily lives as well. If you've never learned proper ukemi, I implore you to do so as soon as possible. It WILL make a difference!

SLOW DOWN!!!

 by Yang Shuangxing

Some martial arts enthusiasts scoff at the practice of taijiquan, which is often practiced mostly in slow motion. Fine. There are reasons for it (by the way, taiji is never APPLIED slowly). Have you ever tried to do a form from your particular discipline in slow motion? I mean REALLY slow. Go ahead; try it. Start off with your most basic form. I'll wait...

You say it's not so tough to do? Well...did you slow down EVERYTHING, including your kicks and steps? Yes, the kicks have to be done very slowly. You mustn't “fling” out your kicks uncontrollably. You'll quickly notice that they don't go as high as usual. It takes great strength in the hips and legs to perform a slow-motion kick any higher than your waist. Try to slowly kick out as high as you can and hold it there for a nice ten-count.

And when you stepped, did you do it quickly? It has to be slow, too. You mustn't “fall” on your foot. Each step must be perfectly controlled. It's a whole lot tougher than it looks! You don't want to “hurl” yourself at the enemy...your movement must be perfectly controlled.

Now, try again and this time, do EVERYTHING in slow motion. And when that becomes comfortable (and that's not going to happen for awhile), pay close attention to exactly how each movement and posture FEELS. Can you feel the punch all the way to your foot? Can you feel what your hips and shoulders are doing? Can you feel how they're connected? How about when you kick...what parts of your body (other than your kicking leg and foot) are involved and exactly what are they doing?

Did you coordinate your breathing with your movements or were you sucking wind at the halfway point? Breath and body have to be coordinated. Were any body parts overly tense when you moved? They shouldn't have been.

There's an old martial arts saying that says, “If you can't do it slow (correctly), you can't do it fast.” True enough.

RUMINATION

 by Phillip Starr

In his last days, the revered father of Japanese karate, Funakoshi Gichin, was largely bedridden. One of his youngest students, Tsutomu Ohshima, helped care for him. Ohshima would carry his teacher on his back down the stairs and into the dojo when he was scheduled to do a demonstration. When Funakoshi's feet touched the dojo, it was as if he was suddenly 20 years younger and he would perform magnificently...but afterwards he was exhausted and Ohshima would carry him back upstairs to his bed.

One morning, Ohshima arrived to find his sensei sitting up on the edge of his bed and practicing the basic seiken-tsuki (forefist thrust). Funakoshi looked over at his student and said, “I think I've finally got it!” This humble man had never spoken of his great skill before. Ohshima wept. Funakoshi passed away a few days later.

Kofujita Kangejuzaemon Toshinao was a master swordsman of feudal Japan who devoted his entire life to mastery of his art. Although he began in the style of the Chujo ryu, he was later accepted into the dojo of Itto Ittosai Kagehisa, who founded the famed Itto (“One Sword”) style of swordsmanship. The primary tactic of this school required a fine sense of timing and total confidence in one's ability to execute a single blow at precisely the right moment. Kofujita took to this concept with great enthusiasm.

He became a recognized master and authority of the art and was titled a “shihan” (“a model for all others”). One day as he was in his garden practicing, an old classmate visited him. His friend stood inside the house and quietly watched so as not to disturb the master. He saw that Kofujita was practicing a basic exercise of using his hips to precede the action of cutting. This was the very first thing that Itto-ryu novices were taught. The aging classmate could see that his old friend was wholly focused on the technique.

After a short time, Kofujita saw his friend and realized the classmate had tears in his eyes. “it is the first thing our master taught us”, Kofujita said. “I don't think it's quite good enough yet, do you?”

Kofujita's introspection and incessant struggle to examine his own progress, reflect on it, and strive for improvement (no matter how long he'd practiced it) is characteristic of a master. In Japanese, this attitude is called “ryomi”...intense, ongoing, self-evaluation.

In contemporary martial arts, the title of “traditionalist” is given to those who practice the ways of the past. You won't find them wearing glitzy uniforms or strutting around at tournaments with their chests puffed out. They're on a journey of self-discovery – which would be frustrated by following current fads. They believe in what they do and can be quite obstinate. Many regard them as people who see themselves as faultless paragons, paladins of the Way of the warrior. Traditionalists rarely challenge this view while they engage in self-citicism only in secrecy and amongst their own kind. It's a fault for which they must be forgiven.

Self-criticism is not pleasant nor easy to do. The main reason is that the arts that they follow far exceed the more modern “eclectic” forms. A second reason is that the criticisms of their art are often offered by those who are quite ignorant; one self-appointed critic may ask “what has all this practice of forms got to do with real fighting?” Such ones might just as well ask an auto mechanic what possible value a drive shaft could have in making a car go...

The overall problem faced by traditionalists is that although their world is filled with excellence, it is usually too small and often extends only to the walls of his dojo. This can foster rather narrow views. But there's nothing at all wrong with spending time in the schools of other accomplished martial artists, asking questions, and getting to know other traditionalists. This is actually following a very old and valuable custom of the martial arts.

Some traditionalists come to see themselves as purists, fine examples of their arts, and faultless. They are wrong. And if a master like Kofujita and Gishin could submit themselves to the self-criticism of ryomi, then today's practitioners could survive and even benefit from a little of the same.

PRACTICE, COMPETITION, AND COMBAT

 by Phillip Starr

Nowadays, it seems that many martial arts devotees equate practice (with a partner) and/or success in the competition ring with combat skill. I've often heard remarks like, “He's a really strong fighter! He's won two grand championships. Nobody messes with him!”, and variations thereof. But the brutal truth is a very different story.

In class, we must strive to practice “controlled violence” that is neither excessive nor insufficient. This is done for obvious reasons. The same is true for competition, although to a lesser extent. Blows may be thrown with great power, but careful control must be exercised to avoid striking and injuring one's partner. It happens from time to time, but such is the nature of the beast.

Hollywood's celluloid martial arts heroes have given many people (including a great many martial arts practitioners) a totally false impression of just how martial arts are used in actual self-defense. For starters, there's usually very little distance between you and your opponent and there's very rarely time or space to adopt some kind of “fighting stance.” The attack, more often than not, is unexpected.

There are no rounds, no referees, and no rules. It's quick and brutal with no quarter given. The odds are that you'll get fairly scuffed up even if you “win.” You can smell the enemy's breath and sweat, and feel his rage. It's usually over very quickly. But you mustn't dwell on having emerged victorious; he may have friends waiting in the wings. You must remain alert and sensitive to your surroundings (“zanshin”). Fear grips your gut as you realize that this isn't practice (where your partner makes an effort not to injure you) but your determination must wash over your fear and blot it out until the fight has ended.

The whole affair is usually over very quickly...within a few seconds. Long, drawn-out fights such as we enjoy on the silver screen don't exist (for all intents and purposes) in real life.

ONE, TEN, RICE, AND BEYOND

 by Phillip Starr

一, 十, 米; yi (one), shi (ten), mi (rice)...in Chinese. These are the lines that most forms follow. In Japanese, it is referred to as the embusen (演武線, which means “martial play line” in Chinese). Almost all forms should begin and end on the same spot (known as kiten or the embusen point in Japanese). And they follow the embusen.

Many Chinese sets use a simple “yi” line, which is straight. Others may use the “shi” or, for more complexity, the “mi” line(s). And most of them stress the importance of ending on the spot where you began the form; it's a fine way to ensure that your footwork is as it should be.

But the use of the embu line has been misunderstood for some time. If you stay exactly on the line(s), you'll soon discover that many of the form's techniques can't be effectively applied (this is especially true in the case of taijiquan). To find more application(s), you have to “come off the line” for at least one step or so.

For instance, step offline at an angle and see how it affects the application(s). Bear in mind that oftentimes, only the entry is shown in the form; the rest of the application is IMPLIED and not necessarily shown openly.

The original use of the embu line was probably for reasons of practicality; practicing in a fairly small area. Back in the “old days”, there were no roomy, warm training halls. Most practice was conducted outdoors in area that were a bit...tight. The old Chinese “courtyards” (that only fairly wealthy families could afford) were quite small and getting more than a half dozen students into one for training would be tricky. I know; I've seen such places firsthand.

Strict adherence to the embu line has led to some problems in so far as correct application is concerned. This is especially true of arts such as taijiquan, much of which is intended to be applied angularly. But because it (and many other Chinese forms) follow strict lines, today's adherents struggle to force the applications to work...and they just don't. In their zeal to maintain what they think is “tradition”, devotees refuse to alter their approach and hence, their way(s) of thinking. Their minds become as inflexible as the stones into which they believe their “traditions” are carved. But such “traditions” aren't really traditions at all... they have become pitfalls.