SHODO

 by Phillip Starr

A friend of mine recently posted this anecdote. I find a lot of truth and value in it... Shodo, by the way, is the art of writing Chinese/Japanese characters with a brush...It pertains to traditional martial arts as much as it does shodo...

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A woman who had practiced the art of shodô for more than 40 years came to speak to a group of beginners attempting to learn the fundamentals in a local class. She told them that they were going learn a little bit about the art by trying it. “But first,” she explained, “it is important that you understand that shodô is more than writing. It requires a very deep practice.”

Deep practice . . .

So to begin, she held up a brush and asked the group of students to do the same.

“This is called a 'fude',” she said. “You can’t hold it like you would hold a pencil or a pen for writing.” Demonstrating for them, she then held the brush in the center of the handle and turned it so that it was pointed down at a ninety-degree angle from the paper below. “This is how the brush is held,” she explained, “and this is how it will be used.” Placing a long, thin paperweight (a 'bunchin', she called it) at the top of the white page, she then gently placed her left hand on the lower corner of her paper and dipped the brush into the black ink, and held it in her right hand exactly perpendicular to her paper. “This is the form. When you brush, you must keep this form.”

The students were then each given a few sheets of old newspaper and she encouraged them to practice brushing a single vertical line. She asked the young group of students to pay attention to how the shape of the brush, the density of the ink, and the pressure from their fingers changed the line. “Do not rush,” she said. “You must go very slowly and very smoothly.”

Although she had just mentioned the importance of form, more than half of the group gradually slid their fingers down the handle and began to tip the brush into a deep angle as if for writing with a pen. She didn’t say a word, but the look in her eyes was very clear!

These were the students who could not copy.

They looked, but then (consciously or unconsciously) deferred to what was their habit.

Then she showed them how to brush a single horizontal line – ichi – and asked them to do the same. “Please do this,” she said. “And please try brushing only one stroke for each page this time.” While some of the students started out this way, more than a few began to fill the page with doodles, or go back to working on the vertical stroke, or even tried to jump ahead to draw a kanji (Japanese/Chinese character) we had just learned in school, like the one for “Tiger” or “Nihon.”

As she walked around the room, her look was subtle - but there it was again…these were the students who would not practice.

Eventually, an aide brought the students each a few sheets of very delicate white paper to practice the kanji “川” for river/flow and while these sheets were being distributed, she said to them; “It is important that you brush each stroke of this idea in a very specific order. You need to brush these three lines from left to right. Brush one…then, two…then, three.”

By now, being much more comfortable with the tools, almost all of the students were using only the base of the brush to paint and many had pushed aside the paperweight so that it wouldn't be in their way. Some even whispered to each other that they didn’t see the point. “After all,” one said out loud, “you can draw the lines out of order and they still look the same.”

At this, she smiled and the other students could hear her tell him that she admired his creativity. 

These were the students who had discarded the form for their own ideas.

As the lesson went on, it was interesting to see that some abandoned the project because they ran out of paper and a few even decided that their work was no good because the flimsy school brushes were not as nicely made as the “real” ones. There were those who managed to get ink all over their hands, and then there was one or two who avoided brushing on the white paper altogether for fear of messing up. Some brushed so quickly that the characters ended up being unrecognizable, and some were so tense that each stroke had a worried-looking edge and the ink soaked through to the tablecloth from the pressure of their fingers. There were even a few who managed to watch and to copy as best they could, but when they finished they attempted to re-dip the brush and correct the angle of a completed stroke.

“You’ve made a mistake,” the Sensei said. "But you cannot stop and start over in the middle. The beginning has left already. You can’t re-brush the same line.”

Out of the sixty or so students who began the class, there were maybe three that caught a mild look of interest from the Sensei’s critical eye.

And at the end of the lesson, as the group of beginners began to put their brushes away, it was only to one that she leaned over and asked, “maybe you would like to begin to practice shodô?”

⊙ ÔTAGAKI RENGETSUNI (太田垣 蓮月), 1870

SEEING AND FEELING

 by Phillip Starr

All too often, I see practitioners of various forms of karate, kung-fu, and taekwondo execute their forms “by the numbers”, void of any real “feeling” of an opponent(s). Thus, the form has no “spirit”, no life. They might as well do jumping jacks...

Of course, you first have to memorize the individual movements of a given form. That takes time and you mustn't try to hurry it. But once your body remembers the form so that you no longer have to think about what comes next, it's time to breathe life into it. It's time to “create” it.

When you stand at the position of readiness, you must calm yourself; calm your spirit as you visualize enemies approaching or surrounding you. Strive to feel the tension, such as that which you get in your gut when a life or death struggle is about to ensue (most of you have never felt what this is like, so imagine it). Imagine actually SEEING them. Don't turn your head back and forth to look at them; keep your eyes straight ahead and see them with your peripheral vision.

Which one will attack first? How will he attack? Keep your One-Point and don't let these thoughts overtake your mind. When the first attack is launched, you'll have just a fraction of a second to respond. Keep your mind calm, like the surface of unbroken water that accurately reflects everything placed before it. This is what the Japanese call “mizu no kokoro”; a mind like water, anxiety, fear...emotions cause ripples on the surface of the water (this includes even joy) so that the reflection(s) become distorted and you can't see clearly. Your fate is sealed if this happens...

Imagine that you can also HEAR and perhaps even SMELL your foes (maybe they're low-lifes who haven't bathed in a while...). This is, strange as it may seem, an important feature. Bear in mind that your “mind” can only experience reality through the body's five senses. And it can't tell the difference between what is real and what isn't...if you utilize only one sense, that's barely enough – but if you use as many senses as possible, your mind will (after enough repetitions of this form) believe that the experience is REAL. Thus, your body will be made to move as if this whole thing is actually happening!

The slightest error; the tiniest hesitation...such things will result in your immediate demise. There's no room for error. But if you do stumble...you don't pay the price that actual combat would have demanded. You get to try it again!

When the form is finished and you return to the position of readiness, you mustn't lower your guard. Keep your senses alert. Don't look around, just be aware of movement(s) with your peripheral vision. There may be other foes waiting in the shadows, ready to jump in and finish you off if you're distracted...and maybe one of the brutes that you struck down isn't out of the fight; maybe he's “playing possum”, only pretending to be down and out until you're momentarily distracted. You must stay sharp!

And be aware of another feature - one of which I wasn't really aware until my iaido teacher mentioned it – you have, after all, just taken several lives! How do you feel? Certainly, you wouldn't be proud or happy... You have survived a terrible fight and lives were lost. You're sweating, perhaps covered in blood. Remorseful? How do you feel?

Only when you are certain that all of your assailants are no longer among the living and there are no others preparing to jump you should you finally let down your guard (to “Condition Yellow”) and finish the set with a bow.

Believe me, this is an entirely different experience from just “walking through” the form and caring only that you remember it and look good. The form that you just executed no longer exists. But you can (and will) create another.

JUDGING THE REIHO

 by Phillip Starr

As some of you may already know, I'm an avid practitioner of iaido (pronounced “eeh- ai- doe” for you rednecks). It is the art of drawing and cutting with the Japanese sword. There is much, much more to every aspect of it than meets the eye, believe me...the way in which the hakama is worn and tied, the manner of gripping the saya (scabbard), the proper way to grip the sword itself...there are a thousand tiny, seemingly insignificant details that must be performed just exactly so, lest the technique be rendered ineffective and consequently, incorrect.

The sword isn't gripped or swung like a Louiseville Slugger or a lumberjack's axe. Not at all.

Something as seemingly simply as drawing the sword in a given kata (there are 12 fundamental forms and trust me, none of them involve cartwheels, side kicks, twirling the sword like a mini-skirted cheerleader, or any other such nonsense) may require years of daily practice before any of them can be done CORRECTLY, let alone effectively!

Heck, it took me more than six months to learn how to wear my hakama properly so that it supported my sword and actually assisted me in executing certain techniques! And learning to perform what appears to be a simple cut requires years of practice and careful study of many very tiny and seemingly insignificant principles!

On top of all that, there's the reiho (proper method of bowing in and out, and how to place the sheathed sword in your obi - belt). Like everything else, it has to be done just so. It's not a simple matter at all. It took me several months just to memorize the sequence of movements (it's much like a kata in and of itself) and then many months more before I could even begin to do it smoothly. Even now, I still often get my fingers tangled in the sageo (a long cord attached to the scabbard) as I endeavor to switch hands during the reiho procedure...

And so...with 12 kata, each of which involves what seems to be a thousand tiny details, I was told that on a given examination one's skill and performance of the reiho accounts for more than 50% of one's score! Your kata may be sterling but if your reiho even vaguely resembles a schoolboy trying to unhook his girlfriend's bra for the first time, you may well fail the exam...

A number of you may well wonder why this is? Why do they place such importance on how well you perform a bowing procedure? Isn't the object to learn how to wield the katana (Japanese sword) correctly? Well, yes and no...

If the reiho is incorrect or sloppy, it's a poor reflection of one's level of dedication and seriousness (about learning) the art. The kata(s) may look good to the casual observer, but they'll be flawed due to the same lack of practice and attention to detail.

And so it is with the bowing procedure(s) for your karate, judo, taekwondo, or (insert the name of your martial discipline). It applies equally to the moment(s) prior to the first movement of your form, when you're standing still. There's a correct way to do it and countless incorrect ways...it is a reflection of how you practice. It is a reflection of your discipline, of your spirit.

THE HATCHLING

 by Phillip Starr

In the treatise on zen known as the Blue Cliff Record, an odd expression - “sottaku doji” is found. Sottaku means “a pecking noise” and doji means “simultaneously.” In ordinary conversation, this expression refers to the reaction between a mother bird and her chicks that are about to hatch. While still in the egg, the hatchling makes little pecks against the inside of the egg's shell and upon hearing this, the mother bird pecks at the outside of the egg to assist the hatchling in its struggle to enter the world.

This same expression is occasionally heard in conjunction with the martial arts of Japan (as well as other arts of that culture) because it offers insight into the relationship between the teacher and student. The search for a master or even a good teacher can be what seems an overwhelming task and the once the search has been completed, it's a mistake to think that the path before you will be smooth and easily travelled. Less so for those who attempt to learn without the guidance of a good instructor. Books and DVDs can be of service as reference materials, but one really needs the hands-on instruction of a worthy teacher.

I recall a time many years ago when I was trying to perform a partciular movement in the form of baguazhang that I was learning. One leg was to be lifted to the front and then placed on the floor behind me just before I was to pivot and strike. Try as I might, I kept losing my balance. When my teacher did it, it was as smooth as flowing water. No loss of balance at all. It looked so effortless...WHY couldn't I do it? For weeks I did my best to imitate him but I still stumbled.

Then one day, he came up to me as I was frustrating myself and said, “You have trouble because your weight is in the wrong place. Put your weight here and move from here”, he said as he grasped one of my knees and pointed to my lower belly. I followed his advice and VOILA! The movement came off as slick as snot on a glass doorknob!

Later, I was angry with him for not showing me these simple adjustments from the beginning. I was really steamed until a small voice in my head asked, “If he had told you in the beginning, would you have heard him?” I realized that no, I wouldn't have truly “heard” him. I might have heard the words, but my body wouldn't have been able to translate them into physical actions. My teacher knew this and he knew just when to give me what I needed.

To walk the martial path is unlike most journeys; the road ahead is far from smooth and easily seen. It is replete with pitfalls and many obstacles that aren't always easily seen. This is why a good teacher is important. He leads but sometimes he sits and watches as the student struggles, giving a little push when it is finally needed.

In modern martial arts schools that are often filled with many students, this sottaku doji doesn't occur; the emphasis seems to be similar to managing an assembly-line. Students are taught en masse and because of the roar of modern commercialism, the teacher can't hear the hatchling pecking at the inside of its shell. He is oblivious to it. Sottaku doji requires a quiet, personal relationship between student and teacher. Without that, there is little chance that the hatching will ever be truly born.

TRAINING FORMS AND GRANDMA'S HAM TRIMMIN' PIE

 by Phillip Starr

A while back, I was watching a television show that featured one of the world's most famous chefs preparing one of his specialties, which was a French dish (okay, I was REALLY bored). Standing in the wings were four younger chefs, notebooks in hand, who studied his every move. At one point, the master tossed chunks of beef into the mix and it seemed to confuse one of the younger chefs. “Sir”, he began, “the recipe calls for exactly xxx grams of beef but you've used more than that...” The master, who was almost as well-known for his hair-trigger temper as his culinary skills answered. However, he refrained from throwing one of his cooking utensils at the young fellow and turned to respond to his statement. “Fine. I will have paint, brushes, and easels brought in. Each of you will paint a picture of a rose that I will place here.”

As expected, the student was a bit confused. “Do you think everyone's painting will look the same?', the master asked. The student shook his head slowly. “Exactly”, the teacher said. “Painting is an art. So is cooking. Every time you cook, it is a new creation.”

I was reminded of my grandmother's “ham trimmin' pie”, which was a favorite with the whole family. We would visit her every summer when I was young and one afternoon she set about making this delicious dish. My mother wanted to get the right recipe, so she grabbed a sheet of notebook paper and would ask her mother questions as she was adding ingredients to her well-loved dish. “How much salt?”, my mother asked. Grandma just chuckled and said, “I never measure it...I use the old measures that my mother taught me.” Mom was confused and asked just what those were. Grandma replied, “By gosh and by golly. A pinch of this, and handful of that. You learn to feel what's just right.”

So, what does this have to do with learning and practicing forms? Well, what's the most common criticism of forms spoken by those who aren't engaged in a serious, long-term study of the traditional martial arts? They're robotic, right? They'll turn us into automatons; they try to cram some kind of orthodoxy into the realm of combat as if it could be done like some sort of well-rehearsed choreographic routine. Punch X must be executed just before kick A, and the front foot must be angled EXACTLY 90 degrees from the kick...and so on. But combat isn't like that at all...

The proper response is that a form instills certain behaviors (some reactive and some proactive). Although it doesn't necessarily tell the “story” of a fight, it is akin to the grammar that enables us to tell our own stories, as varied as are the encounters one is likely to meet, with fluidity and a coherent structure that will help us survive the battle. At least that's what we say...but every now and then we should pause and consider. Too many karate and gong-fu devotees unknowingly get caught up in the “habits” for which their art is criticized, just like the young chefs training under the master; they run to the “book” or to the teacher to ensure that they're following the recipe to the letter, just as it's all laid out.

And that's okay up to a point. It is one of the great strengths of our arts – that we have forms, which can be depended upon and provide us with valuable instruction. But. If we stop at this stage of training (and many do) – of striving to replicate the form EXACTLY – we lose some of it's inherent value. Many well-known teachers encourage advanced pupils to go beyond the perfection of the preset form and explore the potentials of the form. One very famous instructor compares it to learning how to brush the Chinese/Japanese characters properly; block printing is used initially and children literally use tracing paper to trace over writings of famous masters of the brush. Later, the students are allowed to develop more free-flowing strokes in a kind of cursive. Eventually, they develop a hand that is so unique that it can be used as a means of identifying the writer. According to the aforementioned teachers, our martial arts must develop in the same way.

But we cannot and must not try to acquire our own unique “hand” without first going through the first two stages; we cannot walk into the training hall and tear apart our forms without deeply understanding them first. And I mean DEEPLY. We must submit to the arduous, rigorous ways of practicing it EXACTLY as it was taught. After it has been mastered, we may seek to go beyond it. I'm sure the master chef had spent countless hours poring over the books written by master master chefs, learning to make the various dishes exactly as the instructions told him.

It's a very narrow part of the martial path. If we begin too soon – before we are ready, we're wasting our time. On the other hand, if we continue to make exact copies year after year, we're likewise spinning our tires. It is a great challenge for us, to find and keep the balance throughout the whole of our martial arts journey...

THE COOPERATIVE UKE

 by Phillip Starr

Years ago, I witnessed a demonstration by a martial arts teacher who performed a series of one-step fight techniques with one of his students. After blocking his student's attack, he'd deliver multiple counter-techniques. His counter-attacks were quick but lacked any real power and he'd respond to each attack with as many as a half-dozen or more strikes. It was a fine demonstration of ineffectiveness.

An instructor who was seated next to me leaned over and said, “That's a pretty cooperative uke (receiver)” and I agreed. The demonstration lacked any sense of realism; the uke simply stood stock still while the defensive techniques rained down on him. To the uninitiated, it certainly LOOKED impressive, but there was no practicality or realism to it at all.

In the traditional Japanese martial arts, practitioners strive to develop the ability to bring down the opponent with a single blow although they may deliver as many as three techniques just for the sake of insurance. But six or more? Nah. Someone who has to do that needs to put in more serious practice to temper his techniques!

I recall one of my classmates approaching me and trying to frighten me by letting me know that he could hit me many times in the space of about a second. I was very young and inexperienced and I was rather frightened. In those days, kung-fu wasn't taught to non-Chinese but my teacher broke the mold and did it anyway. I was the only non-Chinese in the small class (and the youngest by a very long shot) and my classmates, all of whom were American-born Chinese didn't appreciate my presence. Anyway, the fellow who made that statement didn't notice my teacher standing behind him. He responded to the bully's statement by saying (in a rather loud voice) that he would only need to hit a man once to take him down...

In traditional forms, (particularly Okinawan and consequently Japanese forms) the emphasis is on doing just that. In a given sequence, you may execute a defensive movement/technique and follow through with one or maybe as many as three counter-blows before dealing with the next imaginary assailant. But never do you execute more than three blows at the most (usually, it's just one or two).

And anyway, in the practice of one-step fight or self-defense techniques, it is helpful to have the aggressor to respond to the counter-attack(s) as if he'd actually been hit. For instance, if you strike someone in the throat or neck with a sword-hand, he likely isn't going to continue standing there, looking at you like a zombie and waiting for the next blow to land. His body will react to your strike in a certain way and that alters what you will use for your next counter-attacking technique.

It's important to keep it real...