BUT DO YOU REALLY KNOW IT?

 By Yang Shuangxing

Back in my competition days, I recall practitioners of one particular karate organization would never say anything like “Yes, I know that form”... so I asked a close friend of mine who hailed from that organization just why, when asked if they “knew” a particular form, they'd reply, “Yes, I work that form.” Rather than saying that they “knew” it. They'd say they “worked” it.

My friend explained it to me...”If someone says they “know” a certain form, they're inferring that they know all of it's applications (including those that are hidden and/or implied), its variations, rhythms...its whole soul. Only a great Master might know all of these things about one or maybe two forms...but an ordinary black brlt could not possibly achieve such levels of knowledge in only a few years (even 20 years would not be sufficient).”

That explanation made sense to me. So...instead of saying that they “knew” a certain form, they'd say that they “worked” it (meaning that they practiced it).

COMMUNISM AND CONTEMPORARY CHINESE MARTIAL ARTS

 BY Phillip Starr

Many of you may believe that the infamous CCP (Chinese Communist Party) has had very little impact on the martial arts of China. You'd be wrong. When the party took control of China in 1949, many traditional styles were still being taught and practiced. Initially, the CCP forbade the practice of martial arts of any mind, fearing that it could lead to revolt. But within a few years, the government relaxed its strangelhold on the martial disciplines and things seemed to be going back to normal.

In 1958, the Chinese government established an organization for martial arts training. The Chinese State Commission for Physical Culture and Sports led the creation of standardized forms for most of the major arts. During this period, a national wushu system that included standard forms, teaching curriculum, and instructor grading was established. Wushu was introduced at both the high school and university level. This new system sought to incorporate common elements from all styles and forms as well as the general ideas associated with Chinese martial arts. Stylistic concepts such as hard, soft, internal, and external, as well as classifications based on schools such as Shaolin, Taijiquan, Wudangquan, and others were all integrated into one system. Wushu became the government-sponsored standard for training in martial arts in China. The push for standardization continued leading to widespread adaptation.

Although the term wushu means, literally, “martial arts”, many traditionalists held it in disdain because it was developed solely for exhibition purposes and had/has no martial value. Moreover, elements of Beijing Opera and gymnastics were included and strongly emphasized. The people began referring to the older, traditional styles as “gongfu”, which they likely borrowed from the use of the term used in the West to refer to Chinese martial arts. “Wushu” was/is used to refer to the new, government-sponsored exhibition arts.

During the Cultural Revolution, which lasted from 1966 to 1976, the practice of traditional martial arts was strictly forbidden. The practice of wushu was, however, encouraged. In 1973, the Beijing Wushu Team toured various nations, including the U.S. Americans, enthralled by the incredible performances, embraced wushu and many began training in it. However, unlike their Chinese counter-parts who emphasized that wushu was developed solely for demonstrations, many Americans insisted that it had great martial value.

In 1979, China's State Commission for Physical Culture and Sports created a special task force for teaching and practice of Wushu. In 1986, the Chinese National Research Institute of Wushu was established as the central authority for the research and administration of wushu activities in China.

Looking at how many traditional styles are practiced today, the influence of the CCP is often very evident. This can readily be seen in the internal styles of taijiquan, xingyiqun, and baguazhang. As the form begins, practicioners stand at Attention, with their shoulder pulled back and held squarely, chests arched out...very military-looking. It isn't at all how the traditional posture should be held.

As they perform, you can see that the chest is often arched a bit, and the spine is kept ramrod straight. Again, heavy military influence from the CCP. Also, some small, barely noticeable movements in the form have been inserted. This is all done to make the forms more eye-pleasing.

Nowadays, many traditionalists are wholly unaware if and how their forms have been altered due to the influence of the CCP. And incorrect postures and movements easily become habits, which can negatively impact their effectiveness.

ARE THE “DO” PECULIAR TO JAPAN?

 By Phillip Starr

In Japanese, the word do(道) means the way, the path. In Chinese, it is Tao (prounced dao). This character appears in many words and may already be familiar to you. Dojo, judo, shodo... So what do they have in common?

The do has its origins in Zen Buddhism, influenced by Taoism from China. Buddhist monks were not only engaged in their religious activities but also in diplomacy and creative arts, such as gardening, literature, painting. The concept of do will, with the expansion of Buddhism, become deeply rooted in Japanese culture. This influence affects even the military class, with the bushido 武士道, the way of the warrior.

The dô expresses the progress in the practice of an art, whatever it is. Indeed, this kanji is particularly used in traditional Japanese arts, whether martial arts or aesthetic arts. Thus, the kado 花道 is the way of flowers, that is to say, the floral arrangement also known as ikebana. The shodo 書道, the way of writing, corresponds to the art of calligraphy. The kyudo 弓道 is the way of the bow. And kendo 剣道, sword martial art, is the way of the sword. Some words refer to religious or philosophical doctrines, such as Shinto 神道, literally the way of the divine.

All these practices respond to similar requirements and give a primordial place to a particular way of life that necessarily promotes spirituality. They require discipline (self-discipline), quietude, introspection, obedience, and respect. From the mid-Edo period (1603-1868), the practice of dô was formalized. Whatever the art, we find the importance of silent meditation, the master-student relationship, or learning through repetition. The apprentice follows the form within the rules, then perfects it before becoming one with it and then surpassing it. It is about reaching mushin, the essence of the do. Mushin 無心, "without (conscious) thought", is that state in which action and thought become one, leading to acceptance of the world as it is. Thus, the do is not only an apprenticeship but also a transformation of oneself. It's a real journey.

In China, the concept of following a particular path of discipline so as to perfect oneself, is largely unknown. For instance, the Chinese rea ceremony, although formalized is, in the end, about drinking tea. Japan's chado (the way of tea) isn't...there are even short kata (forms) that must be thoroughly mastered...from the ritualistic cleaning of the stone pathway leading up to the teahouse to how to hold the teapot while pouring the liquid. The same is true for all of their do; even shodo, The way of brushing calligraphy), which involved preparing the ink with an inkstone... Writing characters with a brush is still taught in the school system of Japan. Not so in China, where students just use a pencil or pen.

Sun Lutang is the only gong-fu teacher (that I am aware of) who attempted to elevate gong-fu, particularly the internal styles of bagua, xingyi, and taiji...to the status of do forms.

In so far as the martial arts are concerned, most people can't tell the difference between a jutsu form or a do form. The original martial disciplines were jutsu; intended for self-defense and preservation of the clan. These included jujutsu, aikijutsu, kenjutsu (swordsmanship), kyujutsu (using the bow and arrow), karatejutsu, and so on.

Many people believe the word 'jutsu” (“shu” in Chinese, same character术) means “art.” This is especially the case with contemporary wushu (武术), which usually translated as “martial art(s).” That translation is incorrect; “jutsu” translates better as “technique.” There's a world of difference between the two. Jutsu forms are intended strictly for combat. That is their beginning and end. The do forms foster the development of discipline, self-perfection and spiritual awareness. However, they still retain their usefulness as combative disciplines.

Nowadays, some combative methods refer to themselves as do; they fail to understand what this suffix implies. Taekwondo was intended from the outset solely as a combative technique (jutsu). Now it has given birth to a sporting aspect as have other traditional Japanese do forms, such as judo and kendo (as well as karatedo).

So, to answer the question that is the name of this article, I must say that, in so far as martial arts are concerned...yes, I think Japan is the only culture that has fostered the development of do forms. It is in keeping with their culture as it (has) developed,especially since the era of the Tokugawa shogunate.

WUJI; THE STATE OF POTENTIAL

 by Phillip Starr

At the very beginning of any form, there is a brief period where you just stand still in a "natural" stance and relax. You're not "damp-rag" relaxed but you're not like a wooden soldier, either. In the internal schools of China (Taijichuan, Xingyichuan, and Baguazhang) this is known as the state of "wuji" (also, "wu-shi") and although most contemporary practitioners tend to ignore it, it's really a very important part of the form. In fact, it's so important that if you don't do it right, your entire form is wong Other martial arts - from aikido to karate to iaido - also use this concept and "positioning" but they call it by different names.

To understand how to stand correctly in wuji, you have to dig into the fundamental concepts of Chinese cosmology. You're all familiar with the double-fish diagram of the Taiji ("Tai-Chi"). Yin and Yang. Yin represents the negative polarity and Yang is positive, although each one contains an element of the other - the potential to turn into the other. Extreme Yin eventually becomes Yang and extreme Yang turns into Yin.

It is said that when the universe was created, that's when Yin and Yang were created (the stage of Taiji was created) and gave birth to the "ten thousand things" - which, in ancient Chinese terminology - means "everything."

But what existed before the creation of Yin and Yang? What was there before the Big Bang?

Wuji.

The kung-fu teachers who first tried to teach their arts to Americans in a second language (Engrish) had a tough time trying to find the right
word(s) to define the state of wuji. Many of them settled on "nothingness" or even "vacuum." But using those words only created more confusion.

Their students would stand in the position/condition of wuji and just be "blank." Like a wet rag. No-thing. And that's not wuji at all.

Before the creation of Yin and Yang there was the condition of wuji but it wasn't "nothing." It wasn't a vacuum. You can't get "something" out of "nothing." And yet, what wuji is, is neither Yin nor Yang.

It is Potential. That is, it has the potential to expand outward and become something. It has the potential to explode into Yin and Yang.

I know this sounds like so much Oriental mumbo-jumb but listen up, Buckwheat.

When you stand at the beginning of your form you must be neither Yin nor Yang. You must be in (an imitation of) the state known as wuji. You aren't "empty." You have the potential to move and become something...

When an iaido practitioner kneels (in seiza) and prepares to execute a particular kata (form), he/she begins by relaxing and breathing down to the tanden (dantien). He/She makes three calm breaths before performing the first movement. During this time, he/she is not yet "performing the kata." There is the potential for movement but movement has not yet occurred. It is the stage of wuji.

If you think about the first movement (or any movement at all), if you think about what you're doing...it's not wuji because you're moving. Internally. And that's going to affect the way you begin - and finish - your entire form. Your body will be too tense or tensed in the wrong places, your mind is distracted and running ahead of where the body is, and your spirit is scattered. So is your qi. Remember that where your yi goes, your qi goes.

So reflect on this concept for a while and try to get a feel for what it is. Then apply it to your forms and the rest of your practice.

Potential.

WHAT'S NEXT?

 By Phillip Starr

How often have you heard a student or classmate utter these two words or something similar; “What's next?” This expression is usually made shortly after the speaker has learned a particular kata or training routine and it is clear indication that he hasn't truly learned much at all. My kneejerk response would be a quick backhanded slap across the face but I fear that this zen-like answer would elicit nothing more than anger.

Consider; there must come a time when, in any given style, there are no more techniques to learn. There are no more forms. If a student stays with it long enough, he'll eventually reach this point in his training. And some will ask, “What's next?” Some will assume that they've finally “learned it all” and look for another teacher. Theirs will be a shallow art. Perhaps they will find a new teacher and begin again. Little do they suspect that this is exactly what they would do if they remained in my class; they would go back to the beginning and start over. However, if they'd been paying attention and developing as they should have, they'd see things from a completely new perspective.

For instance, once a student has reached the level of first-grade black belt I tell him that he must learn how to punch. This usually evokes considerable surprise. “I have to learn how to...punch?”, the student asks.

“Yes”, I answer. “Up to this point, you have been developing proper coordination and learning how to make the larger movements. Now you must learn to make the movements smaller and learn how to properly apply the technique.”

Little does the student suspect that once he learns to do these things, he will begin all over again. He must learn to condense all of the movements; he must make everything very small, as it were. And so it goes, on and on. We go full circle only to repeat the process over and over.

There is much more to these cycles of learning than students imagine. It is a process of polishing which, when you consider the meaning of the word, involves removing what is unnecessary. Some students try to enter into this stage much too early. The first cycle involves the construction of a “rough sketch”, so to speak. Once the initial image has been formed (which usually requires some considerable time) the polishing process may begin. However, the first stage of polishing involves the gross, outer movements. Once they have been refined, the subtle internal movements must be further distilled. The process can't be hurried lest the entire cycle be for nothing.

Moreover, the process of burnishing the technique is only a part of the whole operation. It is but one cycle and as I stated earlier, once one cycle has been completed another begins. When the technique has been adequately refined, the method(s) of application must then be further distilled. I see the young lady in the back waving her hand wildly. You ask if the processes of refining the technique and its application can be done at the same time? No, they can't. That'd be akin to trying to drive a race car before work has been completed on the engine. Don't be in a hurry.

And while you're working hard at polishing and distilling your technique, consider the effects this will have on your forms! No, the outer movements won't change but the way your kata feels will certainly be different. To the novice, your forms will look much the same as it always has but the subtle differences will be readily visible to those with eyes to see.

Ultimately, you must “forget” everything. This isn't to say that you should toss your technique and forms out the nearest window. Rather, you must train them until they become a part of you. You continue to practice them but you needn't struggle to remember what movement comes next. Some say that you have become the art. I disagree. You don't become the art, nor does the art become you. Such statements are indicative of separation; there's a “you” and the “art.” When you have truly internalized the art there is no longer a separation. It's like the fertilization of an egg; initially, there's an unfertilized egg and a sperm cell. They exist separately. Once they join, there is no longer an “egg” or a “sperm.” There exists a new creature. A new life. Thus, one plus one no longer equals two.

And then as you begin your new life, you start out as a beginner. Again.

WHAT ARE THE ODDS?

 By Phillip Starr

The legendary founder of Kyokushin karate, Masutatsu Oyama, said that for every 1,000 beginners, only 2 or 3 would make it to the grade of shodan (first grade black belt). Then he added that for every 100 shodans, only 1 or 2 would go on to the next grade. The numbers decrease further from there. Certainly, this has been my experience and I imagine that most martial arts teachers would agree wholeheartedly with him.

I remember when I first began my journey along the martial path more than five decades ago. I, as well as many others, understood that getting a black belt meant that one was truly an m”expert.” I even heard, and my father firmly believed, that to be awarded a black belt, you had to literally kill a man with your bare hands! Of course, there were the many old wives tales such as having to register your hands with the police, and so on.

Although such beliefs have now been proven false, many of us still hold on to some of their remnants. In the Occident, the color of black is foreboding, ominous, the color of death. Oddly enough, mourners in the Orient wear white. Nonetheless, there is that nasty notion, that tiny remnant of times gone by, that pushes us to believe that a “black belt” signifies that one is a martial arts “expert.” In this regard, it's well to remember that the famous American poet, Walt Whitman, defined this term as “anyone who can spit over a boxcar.”

As most of you know, the truth is far different. When a student reaches the level of shodan, it indicates that he has acquired some measure of skill with the fundamentals. He has built a solid foundation upon which he can now build real skill. That's a nice way of saying that he is now ready to learn. Prior to this level, he was not physically, mentally, or spiritually prepared for learning the real art. Now he is. He has graduated from “high school” and is ready to enter college.

To get through “high school”, however, requires an extraordinary amount of courage and grit. The training is often very painful, tedious, and requires a great deal of dedication. Few are those who will succeed in making it to the “first step”, which is roughly what “shodan” means. Unfortunately, many new shodans, thinking that they've “made it” (whatever that means), stop training. This is regrettable because they'll never learn the true art. They've built a good foundation but they'll never erect a strong building upon it.

Those few worthies who possess a strong spirit will continue their training; their thirst for knowledge will push them to move further down the path. One by one, many of them will give up until there are only a very few left. Hopefully, these courageous souls will become teachers themselves and eventually realize the value of what their teacher gave them. He not only taught them the various techniques and forms and movements; he gave each of them a piece of himself, a bit of his heart and his very soul. If they determine to teach others, they will do the same. And as the years pass, they will watch sadly as so many of the pupils bid them farewell before graduating from high school. One of my students who began teaching spoke to me of this and I told him, “It's nothing new. It's always been this way. It always will. It's simply the nature of the beast (of teaching).”

But with each new shodan comes the prospect of a bright future. He or she is excited and hopeful and even moreso his/her teacher. But the old veteran instructor will sit back and smile as he says, “We'll see. We'll see...”

THE UKE; MORE THAN MEETS THE EYE

by Phillip Starr

In the practice of almost all of the traditional martial ways, participants often engage in prearranged forms of attack and defense. One of them assumes the role of the attacker who will “receive” the counter-attack of the “defender. This person is referred to as the “uke.” In the martial art of judo, the uke may not necessarily initiate an attack; he may simply receive his partner's technique.

Many students assume this role with a sense of passivity, lobbing unfocused kicks and punches at their partners. There is no real power, no spirit, no intent, no real technique. The uke often regards himself as little more than a human dummy; he participates in the exercise only to provide his partner with a live target. He's anxiously awaiting his turn; when he and his partner switch roles. That's the fun part of the exercise, isn't it? So, he puts up with having to play the part of the uke and this mindset is a huge mistake for both of them.

The defender must learn to respond appropriately to a genuine attack rather than a sterile, lifeless technique and it is the attacker's job to assist him in doing so. The uke should do his level best to execute a sharp, properly focused technique. Certainly, the level of power that he uses should be commensurate with his partner's level of expertise. That's a fancy way of saying that one should not apply the same level of technique against a beginning student that one would apply against a more senior practitioner. But the technique should be clean and strong. If he just passively chucks his technique out there without proper focus and celerity he is doing two things, both of which will eventually have a negative impact on him and his training partner.

First, he will develop the habit of launching sloppy, half-baked techniques instead of crisp, properly spirited technique. He is either ignoring or doesn't believe in the tried and true axiom that says, “You will fight exactly as you train.” This could be a real problem should he ever need to call on his martial prowess to defend himself against an assailant who's intent on suddenly and traumatically altering his dental structure or worse. I've heard many students say, “Well, I'd perform differently if it was for real.” This statement is completely untrue. Persons who make this kind of statement have probably never been in a real fight and they have no clue what they're up against. Whether or not they believe it, they will perform exactly as they've practiced because it's become an unconscious habit!

Secondly, he is doing his partner a terrible disservice by helping him learn him to respond to weak, sloppy techniques. His partner doesn't get the kind of training that he needs and, keeping the aforementioned axiom in mind, will more than likely come up short in a real skirmish.

It's important that both participants benefit from this type of training exercise. The uke should perform to the best of his ability (again, with the issued power and speed being consistent with his partner's level of skill) and when he receives the counter-attack, he must make no attempt to block or evade it. Should he do so, he would be demonstrating a mistrust of his partner and this is regarded as extremely rude. This kind of training routine is based on a sense of trust. Both parties must strive to control their punches and kicks, so as to avoid actually striking each other. Until a student is able to effectively control his techniques and stop them just short of contact, he should not engage in two-person training exercises.

Perhaps one of the most neglected aspects of the uke's role is that of intention. That is, he must have the intention of actually attacking his partner. Of course, he will control his attack to ensure that he doesn't injure his classmate but he must mentally feel that his objective is to strike him down.

You may wonder just why is this intention thing so important. The technique is going to be the same with or without intention, isn't it? Well, on the surface it would seem so. But with continued practice, the difference becomes obvious. If you apply the principle of intention to your practice, your partner will eventually learn to “sense” the moment when you are about to attack. Such a skill is invaluable in a real encounter. However, if there is no intention, there is nothing to “sense”; there is no real attack. It's essential that when practicing with a partner, we always bear in mind of the maxims of judo; “Mutual welfare and benefit.” And by ensuring that your training partner derives benefit from your practice with him, you will do the same for yourself.