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.

TRADITION AND DISCOVERY

 by Phillip Starr

Consider the most notable names of the traditional martial artists of times past and how long they actually trained under their teachers. You'll find that many of them spent only a few years at the feet of of their venerable instructors. How did they learn so much after training with them for only a few years? Is such a thing possible?

I'll bet a month's wages that many of you will answer with something like, “Well, they must have had a special talent for learning martial arts. This is how they were able to assimilate so much knowledge and skill in such a short time.” And for the most part, you're wrong. Sure, a handful of them may have had natural ability and they hay have been able to learn physical movements much faster than the average student. But many of them expressed a deep spiritual understanding of their respective disciplines and this isn't something that can be handed down from teacher to student in a short time. So, after training with their teachers for such a limited time, how did they do it?

Quite simply, they took the initiative; they didn't wait for, nor did they expect, the teacher to “spoon feed” them, as it were. Rather, they realized that they had to learn how to learn. And you must do the same. This will require some considerable effort on your part but it is essential if you are to continue to progress.

After all, there will come a day when you and your teacher part company. This may be due to one or both of you moving away or perhaps your teacher will shuffle off this mortal coil. Maybe he will finally tell you, “I have no new forms to teach you, no more techniques. Now you must learn how to learn.” And you are left to stand on your own. At this point, some students begin to make changes; they change the forms they've struggled to learn. Some students feel that they aren't all that important and they eliminate some or perhaps all of them. They alter techniques. They feel that they've become “adults” in the martial arts world and they can do as they please. I was certainly guilty of this in my younger years.

But life and time are persistent, unmerciful teachers; sometimes subtle and sometimes more than a little forthright. To those who pay attention, they beget wisdom. Eventually, the student begins to more fully understand what his teacher taught him...and much of what he taught was not readily apparent. Even now, at my advanced age, I occasionally stumble across a nugget of information tucked away in a movement of one of my forms or perhaps in a single technique and I realize that my teacher had alluded to this inconspicuous but profound principle many years ago! And finding that single piece of information often paves the way to further discoveries! When this began to happen to me, I realized that this is how we learn; this is how our teachers continue to teach us long after we have parted company.

TIMELY MOVEMENT

 by Phillip Starr

The swordsmen of feudal Japan practiced their art with the utmost intensity. In battle, success or failure was usually decided in a split second. There were rarely any second-place winners. A single blow would decide the outcome of the conflict. If their technique failed, the result was certain; they wouldn't be joining their families to enjoy a second helping of Mom's rice pudding. If the technique was successful, they'd live to fight another day.

A tiger approaches its prey very carefully. Every movement is calculated and precise. The movements are small, some are almost imperceptible as the tiger focuses on what it is about to do. If it fails to bring down its quarry, it may not get another chance to eat for a couple of days or more!

Both the swordsman and the tiger appear to be relaxed. There's no fidgeting around, no bouncing up and down. They are what we call “centered.” Can you imagine what would happen if the swordsman started bouncing round, or began jiggling his sword? I can. It would be a very, very short fight.

When many of the martial disciplines became “sportified”, we began to see a lot of twiddling, jiggling, and wiggling coming into play. The duel was no longer a matter of survival; it was (and still is) simply a question of who wins the game this time. The operative phrase in that last sentence is, “this time.” When one contestant loses, he can always try it again at the next tournament. However, this was not the case for the feudal warrior. If he lost, he lost it all.

In the traditional martial forms of China, Okinawa, and Japan, movement is never performed for its own sake. That is, you don't move just to be moving. Each and every movement, even small shifts of the feet, are done for a reason. Energy is conserved and the trained fighter represents the very essence of economy. The breath is controlled and calm, movements are never wasted.

If the enemy should attack suddenly, the fighter must be able to respond in an instant. This doesn't necessarily mean that he simply avoids the incoming blow(s); he must be able to respond and take advantage of this”window of opportunity.” He knows that within every movement, no matter how slight, there is a moment of vulnerability. If the movement is small, the “window” is likewise small. However, if the “window” is large enough and he is in precisely the right place at exactly the right moment, he can slip through it and bring his opponent down. Naturally, if he is hopping around like a rabbit on steroids or busily fidgeting about like a young man on his first date, he will be unable to breach the “window” and any attempt to do so would probably end in disaster.

I can see the young man in the back waving his hand excitedly. Is there a fire? Oh, you have a question...okay, fire away. You say that boxers stay on the balls of their feet and bounce and weave to confuse the opponent? And you say that they believe that a moving target is harder to hit? Well, let's have a look at your query... I'll start with a question of my own. What is the purpose of a boxing match? What is each contestant trying to do?

You say that they're trying to knock out the opponent? Well, that's only partially true. You see, the objective is not necessarily to render the opponent unconscious; the objective is TO WIN! And you don't necessarily need to knock anyone out in order to win the bout, right? Right. That's because boxing is a GAME. There's a winner and a loser. At the end of the match, both competitors shake hands and go home to nurse their bruises. However, real combat is not a game. It's about “not losing.” It's about survival. In a life-and-death struggle there can be only one survivor (and sometimes, there are no survivors). There are no rules, no “points”, no referees, and no rounds. It ends when one of the participants dies.

Now, let's address the idea of bouncing around so as to confuse the opponent and to present him with a target that is difficult to hit. A trained fighter won't be at all confused by his enemy's movements. He remains focused on his intended target without any expectations. Secondly, a moving target is not at all difficult to hit. Remember what I said about each movement presenting a “window of opportunity?” A fighter who prances around is presenting his foe with numerous “windows” and sooner or later, the enemy will find one that's well within his timing and the fight will end abruptly.

Yes, I'm aware that there have been contests pitting boxers and even wrestlers against practitioners of various martial disciplines and the boxers or wrestlers frequently win. These have all been fool's games, with “games” being the key word. No one was ever killed. The rules were fairly stringent so as to avoid serious injuries. However, traditional martial arts were never intended to be practiced as games. I wonder what the outcome would have been if no protective gear was worn – no gloves or footpads, no groin cups, no mouthpieces. And what if there had been no rules whatsoever? Combatants would be allowed to use any and all techniques at their disposal, including kicks to the legs, seizing techniques, biting, and whatever else came to mind. And what if there were no rounds? The fighters couldn't rest until the fight was finished. And what if the fight would end only when one of the combatants was killed? It would certainly make for a completely different approach to the match, don't you think?

In real martial arts, nothing is wasted. The feudal swordsman appears to be relaxed and calm as he faces his enemy. His movements are slight and made only when necessary. His mind is focused. When the window slides open he'll dart through in an instant and maybe, just maybe, he'll go home when it's over.