THE BROKEN BOW

 by Phillip Starr

“The bow is shattered, arrows are all gone.

At this critical moment, cast aside all doubts.

Shoot, without the slightest delay.”

These lines were penned by Zen master Bukko Kokushi during the Kamakura era (1226-1286) in Japan. Typical of Zen-inspired poetry, it's a bit puzzling. How do you shoot if your bow is broken and your arrows are all gone? For an answer, we must turn to kyudo...most of you have never practiced it and fewer than that will ever engage in it but the answer it provides can be applied to any martial Way.

Kyudo is the Japanese Way of archery. It's one of the less popular martial disciplines, especially outside of Japan (where high-level teachers are pretty much non-existant). Equipment is terribly expensive; a good yumi (the bow, which is handmade with laminations of bamboo and various woods) can cost as much as $4,500.00, although you can get modern ones of considerable less quality for as little as $500. Then, too, the precise dictates of the art seem to have more in common with the tea ceremony than with a bloody fighting art. A kyudo neophyte will spend months learning the intricacies of kyu-ha, the etiquette and rituals of the art.

The details involved are intimidating and all of them must be committed to memory until the practitioner has integrated them on a level that is virtually instinctive. For instance, there are a certain number of steps taken to approach the shooting stand, the angle at which the bow is held when the arrow is nocked must be just right. All of the various facets of the mechanics and movements of drawing and shooting are precisely set into forms that have been formalized for many, many years. And they must all be learned exactly. There is even a set of certain movements used for approaching the target, leaning the bow against it, and removing arrows from the target! Kyudo is a bit long on outer movements, to say the least.

Many of you will think that kyudo focuses an awful lot on seemingly petty details, but consider that a beginning karate or gong-fu student likely thought he could throw a pretty decent punch...until he started training. His chin must be held just so, his shoulders have to be adjusted here, his hips have to move exactly this way, and so on. I've been known to spend as much as two hours going over the details of a simple reverse punch and I could easily have gone on for another two or three. I've seen novices become so overwhelmed by the details of their art that they actually freeze. Their eyes betray their minds, which are frantically trying to recall all of the details...and they become as statues!

Many uninformed people present considerable criticism about this approach to what is allegedly a “fighting art.” They often make very ignorant commentaries, claiming that the practitioner who trains in this way will be so concerned with ensuring that all of the tiny details are just right that he'd be quickly pounded into dogmeat before he can mount an effective defense. This reasoning is based on the erroneous assumption that this stage of training (known as toteki), is the FINAL goal. Not hardly.

In time, the kyudo student (kyudoka) begins to integrate the details of the art into his performance. He doesn't have to count his steps as he approaches the stand; they come out naturally. The arrow is correctly nocked without conscious effort. This is the beginning of what is called zaiteki; the bow and archer are becoming one. Practitioners of other martial Ways may use other terms to describe the same thing; they often speak of mushin (無心 wuxin in Chinese), which is a term often heard in the practice of Zen. Mu (Wu) means “nothing” or “without”, while shin (xin) refers to the mind or consciousness. Thus, the term is often translated as “without consciousness” (also, “no mind”). Rather than inferring that one is unconscious, this term indicates that the practitioner no longer has to consciously “think” about what to do.

The practitioner moves naturally; he has passed beyond the level of training that required him to concentrate on the details of his technique. His movements are spontaneous and correct. The technique has become “no-technique.” If you can drive a car, play the piano, or even tie your shoes, you already are familiar with this concept. But there was a time when you stared at the piano keys and tried to get your fingers to move to the right spots. With lots of practice, you eventually reached a stage wherein you no longer had to think about it; your fingers “knew” where to go.

If you're a skilled typist and you've been at it a while, you'd likely be stumped now if someone asked you about the layout of the keys/keyboard. Like, which keys are on either side of the letter “J?” You may be able to type 80 words a minute, but that question confounds you. That's because you've achieved a certain mushin in your ability to type. Now, there's a considerable difference between the “no-technique” of the highly skilled martial artist and the “non-technique” of the novice. Neither the expert nor the beginner can probably tell you what adjoins the “J” key but that doesn't mean they're at the same level in terms of their understanding and ability to type. One must strive to achieve the stage of “no-technique” and there's no short-cut, no way to bypass technique altogether. It's going to take time. Lots of it.

The bow, the arrows...as the Zen master's poem reminds us, these are external details. Drive yourself past them through severe, unceasing training and effort and press in to the core of the art. When you art is fully integrated in body, mind, and spirit, the bows and arrows, the details of the punch, kick, or throw are unimportant. At the critical moment, as Bukko advised, you must penetrate the target without the slightest delay.

THAT BOW IS A BIT ODD...

 by Phillip “Pete” Starr

Although many martial arts afficionados bow when they enter onto and exit from, the training floor, and to the instructor at the beginning and end of class, most are wholly unaware that there's a proper way to do it. Not just any form of “bowing” will do.

The standing bow is, by far, the most common. It is done the same way, regardless of whether you're in Japan or China. I've mentioned before that unlike what some Westerners believe, China is not the “land of bowing.” That title belongs to Japan. Bowing in China isn't done with nearly the frequency as in Japan; the handshake is much more common, but bowing is often seen in special events such as wedding activities, funerals, and on noteworthy occasions (such as celebrating the memory of a past leader).

Bowing is done as a gesture of respect and in the martial Ways of Japan, it also provides time for preparing the mind and spirit prior to a martial arts class or performance. It has no religious significance whatsoever. The standing bow is performed with the neck kept straight – I've seen many martial arts zealots bow with their necks craned upwards so they can clearly see the other person (having been told that this is essential by their Western teachers – and the eyes looking upwards. To do either of these things is considered very rude. I've seen many practitioners perform a “bow” with nothing more than a nod. This is also very rude and is considered an insult of sorts. The eyes should look at a spot about 8 ft. or so in front of you; and, trust me, you'll be able to see if your partner makes an aggressive movement easily enough. The eyes are NOT turned upward to look directly at your partner.

Males should keep the hands at the sides while women generally place the hands in front of themselves. There is no thigh-slapping whatsoever. I actually did that once and my teacher scowled and said, “Why are you spanking yourself? Are you a naughty boy?” I never did it again. The whole thigh-slapping business was created by Westerners to add a bit of military flair to the bow. It is unnecessary, gauche, and very risky in so far as martial arts are concerned (it's an unnecessary action, which should be avoided).

The kneeling bow is done in a very specific way; the hands are placed flat on the floor (left first, then right...with the fingers turned somewhat inwards). Again, the neck is held straight and the eyes look forward rather than upward. This kind of bow isn't seen in China at all (only in Japan); rather, the Chinese use a “koutou” (known as a “kowtow” in Cantonese), which means roughly “knock the head” and it is used for some religious rituals and to show complete subservience. It is never used in the practice of martial arts. It really hasn't been used much in China since the collapse of Imperial China.

Some gong-fu styles begin their sets with a type of “salute” (oftentimes, one hand is kept open and the other closed in a fist), which is intended to pay respects to senior practitioners and/or teachers who may be present. The salute is sometimes (but rarely) followed by a number of movements or gestures to indicate the form's origins (such as one that has a Buddhist origin). The old style of shaolinquan that I learned featured forms that utilized such gestures.

Because of my involvement in Japanese karate, which I had studied prior to meeting my gong-fu master, Shifu Chen, I would bow before stepping onto the floor of the basement of his home, which is where we trained. He actually thought that paying respect to the training hall/area was a good idea and made sure that I continued to do it, berating me if he felt my bow was too quick or casual. The training hall/place is where we will pour sweat, gasp for air, and bleed in an effort to improve ourselves. Therefore, he told me, it deserved our deepest respect. It is where we “grow up.” Our teachers take time out of their lives to instruct us, so they deserve our deepest respect. And our classmates assisted us (as partners as well as in other ways), so they were worthy of respect as well...more than a simple nod or slapping our legs like trained otters.

BLOCKING? WHY?

 By Phillip Starr

My teacher, Master W. C. Chen, would occasionally remind me, “If you have to use your arms to block attacks and keep them from hitting you, your technique needs work...” Internal systems such as baguazhang and especially xingyiquan, do not make use of powerful, direct blocking techniques. Instead, they make use of making contact with the opponent's arm (or leg) to “make a bridge”, which enables them to feel the enemy's intention and deliver a quick counter-attack. In many cases, even “bridge-building” simply doesn't occur; the opponent is struck immediately as you evade his attack so that all it hits is thin air. There's a saying that tell us, “A sword slicing through the air is harmless...until it meets resistance.” So we offer no resistance whatsoever...

My friend, Master Seiyu Oyata (10^th dan, Okinawan karate, dec.), once told me “There are no blocks in karate.” Initially, this confused me... until he demonstrated the true bunkai (breakdown) of various movements in the kata. Then I could cleary see exactly what he meant. In many cases, a “bridge was established. But in most cases, what was usually regarded as a “block” was actually a strike or joint-twisting technique.

The legendary “sword saint” of Japanese legend, Miyamoto Musashi, spoke along these lines in his famous book on strategy, The Book of Five Rings.

What we generally think of as “blocks” are actually attacks that are applied against the enemy's attacking limb(s) and they are delivered in a very sharp, focused manner. Moreover, they are always followed immediately with a sharp striking or thrusting technique. This will alter the (probably incorrect) manner in which you perform your form(s). There is almost no space between the “block” and the counter-strike (oftentimes, they are performed simultaneously).

A good way to learn how to adjust yourself to this rhythm is to use a metronome (or a classmate tapping two sticks together in a nice, even rhythm). The counter-strikes are to be executed BETWEEN the steady, even beats of the device.

Believe me, a well-focused “block” will quickly dampen an opponent's determination to hit you and will likely impede his ability to do so a second time...

THE BEST NIGHT'S SLEEP...

 by Phillip Starr

Vietnam, 1966. Taekwondo was young and making its debut. Three special ROK divisions were deployed: the White Horse Divison, the Blue Dragon, and the Tiger Division. To even apply for service in one of these units, one had to hold a minimum rank of 2^nd grade black belt in taekwondo. The “uniform of the day” didn't include combat fatigues; it was a karate uniform (the new V-neck style taekwondo uniforms hadn't yet been invented) and rather than doing a lot of close-order drill in the morning, troops practiced basic punches and kicks.

They were as tough as case-hardened steel and absolutely merciless. Both the NVA and VC were terrified of them. In fact, none of their fire bases were ever attacked – throughout the entire war! They preferred to engage the enemy at close quarters, using their hardened fists and feet to quickly dispatch their opponents.

A dear friend of mine (Mike Biggs, dec.) who served in Vietnam for three tours with Special Forces (green berets) told me that the best night's sleep he had the whole time was when he stayed in the White Horse Division's fire base. Giggling, he told me that he slept very soundly, knowing that there were no enemy troops with three miles of the place. Both the NVA and VC went to great lengths to avoid the fire bases of these units.

Mike got the chance to watch the Koreans in their early morning drills and taekwondo practice. “It was brutal”, he said. “Anyone who screwed up was kicked in the head by his Lieutenant”, Mike went on. “If they couldn't find any VC to whip, they'd fight each other!” He was more than a little impressed with their hand-to-hand skills.

Some of the members and instructors of these special divisions emigrated to the U.S., where they could make a good living teaching taekwondo. In Korea, martial arts teachers weren't held in high esteem and were near the bottom of the social ladder. Not so in America! The young Americans who trained under these early taekwondo pioneers endured very tough training, but they developed considerable skill. I remember because I knew many of them.

In fact, U.S. military personnel were stationed in Japan and Okinawa as well and many of them took up the study of martial arts. They would return home and open their schools and clubs, and train their students with the same intensity that they had endured. But with the passage of time, things changed considerably. Training became much less intense and focused. What happened?

ANGRY?

 By Phillip Starr

I was mad enough to spit nails...I'd just started the broadsword form that my teacher was teaching me, and I messed up AGAIN in the SAME SPOT! Sifu Chen didn't move. He just stood there, waiting with his arms folded. I shook my head in disgust at my incompetence and said, “I'm sorry. I messed up AGAIN.” As I prepared to start over, sifu walked up and slapped my shoulder with a loud thwack. “Anger...you cannot afford it! It is a luxury!”

For a couple of seconds, I thought that that was a rather strange way of looking at this all-too-common emotion. But like so many things that sifu said which, on the surface, seemed rather odd, it was worth thinking about. Anger is a luxury because it permits us to focus our attention on only one thing; ourselves. Remember the last time your car stalled in traffic, or you got to the checkout counter at the supermarket and found that you'd forgotten your wallet? At times like these, nothing else in the world was on your mind but YOUR immediate problem. Your mind takes a little vacation...

In an actual fight – the kind of situation where that form was intended to be applied (or any of the others I had learned), that kind of self-indulgence could have cost me my life. As a martial arts practitioner, the price I'd have to pay for the luxury of getting angry was much too high. Some believe that anger “pumps us up” and for some simple situations, that may work – like kicking down a door. But in close combat where one must maintain an awareness of distance, timing, the possibility of multiple assailants – anger has no place at all.

Police officers, soldiers, and other such persons whose vocation may cause outbursts of anger are well aware of the consequences of relying on adrenaline-fueled anger to face emergencies. It wastes energy indiscriminately (usually when we need it most), it robs us of self-control precisely when we need to maintain complete control, and it blurs our minds so that we do not accurately see what is before us. As martial arts practitioners, it is an emotion that we cannot afford to indulge.

A SLOW TEN COUNT

 by Phillip “Pete” Starr

I was once reading an article written by a well-known outdoorsman on the basics of wilderness survival. Such subjects do interest me although the odds of me finding myself stranded out in the bush somewhere are pretty slim (I don't get out much, which is why I'm able to write my own articles and books). Anyway, this author suggested that when one is lost or stranded, one should pause long enough to count to a hundred so that the mind is able to relax enough to absorb the situation fully and focus fully on survival. For day to day situations that are stressful, maybe not a full hundred count – usually a good ten-count will do.

A few moments spent occupying the conscious mind with a simple, repetitive job can be very beneficial. And this is a central goal of the Dao (Do in Japanese)...such as the Japanese tea ceremony and Chinese/Japanese calligraphy. When the visitor to the tea hut pauses outside to rinse his mouth and hands from the water basin that is always there, it's a moment for him to clear his mind from the distractions of daily life. When the calligrapher sits and rubs his ink stick against the stone well, mixing the ink with water, he is not just preparing his utensils; he is doing the same thing...calming his thoughts and centering himself.

We “count to ten” in the martial Ways as well although few take advantage of the natural opportunities they have to do so when at the training hall. Although survival in the wilderness is a bit different from survival in the training hall, the time you take to prepare yourself for the rigors of training can be vital. This moment occurs with some frequency but it's not announced as a special event. One of the main ones occurs when you pause to bow.

In China, martial arts classes rarely involve bowing. It is my opinion that they should. Some gong-fu schools in the U.S. have adopted this practice, but it's very rarely seen in China. In Japanese martial Ways, the class bow is not simply a courtesy; the minds of the students are brought to a state of refined concentration. Matters outside of the training hall (or class in general) are put on hold temporarily. What matters is the lesson and training, and the direct experience of facing yourself through attacks and defenses against others, and the practice of form.

Beginners, who are still fumbling with the technical details of movement and technique generally lack the ability to make a strong, potentially harmful technique. If one of them strikes his partner, the harm done (if any) is usually quite minimal. More senior practitioners, however, are more serious and their technique is much stronger. They must be very mindful of what they're doing. The advanced student must more and more enter training with a complete grasp of the seriousness involved and the real possibility of hurting someone or being hurt himself. For him, the bowing and other such rituals should have greater significance.

Within the older Japanese martial arts (especially those intended for the battlefield) the rituals are a bit longer and more intense. There is more intensity to the bow that is much deeper and more concentrated than that found in lower levels or arts that were not developed for warfare. These forms of bowing and ritual take some time to learn and appreciate. In some of them (especially those exercises involving a partner) it is common to see the two participants advance and retreat a few steps before or after bowing. The elaborate nature of this kind of etiquette suggests that such rituals are more than merely quaint anachronisms, as many outsiders often suspect.

Rather, they are a dynamic way of preparing the participant mentally and spiritually for the rigors of the exercise that is to follow. They're a way of “counting to ten.” And although most modern martial arts devotees may not ever experience these arts and their accompanying rituals, he/she should strive to adopt a similar serious and focused attitude when preparing for training.

So, what if the practitioner practices a discipline in which the bow is little more than a quick nod and a slap of the thighs with the hands? Well, as I said earlier, the more serious the art and training, the more important is the ritual. If the practitioner is content to emgage in limited endeavors of sparring and dance routines (which are often all that's taught and learned in some schools), he/she has no need of ritual. But if he/she wants to devote him/her self to the study of a serious martial form which demands confronting the essentials of life and death, then it is inevitable that the mental/spiritual preparations he/she will need to make in his/her training will be as intense as those required for surviving mortal combat.

YOUR OWN WAY

 by Phillip Starr

When you're first learning a particular technique or movement, your instructor very likely says that it HAS to be done just so. And you do your level best to execute it exactly as he has instructed. And so it must be for some time...perhaps years. But even as you do your level best to perform the movement precisely as you were shown, some small aspect of it just doesn't fit well with your body.

You must “find your own way” of doing it. That is not to say that you can or should change the whole thing; you must adhere to the principles upon which that particular technique or movement is based AND you must understand why it must adhere to those principles. Then you must learn to make tiny adjustments so that it “fits” your particular body.

Learning to do this; learning how to perform “your way” while maintaining the fundamental principles of a technique/movement is actually expected of upper-level practitioners of all martial arts. No two human bodies are exactly alike. This is why no two high-level practitioners of a given martial art will perform the same form in exactly the same way. They may be 8^th degree black belts, but when they demonstrate the most fundamental form of the same system, they'll look SLIGHTLY different.

But don't hurry and try to find short-cuts. There aren't any. Your instructor should be able to notice flaws in your movement and bring them to your attention so that you can fine-tune what you're doing. We're all on the same path. Enjoy the scenery along the way.

THE SWORD THAT GIVES LIFE, THE SWORD THAT TAKES LIFE...

 by Phillip Starr

In Japan, old-timers sometimes speak of “setsuninto”; killing swords. Finely wrought and yet cruel, their inmost essence was said to drive their owners mad. Other blades were just as cruelly beautiful but imbued with a spirit that inclined towards the good. They sang in their scabbards to warn of danger; they were bright, beautiful, miraculous things and, in the right hands, could become “katsujinken” (life-giving swords).

In real life, the sword that takes life is also the sword that gives life. What, exactly, does this mean? The world around us often seems chaotic, now serene and peaceful, now unspeakably ruthless and violent. Good and evil, life and death, ebb and flow. There are innumerable pitfalls (some more dangerous and better concealed than others), and although the fauna may appear to be very beautiful, some of it is thorny or poisonous. We like to think that we can exert some measure of control over all of this...life. But the truth is far different. It is the way of nature.

Try as we might, we cannot control it. Attempting to do so often seems to make things even more confusing, less desirable. Nonetheless, this is where we live and struggle to survive. The sword is a tool. Nothing more. Within the training hall, we see the world for what it is – perhaps with greater clarity -and we strive to take the chaos of violence and channel it; we struggle to forge ourselves into people who can bend violence for better purposes. It isn't easy to do this. You all know that. And it is this very struggle that plays a large part in the forging process.

There is no choosing of either peace or violence. Violence will always be with us. So we strive to use it as a tool to polish ourselves...for that which we perceive as good. The sword that takes life IS THE SAME as that which gives life. On the surface, it would appear to be a weapon if violence; a thing that takes life and spills blood. And it is. But it is that very thing that makes it a thing that we can use to forge ourselves into something better.

Just as the gentle hands that caress a lover's face and hold a precious baby are also capable of becoming as sharpened steel; emitting terribly destructive force. The “sword” needn't necessarily be made of steel.