LIKE BAMBOO

      I will not be posting any more articles until Oct. 21st or 22nd.  I will be out of toen and away from my computer due to the passing of my dear friend, Mr. John Morrow.

by Phillip Starr

We've all heard that we must be like bamboo, that we must be flexible; give way before the onslaught of force in the same way that the long, slender boughs of that giant grass flexes in the wind or under a load of snow. This is one the basic precepts of the martial arts and it's appeared in all manner of self-help books (for instance, there is “verbal judo”, wherein one acquires a measure of control over the “opponent” by remaining supple...emotionally and mentally).

The metaphor of “being like bamboo” for both the martial arts and everyday life has become so familiar that it's easy to forget that most people who pen or speak such words have never actually SEEN bamboo as it lives and grows in nature. Not much bamboo is grown in the U.S., so most folks have never had the pleasure of watching it do its stuff – to bend to the wind or snow that piles onto its leaves, causing it bend in a U shape until it sloughs off the white stuff and springs back up again. “Bend like bamboo” can be a rather foreign concept if the only bamboo you've seen has been in the shank of a fly rod.

When I lived in China, I saw many bamboo groves. Do you know that the stuff can grow a noticeable amount every day? The young shoots do...I'd measure them in the morning and again in the early evening. But it was the bamboo of the north that taught me the most. I spent most of my time in southern China where it's warm year-round and it never snows. But I did get up to the north, where snowfall is pretty much consistent with what we get here in the U.S. One winter, there came a fairly heavy snowfall and I ventured down to the park (and parks in China are often huge – several miles in diameter.) where I sat in a cozy little shop and sipped on some warm tea as I watched the white stuff pile up on the leaves of the bamboo. The stalks bent over more and more as if they had some kind of bamboo arthritis and then suddenly, they'd shiver and shrug off the snow, then sway back upright again (kind of like drunk college kids wobbling unsteadily).

You see, there's more to the plant than what you see; its flexibility is only a part of its strength. Its roots are deep, forming a strong network underground and without these tough, deep roots, the stalks would topple easily under the weight of the snow. Its great flexibility is due to its strong roots. I considered...flowing and yielding to the attacks of a strong opponent and snapping back like bamboo just isn't possible without a strong root (and a rootedness in the fundamentals of your chosen art). A master may well be able to improvise with creative flexibility and come up with amazing techniques, but if a less talented practitioner tried it, he'd end up looking like a drunken squirrel. The master has spent years perfecting basic body movements; the wannabe creator of his own combat system will quickly discover that his techniques won't stand up to the pressure of a strong attack unless his roots are sunk deeply into an already well-established method.

It would be nice if more martial arts practitioners could see firsthand the power of the bamboo. They could better understand the lesson that it teaches...flexibility, a true kind of suppleness that allows one to bend and spring back against opposition is merely an illusion unless there are firm, strong roots to anchor it.

LENGFAN

 by Phillip Starr

Sun Lutang (1860-1933), renowned founder of the Sun styles of both baguazhang and taijiquan rose early each morning in Beijing to walk to his baguazhang practice with the famous master, Cheng Tinghua. Upon completing his bagua training for the day, he'd immediately set out to walk to the other side of the city where he'd train in xingyiquan under the tutelage of the legendary Guo Yunshen (the “Divine Crushing Fist”). That must have been a really arduous task; even in those days, Beijing was huge. The foot traffic had to be all but impassable, but he walked the route every day, in the blistering heat of summer and the snowy days of winter.

In 1938, Masutatsu Oyama left Korea (being a native Korean named Choi Young Li, and he would later adopt the Japanese name, Masutatsu Oyama) to apply at the Yamanashi Aviation School. He had high hopes of becoming a pilot but was refused because of his nationality, so he managed to find a menial job driving a small truck through Tokyo in the wee hours of the morning. After studying karate under Gigo Funakoshi at Takushoku University, he went into the wilds of Mt. Minobu in Yamanashi Prefecture where he trained outside of the small hut he'd constructed. Eventually, he stopped living in the run-down structure and when he no longer received supplies of food from a friend who had been bringing them to him regularly, he lived outdoors...even in the winter! He noted that he'd sleep on the snow-packed ground and hunt for berries and other foodstuffs to sustain him during the nearly 3-year period he spent on the mountain. He would go on to found the Kyokushin school of karate.

Morihei Uyeshiba (founder of modern aikido) often allowed his most senior disciples to live in his home and he'd wake up in the middle of the night, having dreamt of a new technique. He'd wake his pupils, who would act as his uke (receiver) although they were still half-asleep and bleary-eyed.

And today...students ignore the aches and pains of daily training, push aside the concerns of a day at work or school, and do their best to resist the urge to settle back onto the couch and watch a movie or settle in with a good book. On certain evenings they venture out to class, where they'll be thrown about and be attacked with a variety of punches and kicks...for reasons that are a little difficult to verbalize. They're bright enough to understand that practicing their chosen art will likely never land them a Hollywood contract, turn them into invincible super-heroes, or enable them to enjoy a wealthy lifestyle. But they endure through the humidity of summer and the ice of winter to continue travelling their path where the reward for suffering through the physical and intellectual maze of technique and form is to have more of the same heaped on. And the further they travel along this path, the more demanding it becomes.

Errors and lapses in attention might be forgiven when they are beginners, but illuminated in a harsh spotlight by their teachers as they progress. And finally, as they approach the level where their teachers have no more to teach or even criticize, they may think their journey is nearing the end. Not so. At this advanced level, the practitioner must turn inward to re-examine his technique and lifestyle to seek out weaknesses, impose upon himself even more hardships, and searching for a level of the Way that is increasingly severe.

This is sometimes referred to as “lengfan” or “eating cold rice.” Unless you eat rice as a part of your regular diet, you may wonder about this expression. Well, the next time you find some leftover rice in the refrigerator, try a mouthful before you warm it back up. You'll probably find it a bit less than palatable. Very different from the freshly steamed variety. Soldiers in the field would eat cold rice because they lacked the equipment and time to heat it. Bachelors are known to garf it down in the morning when there's nothing else available for breakfast. A bowl of cold rice can make us appreciate that even the most blessed and fortunate among us will suffer from time to time. Not every meal will be just as we like it...

Eating cold rice puts eating in a new perspective. If we're hungry, it sustains us. The austere training of the martial will fill our bellies even though it's not as tasty as we'd like. The austerity of practice in the martial Ways is a lot like that...they are disciplines that are stripped of self-indulgences and ego decorations. To follow them requires a certain amount of stoicism and an enduring spirit. The true martial artist doesn't mind cold rice; he sees it as an essential means of improving himself and perfecting his spirit.

He doesn't prefer cold rice, but he accepts it; he knows that true contentment is not gained through acquiring things. If one cannot be happy or content unless they have hot rice (or that new car, or the latest fashionable shoes...), one is probably going to live a very unsatisfied, unhappy life. But if you can be content with the rice – hot or cold – chances are that you'll find contentment in everything life offers.

The masters of days past ate cold rice many times in their lives; they endured and moved forward. Their lives weren't centered on material goals; they'd accepted a different path – one that requires accepting some hardships. Without such a stoic outlook, they'd have learned much less than they did. One well-known author said that all of the valuable lessons he'd learned in life were learned through suffering. So those who have chosen to follow the martial Ways must determine in what direction they want to go. But they must be prepared to eat a bowl of cold rice from time to time...

HAS IT ALL CHANGED?

 By Phillip Starr

How many times have I heard, “That traditional stuff doesn't work in a real street fight!” And all the blather about “reality based” methods, as opposed, I guess, to the methods different from theirs which, I guess, are based on “unreality?” Oddly enough, I've never heard one of these alleged combat authorities explain just WHY they don't work, or if they ever did, just exactly WHEN did they become obsolete...? As nearly as I can determine, many of the critics of the “traditional stuff” believe there was a time in the hazy past when the bad guys fought with perfect reverse punches and side kicks, and the good guys defended themselves with textbook blocks and counter-attacks. These “reality critics” must believe that the “street fight situations” of the past looked much like a modern karate class. When was this?

If we follow the logic of the aforementioned critics, we must suppose that around the mid-1970's (when “full-contact fighting” came into vogue), someone woke up and realized that “real fighting” involved things like head butting, gouging, and multiple attacks. Wow...! How brilliant of these innovators to have discovered this hidden truth and to set out to rectify matters.

It is typical of many people (especially nowadays) – mostly those of adolescent mentality – to believe that nothing really important has happened unless it has been in their lifetimes. Apparently, they believe that until the advent of grappling (using the worn-out adage that “all fights go to the ground”), contact-type combative SPORT fighting arts consisted of dorks attired in pajamas throwing jerky punches and kicks and, of course, “judo chops” at each other. And we'd have to conclude that all these “traditionalists” were either involved in a massive cult-like deception or that the bad guys of the past were just really, really stupid and easily defeated by such methods.

The truth is that people engaged in hand-to-hand fighting – whether on a battlefield or a tavern – tend to go about it in the same way that they always have. Physiologically, we haven't changed much in a rather long time. It's true that culture plays a role in how we fight; I remember when I was a youngster, anyone who kicked in a fight was a “sissy” and striking to the groin was unthinkable (I even saw a WWI hand-to-hand manual that instructed soldiers that such a vicious tactic was to be used only when one's life was at stake!). Nowadays, everyone from citizens to criminals and even police officers are apt to kick an opponent. A schoolboy in old England could expect his foe to accept defeat if his nose was bloodied. City gangs of the 1950's often had elaborate rituals of approaching each other, stalking, and even posturing. Nowadays, such rituals have vanished and business often starts with a drive-by spray of gunfire. Although gang members are often criminals, they aren't stupid (for the most part); they adapted their behavior to meet a change in combat.

But these are actually secondary considerations in most cases; when it comes down to people engaged in personal combat hand-to-hand, we haven't suddenly discovered anything new. This is why it's silly to speak of “traditional” ways of fighting. Rather than comparing “traditional” and “reality” disciplines, it's more appropriate to think of distinctions in APPROACHES to learning to fight. Certainly, there are superior and inferior ways of teaching and learning this skill. The karate/taekwondo/gong-fu school where forms are perceived as a rote exercise, performed robotically and always against an imaginary assailant is NOT engaging in traditional training. More accurately, it is engaged in inferior training, probably led by someone who never learned correctly in the first place and is now passing down his bad habits and training methods to his pupils. The grappling school wherein students immediately go to the mat and students are taught in a haphazard way that doesn't teach fundamentals, always hoping to “find what works” in the heat of the action, isn't really doing anything new or revolutionary. It's just poor training, like tossing someone out of a boat to teach them how to swim.

Oftentimes, what passes for traditional training - even in Japan and China – is no more than a stylized pantomime in too many schools/groups. Just because my gong-fu, karate, or judo doesn't work is no indication that these arts are unrealistic. If I'm doing some diluted form, it's my APPROACH to them that's unrealistic. To believe otherwise is to embrace the crooked logic that these ancient arts have been an enormous fraud; to believe that judo has been little more than 150 year-old delusion. It worked in the past. If it doesn't work now, it isn't because people have learned to fight differently. It's more likely that you're simply not doing it right.

Nearly all the problems we have with martial arts today can be traced back to poor teaching. I'm not necessarily speaking of those teachers who pretending to have skill that they don't really have, or who teach because it fills a need in their egos (although there are plenty of those), but there are also teachers who are honest, well-meaning, and truly dedicated...but they're still poor teachers.

Let me posit this...first, it is very, very difficult to teach the martial ways. Second, there are few who are really qualified to do it. Many of us feel that the martial ways aren't too difficult to learn so long as you have the physical and mental stamina for it. There are many thousand of martial arts schools and clubs around the country with many more thousands of teachers who lead them. The truth, however, is that the authentic martial ways are enormously, dauntingly sophisticated. They are ferociously hard to learn and even harder to teach. Most people just don't get that.

For instance, learning how to perform a proper side thrust kick, hip throw, or wrist twist and understanding their mechanics AS THEY APPLY TO YOU doesn't necessarily mean that you can reproduce it in someone else who's built entirely differently than you. Acquiring the understanding of the technique on a level where you can deal with these situations takes years of training, experience, and insight. In the same sense, being able to execute the technique while practicing in a comfy environment with a cooperative partner is one thing, but learning to do it under more difficult conditions and in conjunction with other techniques is another. Some people have learned because they possess the natural talent to teach themselves. They learn not BECAUSE of the teacher, but IN SPITE of the teacher.

Moreover, the teacher needs to learn more than just how to perform his techniques; he needs to understand the underlying principles of his art so thoroughly that he can see how they are embodied in it's techniques (each one). In this way, he can teach the foundations of the art as a whole instead of in disparate, unconnected techniques. This is really a widespread problem in the martial ways. It's why so many teachers actually just instruct a mishmash of disparate techniques and tactics, hoping to cobble them together in a sort of “best of” collection of the different arts they've learned. They fail to understand that viable fighting arts must be based on coherent principles that organize body and mind in a way that's dependable and capable of being integrated as a whole into the individual.

Imagine, in a crisis, a shooter who's been taught by one instructor to use the weapon's front sight to aim and taught by another how to shoot instinctively. He's going to be confused when the cards are down. The same is true of the martial arts student.

The person who would be a teacher has to climb to a point where his view is sufficiently broad in order to show others how to get where he is and to go beyond. Even with such a teacher, it isn't easy. Without one? No way...

GET UP, SIT DOWN

 by Phillip Starr

When I remind students to “move from your One-Point” (dantien, or tanden in Japanese), I mean ALL the time...including when you sit down or stand up. That includes sitting down on a chair and getting back up as well as kneeling (which the Chinese rarely did although it was once very common in Japan). And there's a good reason for it. It's a safety precaution. And it used to be fairly common in the martial arts community of generations past...

The next time you're in a restaurant or any place where people typically sit down, watch how they do it; most people lean forward, stick their backsides out behind them a bit, and then basically fall the last few inches onto the seat of the chair. They're extremely vulnerable to attack at this time and the martial arts practitioners of the past recognized this...leaning and sticking your head out, making it a tempting and easy target. They're incapable of adequately defending themselves against a surprise attack.

They do the same things when they rise up from the chair; lean forward (making their heads and necks easy targets) and then standing. Their posture is untenable. Moreover, sitting and standing in this way places unnecessary strain on the lower back.

Instead, they should move from the One-Point, lowering themselves straight down from the dantien as they sit, and rising directly upwards from the dantien when they stand. This is much safer. No leaning whatsoever is involved and one can readily defend oneself should the need suddenly arise.

The Japanese use the same idea when kneeling (in seiza) and again when standing up. Watch skilled practitioners of iaido as they kneel down prior to performance of one of the kneeling katas. Turning slightly to the right, they go straight down on the left knee first. This is followed by the right knee, after which they turn forward and sit is seiza. When they get up, the whole process is reversed. They avoid leaning (and thereby offering their necks to imaginary foes who would happily remove their heads with a quick stroke of the three-foot razor blade known as a katana). They stand up...all without leaning and “breaking the posture”, which leaves them momentarily defenseless. Its very efficient and clean.

To sit and stand from the “One-Point” is something that, although it's not particularly difficult to do, requires a good deal of practice. It must become an unconscious habit. The martial arts practitioner isn't being paranoid (as some might think); he's simply moving in the most efficient way, which also happens to foster stability. It also happens to assist him in maintaining a proper posture, from which he can more easily responds to aggression. That's not being paranoid...it's being wise and proactive.

This is shown and explained in my book, MARTIAL ARTS AND THE MIRROR IMAGE )available on Amazon.com).

THE FOUR LEVELS OF APPLICATION

 by Phillip Starr

Back in the day, China didn't have training halls such as those we enjoy in the West. They still don't; most training was and still is, conducted outdoors. And the teachers of those bygone years were very concerned about people hiding in the bushes and watching them teach and practice; they feared that the secrets of their style might be learned by others who might then find ways of defeating them. I'm quite sure that they didn't plan to “spoon-feed” their students; they wanted and expected them to train hard to learn the entire system. Those who were in a hurry or who just didn't want to bother with it weren't worth the trouble of teaching beyond a certain level, anyway.

And so it was that they began to “camouflage” certain techniques in the forms. The veils were several, which I refer to as “levels” of breaking down the information contained in various forms. I'll cover them briefly here:

The first level I call “Obvious” because what you see is exactly what you get. A punch is no more than a punch and a kick is just a kick. Not every technique or posture contains hidden breakdowns and too many people, in their enthusiasm for unveiling these things get carried away and start “seeing a wolf behind every tree.”

The second level I call “Concealed” and it involved hidden joint techniques and/or chokes as well as holding techniques. These can be rather difficult to uncover; an extensive knowledge and understanding of such techniques is necessary. If you're not familiar with a variety of such techniques, you're not likely to spot them.

The third level is the “Mysterious” level and involved hidden takedowns and throws that are concealed within the form(s). Like the previous level, finding them requires familiarity with such techniques.

The fourth level is the “Dark” level, wherein certain types of blows are applied to certain vital points. The points are mapped out in the form. But most forms do not contain this level of information; only a few do. You must learn to “decode” certain movements as you “read” your form.

To find levels 2 and 3 also require that you recognize certain “red flags”; that is, movements that don't seem to make sense in the form. For instance, in the first form of most karate styles as well as taekwondo -heian shodan (some call it ping-an shodan, and Okinawan styles refer to it as ping-an nidan) and known in taekwondo as chon-ji, there are several red flags right out of the gate:

1. You step to the left in a forward stance and do a left low block. RED FLAG!

2. You advance the right foot in a forward stance and execute a right lunge punch. RED FLAG!

3. You pivot on the left foot, moving to the right. The right foot steps around 180 degrees to a forward stance and do a right low block. RED FLAG!

That didn't take long, huh? Why are these movements red flags? Well...

Movement #1: We're usually told that we're blocking a low level attack coming from the left. WHY would you ADVANCE into an attack to block it? If it's a kick, it'll certainly reach you before you get halfway through your step!

Movement #2: We're often told that following the block, we advance to punch the bad guy. Nah. If you're close enough to block, you're much too close to execute a lunging thrust! WAY too close!

Movement #3: We're told that a second bad guy attacks from the rear, so we turn and block his low-level attack. Then I ask, WHY are you stepping the long way around? It'd be much faster and more efficient to cimple reverse your stance, wouldn't it?

Red flags such as these indicate that the movements are not as they seem. To be brief, the first movement isn't a block at all...it's a pre-emptive thrust. The 2nd and 3rd movements show a peculiar throw, not another block and punch.

Forms are replete with such red flags. You must learn to recognize one when you see one, and then work diligently to figure it out (this is why familiarity with various throws and joint manipulations is so necessary). It is also why each movement in a form is to be done exactly so and why, if you don't understand a particular movement, you mustn't just go ahead and change it.

ENJOYING THE MEAL

 by Phillip Starr

Most group activities (such as meetings of almost any kind) in China involve various foods. And the Chinese truly love their native cuisine. It's the same in Japan. Unlike many Western barbarians (I say that with a smile), they take time to truly savor each mouthful while they also appreciate the aroma and even the appearance of the food. So many of us slug down our food with such zest that we often miss many of the subtleties, which add so much to the meal.

It is often the same in our martial arts practice; we tend to gobble down the meal without taking time to experience every part of it. While visiting Japan with my senior student, Hiro Misawa ( a guide of inestimatable value), we stopped in at a local sushi restaurant just a few blocks from the room where I was staying. It was a traditional eatery and Hiro started us off with two bowls of miso soup. Before I tried it, he told me that the cook had used a very subtle fish stock to cook the dish and I tried a spoonful. Instead of simply gulping down the soup as is my wont, I took time to gently savor it. Yes, the hint of fish was there; it was veiled and delicate rather than overbearing... I very much enjoyed this special soup.

It has occurred to me that this should be done with our techniques and especially, our forms. If we simply go crashing through them with hurried enthusiasm (what my teacher called “youthful enthusiasm”), we miss out on so much that is shrouded and difficult to see or feel. Such seemingly nebulous details will, once experienced, add so much to the technique or form! That which we once regarded as rather bland suddenly becomes a magnificent feast!

Go back to your first form, your first technique and taste it again. Savor it carefully and look for subtle flavors.