WHATEVER HAPPENED TO KUATSU?

 By Phillip Starr

When I was a fledgling martial arts student, I recall my kung-fu instructor teaching me and my classmates forms of Chinese first-aid (called “jijiu” 急救) that were to be applied if any of us should inadvertently injure each other. Needless to say, these special techniques could also be of great value in daily life as well. And when I undertook the study of Japanese karate, I learned kuatsu (aka. “kappo”), which are emergency methods of “resuscitating” a training partner who had been struck too hard.

By the time I was in my late teens, most martial arts schools had discontinued this kind of training. The “first-aid” techniques that I witnessed in the tournaments of those days bordered on the brutal or just plain silly and ineffective. I took it upon myself to administer these ancient forms of first-aid to competitors who had been injured and many instructors would ask me where I'd learned these techniques.

I considered the importance of students learning these special forms of first-aid as well as more modern techniques in the training hall and began to require them on examinations. I still do. It's just one more item on a long list of things that have been brushed aside in the rush to acquire skill in punching and kicking. But I still recall my teacher's words; he told me that healing and hurting are two sides of the same coin. If you learn only one, you have but half an art...and he was absolutely right.

WHAT WILL YOU DO WITH ONE CORNER?

 By Phillip Starr

I was recently reading about a young man’s first visit to Japan. He had trained in iaijutsu and kenjutsu for several years with a Japanese instructor who had come to the U.S. as a college professor. The young American had traveled to Japan to spend time with his sensei and to immerse himself in the country from which his chosen martial disciplines had originated.

When he arrived in Japan, the young American took some time to take in the sights and he was given the opportunity to visit an iaido dojo in a rather small Japanese town. The dojo was run by a hachidan (8th dan, of which there are only a few) who asked him to perform the first basic kata known as “mae.”

The American felt that he had done an adequate job but the headmaster thought differently. He told his guest to work on one particular movement of the kata – it was a bit rough and needed polish. They exchanged bows and the American prepared to repeat the kata.

He gave it his very best but when he finished it he noticed that the headmaster was on the other side of the dojo, giving instruction to another student. What happened next actually showed what this American was made of; it showed his heart.

He continued to practice the kata (which he had practiced for many years as it’s the very first kata taught to beginning iaido students) until he was soaked with sweat. After more than an hour’s worth of repeating the same fundamental kata, one of the senior students walked up and told him to perform the second kata! The American noticed that the headmaster was standing with his arms folded on the other end of the dojo, watching him.

And so it went for the ten “seitei” katas. The American could barely get undressed and walk back to the house where he was staying. His legs were exhausted and he could barely lift his shoulders. But he was back in training the next day.

Now, I often walk away from my students while they are working on a particular form or technique – just to see what they’ll do. Most of them will continue to practice what they were told. A few will walk over to me to ask what they should do and some (yes, it happens with black belts, too) discontinue practicing as they begin to talk and socialize with their classmates.

Confucius said that if a teacher shows the student one corner, the student should be able to find the other three. If he cannot (or will not), then the teacher should leave him alone because he’s simply a waste of time.

My teacher would sometimes show us a particular technique or an aspect of a technique or form and then see what we did with it. Most of my classmates promptly forgot whatever it was that he’d shown them. They didn’t practice it on their own time and their performance didn’t improve. They were not shown any of the deeper aspects of the art because such things require a great deal of practice at home and he knew they’d never meet that requirement.

A few of the others would “fool around” with what they had been shown; they didn’t put in much time on their own and they’d often ask Sifu Chen if they were doing it right, and so on. Again, they received none of the deeper instruction because there was simply no point in it.

Very, very few actually trained regularly (and vigorously) at home with the material they had been shown. But our teacher was watching…always watching. He’d smile and laugh with us but he was always watching and evaluating. And in the end, very few students qualified (in his mind) to learn the real kung-fu.

Which group do you fall into?

THE TORCH IS PASSED

 by Phillip Starr

November 8th of 2008 may have passed by quietly for most people but for the world's martial arts community it marked a very significant event. Hidetaka Nishiyama, 10th dan and one of the greatest karate masters of our time, passed away. A direct student of Gichin Funakoshi, who introduced karate to Japan from Okinawa, Nishiyama was instrumental in the formation of the JKA (Japan Karate Association). He was the first person to write a book on karate in English and developed and chaired JKA International after moving to Los Angeles back in the 1960's. Later on, he formed the International Traditional Karate Federation and was ultimately named a "National Treasure" by the Emperor of Japan. He was a legend in his own time and his contributions to the art of karate are truly immeasurable.

For some years now, my students have had to put up with me telling and re-telling the following story but I feel that it must be repeated one more time. It took place back in the mid- 1980's in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, where I had opened a full-time kung-fu school. The head of the Iowa branch of the JKA and I had become close friends. Mr. Chris Smaby had studied under master K. Enoeda in England and was presently one of master Nishiyama's senior instructors. Chris had arranged for his current teacher to come to Cedar Rapids and spend a weekend teaching seminars on the mechanics of karate.

And so it was that I found myself seated at a dinner table with Chris and the legendary karate master who had deeply impressed me with his profound understanding of the principles of human movement and his remarkable physical skills. In fact, I was sitting right next to him and I found him to be very amiable and easy to talk to. The three of us shared "war stories" and compared our ideas regarding the development and the future of martial arts.

Just two weeks prior to master Nishiyama's visit, another good friend of mine had come to Cedar Rapids. Seiyu Oyata, a 10th dan in Okinawan karate who was in high demand to teach seminars around the United States, had shown up unexpectedly on my doorstep with two of his senior students. He simply wanted to pay me a visit and teach me a bit more about genuine karate. During that weekend we also discussed the current problems and the uncertain future of authentic karate.

I told master Nishiyama that master Oyata had lamented the decline of true karate in his homeland. As he saw it, the problem was that young people in Okinawa were no longer interested in studying traditional karate. They didn't want to sweat, strain, and put in the long, painful hours of training that karate demands. Instead, they wanted to be more like American teenagers. Nishiyama nodded his head slowly, indicating that he understood the problem only too well.

I had been to China only a few years earlier and had seen what passed for Chinese martial arts there. I was not at all impressed. Mr. Zhang was the head coach of one of the Provincial Wushu Teams (Zhang is not his real name but I prefer not to use his actual name for obvious reasons). Zhang, who had also trained in a traditional form of kung-fu for many years, told me that real martial arts were almost non-existent in modern China. Like Oyata, he complained that the young people weren't interested in learning traditional kung-fu. Instead, they preferred to model themselves after Westerners - or how they perceived Westerners.

Both Oyata and Zhang told me that their respective traditional arts had been transplanted in the West. It was, they insisted, the only way that these arts could survive. Had these arts not been taken to the Occident, they would have surely died out. It was a very sad state of affairs. What, I asked, was the "state of the arts" in Japan? Was it any better than in Okinawa or China? Master Nishiyama looked down and sighed. It was, he said, no better than China or Okinawa. Then he looked up and said, "My generation is retiring or dying out. Soon we will all be gone..."

He pointed at each of us with his forefinger. "You are the next generation of Nishiyamas, Oyatas, and Zhangs. The future of karate and kung-fu lies in your hands. You can preserve them or you can destroy them; it's your choice. But if you allow them to be destroyed, they will never come back. It took too long to develop them in the first place."

I felt a shiver run up my spine as I realized the truth of his words.

"You have been given a great gift and a great responsibility", he said. "So, remember what I have told you because there isn't much time left for you to prepare yourselves."

Three of the finest martial arts masters in the world had all said the same thing. Their arts had been transplanted in the West and it would be our responsibility to nurture this unique garden, lest the beautiful martial fauna of it shrivel and die out forever. I don't know about the other instructors who were seated at that table, but I shuddered at the thought of having to shoulder such tremendous responsibility. And I knew that although most of us would go home and tuck Nishiyama's words back into the furthest corners of our memories, we could not prevent the inevitable. Sooner or later, our time would come and it would be up to us to preserve the arts to which we had devoted our lives.

On November 8th of 2008, the torch was passed.

THE SECRET OF TRAINING

 by Phillip Starr

One day as the revered zen master, Dokuon, was idly smoking his long bamboo pipe, he was approached by Tesshu, a well-known samurai who had been studying zen for some time. "I have finally grasped the essence of kara," Tessuhu exclaimed. "I am now empty." And the swordsman went on to explain how the universe is empty, about there being no difference between subjective and objective, and so on.

Dokuon listened quietly for a short time and then suddenly smacked Tesshu on the forehead with his pipe. Tesshu was outraged and jumped to his feet. "That hurt, you stupid old fool!" he snarled. "I could cut you down for doing that!"

"My, my," Dokuon said quietly. "This emptiness is certainly quick to show anger, isn't it?"

Tesshu smiled sheepishly, hung his head, and crept away silently.

Endless repetitions of reverse punches, side thrust kicks, front snap kicks, back fists....Trying to memorize those cursed forms, trying to understand what they mean, their spirit...perfecting footwork, stances, timing, breathing. SO much to remember and SO MUCH to practice! Sifu/Sensei says that it'll come naturally someday but how far off is that??? Look here, pay attention to that, don't think of this, focus your mind over here...where does it all end? All these techniques and movements...do they really work? What's all of this about, anyway?

I'm sure these thoughts have run through your head many, many times and they'll continue to do so for some time. It's a natural part of the learning process.

And for all the repetitions of various techniques, the constant polishing of timing, the striving for perfection in footwork and forms, it all really boils down to training one thing.

Your mind.

The mind perceives what's going on outside of itself through brain's utilization of the five senses. It responds via the body, so your body must be trained to do exactly what the mind commands.

At the same time, the mind has to be sharpened and polished. It has to be trained to perceive instantly and clearly. This process will necessarily involve some pretty frightening concepts - like letting go of attachments that are or will interfere with its ability to see and react clearly and without hesitation. "That doesn't sound too awfully difficult," you say. "What could be so scary about letting go of certain attachments?"

Well, there's the natural attachment to life; to your own safety and survival. If you engage one or more opponents in a life and death struggle, how can you focus 100% of your attention on them if you're worried about your own survival? You'll always keep a part of your focus on yourself; a part of your yi (intention, mind) and chi/ki remains withdrawn and cannot be extended towards the enemy (or whatever threat it is that you face). You are unable to fully commit yourself at the moment of truth. You may hesitate and suffer the fate that you fear.

You only maintain your attachment to survival if you maintain a fear of death. So, you must come to grips with death - understand and accept it, and then discard all of your concerns about it.

This is what training is ultimately about. You must free your mind as you train your body so that your mind can express itself freely and without the slightest hesitation. Then and only then are you truly free to move through life boldly and experience it without fear.

I can already hear some of you asking, "How do I do this? How do I train my mind in this way? Should I practice meditation, study books on the subject...what should I do?"

The answer is simple but it's probably not what you want to hear. No, meditation won't necessarily achieve it. Intellectual endeavors almost certainly won't help you achieve it. I know of only one thing that will bring success...

Incessant training. Rigorous, spirited, unrelenting. It is without end. As Musashi Miyamoto, Japan's "sword saint" told us, "The Way is in training."

THE REAL THING

 by Phillip Starr

When I first took up the study of martial arts I believed that the peculiar forms of punching, striking, and kicking contained some special force, a kind of "magic" (for want of a better word) that would enable me to knock the largest adversary flat on his butt. You have to admit that the forms of punching as they are demonstrated in the various forms of karate and kung-fu are a little strange and not at all like the knee-jerk, "natural" form of haymaker that most people would throw if they were engaged in a scuffle.

I'm convinced that my first teachers believed in that same magic because they never mentioned things like, "using the whole body as a fist" or "striking with the force of the entire body."

Needless to say, I found out in pretty short order that the peculiar punches, strikes, and kicks bestowed no mystical power on me. Being a very slow learner, I suffered many beatings before I had to admit that something was amiss. But what? What could be missing? Surely, there was more to these arts than I could see.

It was my primary kung-fu teacher, Master W. C. Chen, who opened my eyes. "You are relying on using your strength," he said. "And you are too small to exert much strength. You are fast but you have no real power. You hit only with your arm or leg. A strong enemy can overcome your technique easily."

And so it was that I began learning REAL martial art. It began with the horse-riding stance (ma bu) and then the bow and arrow stance (gong bu), cat stance (ding bu), and several others. "Strength begins in the legs," Chen told me. "If your legs are weak you cannot get (generate) real power. If you cannot stand, you cannot walk. If you cannot walk, you cannot run. So, first you must learn to stand. Just stand."

Once my "foothold" was firm, I learned how to move my body to generate power. This was done via six forms of body movement (which are known as the "six body actions" in Yiliquan - and which have since been expanded to "eight body actions"). So, Chen first emphasized the foothold. The next step involved learning basic technique and the third step included learning to apply the foothold (root) and technique via the six body actions. This was what Chen called "quan (chuan) shu", which means, "fist art" and refers to the (outer) form of martial art. It is what is easily seen, what is often admired by the public, and it is only the first stage of true skill.

Most modern martial arts adepts aspire only to learn the "quan shu" and once they have developed skill in it, they feel that they have reached the pinnacle of martial prowess. But they are wrong. All they have done is acquired skill in the outer shell (wai zhuang) of the art. They have yet to examine the meat of the matter.

Once the pupil has trained in the wai zhuang to develop quan shu (and this absolutely MUST be done correctly), he or she is then ready to begin practicing the nei zhuang (internal power) of the art. It is presented in stages. In Yiliquan (the art that I teach), students may, even during the wai zhuang training, begin to learn and practice some of the nei zhuang gong (special conditioning exercises intended to strengthen, stretch, and toughen the unseen internal tissues that are utilized in generating real internal force) and the so-called "engaging" exercises, in which intrinsic force "inflates" the internal tissues.

Only after the internal tissues have been properly conditioned and trained to "engage" can the student begin to learn the panjaozhang gong (hand/arm coiling exercises and power) and eventually the special qipanjao (energy/breath coiling) techniques, which are practiced in stages:

1. Standing, Big Frame Coils

2. Moving, Big Frame Coils

3. Standing, condense the coils to make them Small Frame Coils

4. Moving, ditto

Only through the application of these "coils" can true fajin be generated.

It is my contention that the original forms of karate, which developed largely from southern forms of Chinese boxing, contained all of this information and it is still hidden within some of their kata (forms).

The small, unseen tissues (ligaments, fascia, and so forth) not only of the arms, waist, and legs, but the torso as well, must be properly employed in the correct sequence and to put this down in writing would be extremely difficult. Besides, I fear that there would be those who might try to learn the nei zhuang from such writings and that is simply impossible.

Even in my own training hall, it is necessary for students to place their hands on my body and actually feel what is going on inside as the coiling technique is applied and fajin is generated. Only then can they really begin to understand it. Incorrect practice can lead not only to simple failure; it can result in very real damage to internal tissues.

Too often, students hear about the nei zhuang and get in a hurry to learn it. This is foolhardy since the development of proper wai zhuang is essential before moving into the realms of nei zhuang. Nowadays, there are teachers (including Chinese!) who assure their students that they can begin the nei zhuang even in the early stages of their training but be assured that this is intended only to fatten the purse of the teacher at the risk of injuring or, at the very least, discouraging the hapless pupil who doesn't understand why he "just can't get it."

Even in the "old days", real "kung-fu" (also, "gongfu") was very rare. It still is.

THE MISSING INGREDIENT

 by Phillip Starr

*Excerpts from “Martial Maneuvers” by the author.

My first encounter with what is known as “zanshin” (残心) occurred back in the days when I studied Kyokushin karate. I would complete my kata and my instructor would shake his head and say, “No. Your kata is wrong. There was no zanshin.” When I asked him what that meant he told me that at the end of the form I should maintain and, in fact, extend my fighting spirit as if other opponents might be waiting in the shadows for me to let down my guard so they could quickly attack me. He told me that I should maintain my guard, my spirit, for a few seconds after completion of the kata, imagining that other assailants might be hiding nearby.

When I undertook the study of kung-fu under the tutelage of Master W.C. Chen, I was reminded of this same idea although it had no formal name. Sifu Chen emphasized the importance of beginning each form with the same feeling, that numerous opponents were encircling me. I was to breathe down to my dantien (tanden) and place my spirit there and wait to see which aggressor attacked first.

I was to VISUALIZE these opponents and that required considerable effort. However, once I got the hang of it I discovered that it was an excellent training tool. Any form, whether it is a karate kata, a taijiquan or shaolinquan form, is EMPTY if there is no spirit in it. It's like a doughnut; there's nothing in the middle to give it strength. No zanshin.

Zanshin (which is actually “shengxin” in Chinese) is comprised of two character. The first, “zan”, means “remaining, left over.” The second character, “shin” means “heart.” In this case, shin doesn't refer to the actual organ itself, but to its essence. In traditional Chinese medicine it is felt that the heart is the seat of the emotions and the spirit (as in “fighting spirit”). Put the two together and you have “remaining spirit.”

When I first began to study Japanese kenjutsu and iaido I encountered another feature of this concept. I was informed that zanshin was to be exercised BEFORE the beginning of the kata. I realized then that this powerful mental and spiritual technique should be applied BEFORE assuming the posture we refer to as “commencement.”

Only then did I fully understand the importance of zanshin and how it is to be practiced in all of the martial ways. Whether one if practicing a form or an individual technique, zanshin is to be maintained from the moment one begins until after one has completed the exercise. To do otherwise is to “play” at a sort of mental and spiritual gymnastic exercise, and martial arts is not play. It is to be practiced with deadly seriousness, intention, and FEELING. If the proper feeling isn't there, one is simply exercising rather than training.

It is unfortunate that today's Chinese martial arts practitioners don't even suspect what zanshin (shengxin) is. When told about it, most will simply look rather confused. Others will say that it is a Japanese concept and has no place in the practice of kung-fu. It is this kind of narrow-mindedness that has brought the neijia to a standstill.

In feudal times the practice of zanshin was of paramount importance. If two warriors met on the field of battle, they both extended their spirits to feel the spirit of the other. The slightest distraction, the smallest fear, crack, or flaw in the shengxin of the opponent would result in instantaneous attack! In less than a second, it was over.

Soldiers in our modern military can readily understand this concept. As they prepare to enter hostile territory they prepare themselves both physically and mentally. They achieve a state of shengxin long before the fighting commences. As they move through the area, their zanshin must be very strong. When they move through the battle zone, they must maintain strong zanshin. When the area is declared clear of enemy activity, they would do well to maintain their zanshin for a time.

Modern-day police officers are also familiar with this condition. When an officer approaches a given situation she achieves shengxin immediately. Her senses are on full alert and she is literally prepared for anything. If and when she takes a bad guy down and brings him under control, she must maintain shengxin in case the creep has friends nearby, waiting for her to relax her guard.

Martial arts practitioners who survived repeated encounters of this sort passed down their art to their students. Through the generations this information has been maintained and the concept and practice of zanshin is one of the most important features. Without this training, we are told, defeat is certain. It is not simply a state of mind that one learns to imitate; it is a very real power, A FORCE ALL ITS OWN, and it must be mastered if one is to truly understand one's art.

Modern combat shooting schools have developed a scale of ascending mental states that are comparable to zanshin:

• CONDITION WHITE: No possibility of threat. Completely relaxed. This condition is permitted only during sleep.

• CONDITION YELLOW: There is the possibility of danger. Senses alert, but somewhat relaxed. If you're awake; if you're taking a shower, shaving, walking your dog...doing whatever...you must maintain this condition.

• CONDITION ORANGE: Danger imminent. Senses on full alert. Zanshin on full alert status.

• CONDITION RED: Danger immediate and present. Hostilities have commenced. Everything goes on full-tilt boogie.

When you stand up to execute your form, you should be in Condition Orange. This occurs before Commencement! Just before the first movement, you go into Condition Red. Hostilities begin and you engage in mortal combat. When the fight is over you do not relax completely; you slowly drop down to Condition Orange, execute the Conclusion (closing) of the form, and then go to Condition Yellow (your normal waking condition) before relaxing and sitting down.

Non-warriors live their lives in Condition White, oblivious to danger until it is too late. The warrior knows that the world can be a very hostile, dangerous place and he learns to live in a constant state of zanshin. Some of the best-known warriors of the past even trained themselves to maintain this condition while sleeping!

So next time you practice your form, exercise your basic techniques, or train with a partner in the various fighting drills, make sure that you maintain a strong zanshin. It isn't as easy to develop as you might think. It requires a great deal of training and must be exercised regularly.