A SQUIRRELY APPROACH TO MARTIAL ARTS

 by Phillip Starr

Xunzi (aka. Hsun-tzu) was a Chinese Confucian philosopher who lived during the Warring States period and contributed to the Hundred Schools of Thought. A book known as the Xunzi is traditionally attributed to him. Known for his unique writing style, he typically compares humans to squirrels. “The squirrel can do five things”, he wrote. “it can climb a tree, swim, dig a hole, jump, and run. All these are within its capabilities, yet it does none well.” Actually, I'd argue that they do climb trees quite skillfully, but it’s true they they're not particularly skilled at much else.

It sounds as if the sage was giving advice to those who set out to follow the Martial Way or other related ways such as tea ceremony, calligraphy, and so on. We can compare what he said to the writing of C.W. Nicole's cult classic book, “Moving Zen”; Karate As A Way To Gentleness” (which I highly recommend) where he talks about his frustration when he initially took up the study of karate. He was already deeply engaged in practicing judo and soon found himself constantly exhausted and having trouble recovering from minor injuries. He was told that “A hunter who chases two rabbits will come home empty-handed.”

Now, some instructors like to use Nicole's words when their students inquire about adding to their understanding by taking up the study of another art. I think sometimes they're being sincere, but at other times they're worried about losing students who find that they prefer the training offered in another style. So, is it true that if we extend our training efforts in different directions, we'll miss our target? Will we become like the squirrel...fairly skilled in a number of endeavors but master of none?

One answer to his question might be found in the writings of Kanze Zeami, a 16^th century master of the ancient Noh theater of Japan, its first great figure, and the founder of a school of Noh drama that continues even today with one of his descendants serving as its headmaster. Except for extremely rare occasions, if you want to see Noh, you must go to Japan. Be glad that learning Noh didn't appeal to you; otherwise, you'd have to pack your bag and head across the pond!

Many Japanese martial artists were big fans on Noh, looking into its methods of movement, timing, and spacing – all things that were vital to their own practice. Zeami notes that aspiring Noh actors often faced the same dilemma; they'd strive to improve one aspect of their skill and end up being just mediocre in all of them. Zeami wrote, “As the result of persistent training, untutored style will develop into greater artistry, constantly improving until, before he knows it, the performer has reached a level of versatility and exactness. If his training is comprehensive and he expands his art in versatility and magnitude until he attains full competence, he will find himself at the level of the flower of truth.”

At first the many facets of Noh performance will seem dissimilar to the novice. The chanting and difficult movements don't seem to be interconnected, at least not in his mind. It's the same with the breakfalls of judo, the body shifting of aikido or kendo, and so on, They all seem like unrelated concepts. Zeami suggests that “persistant training” must be focused on the fundamentals, which will bring the student to a high level of competence. But it's not over.

Nicole noted that after acquiring “versatility and exactness” in his karate, he went on to take up iaido and later, jodo (using the 4 ft. stick against a sword). He was following Zeami's advice, expanding his skill “in versatility and magnitude.” Using lessons from one Way assist in acquiring an understanding of aspects of another. One noted author discovered that learning the etiquette of the tea ceremony taught him a trick for moving rapidly in the practice of aikido's “seated techniques.” A senior karateka found that the way of placing his hands on the floor during that tea ceremony made clear the position in which he had to keep his hands when he had to come off the ground in an advanced karate kata. And it was from a practitioner of Japanese dance that he learned to improve the stepping and turning motions used in another form.

Look to increase the depth and breadth of your martial skills by increasing the depth and breadth of your exploration into the culture and thinking of the land from which your art comes. You'll find that all of the art are interconnected and that all of them can be instrumental for attaining the “flower of truth.”

THE REAL TEST

 by Phillip Starr

The Japanese word for “tournament” is “shiai.” It is comprised of two radicals, the first of which is “shi” (试). In Chinese it is also “shi”, which is pronounced very differently in Pinyin. It means “test.” The second radical, “ai” in Japanese and “he” in Chinese (合) means, roughly, “join, together.” So, the original forms of shiai were placed wherein participants could test themselves. With the passage of time this has changed, even in Japan. This concept never really caught on in the West where the sole objective of such an event is to WIN. There's a considerable difference.

In the misty past when I used to compete, I tended to regard these contests as learning experiences and I must say that I learned a lot from them. Mostly about myself. Sure, I chased trophies for awhile but I quickly matured beyond that. And I would test myself, finding out where my weaknesses were and where I needed improvement.

I never had time for the type of behavior that we see all too often nowadays, with the winner of an event jumping up and down, raising his arms and fists in the air. And I met some rather curious individuals along the way during those years... For instance, there were those who regarded themselves as just “too dangerous” for competition. Being the impish type, I'd sometimes taunt them with remarks like, “Well, let's see how dangerous you really are! C'mon, join the fun!” Of course, they never did.

I recall a young martial arts practitioner who was the golden child of the martial arts media and even Hollywood. In an interview with one of the magazines of the day, he was asked why he never entered competitions. His response? “I'm just too dangerous.” And you know what I think of people who respond with such statements...

Then were the alleged “national champions” I met who were from foreign eastern nations. I noted one such individual who was attired in a 3-piece suit that cost more than I made in six months, and platform heels. He was strutting about, watching the action and making sure that his hair was just so. I told you I was rather impish...so I sauntered up to him and asked if he was planning to compete. He acted as if I'd just slapped him in the face as he shot back his reply, “No! I'm a XXXXX (name of nation) national champion!” I smiled and said, “Well, this isn't XXXX. This is America; the most competitive country on earth. If you can be a champion here, you can be a champion anywhere! So how about giving it a shot?” He snorted loudly as if I'd just sneezed on him and strutted off.

Many practitioners had egos so huge that they dared no test themselves, lest the result be considerably less than what they expected. Unfortunately, most tournaments nowadays have become little more than semi-gymnastic displays of baton-twirling, flip kicks, and taps on the head. I hope that someday we can bring them back to their original intended purpose... to test ourselves.

NOW WHAT?

 By Phillip Starr

“What got you started in the martial arts?” Every martial arts practitioner is eventually asked this question although the arts have been around in this country for more than half a century. Even many universities have karate, judo, aikido, taekwondo, and even kendo clubs on campus and youngsters enrolling in classes is no more unusual than signing up for Little League. Even so, it's a bit unusual and people are sometimes curious about what drew you to such arcane, foreign arts.

One of the main reasons, no matter how we try to explain it away, is fear. We're afraid of threats we've received, of handling stressful situations, of violence itself, of our inadequacies, of “aging.” Once we enter class, we are confronted by our fears directly. If I'd been previously worried about getting thrashed, I'm now in a place where any number of people really CAN do that. Sitting at home on my couch, I may have been able to convince myself that I'm about as tough as the next guy but by now, I know better. And a good teacher recognizes the element of fear as a motivation for beginners.

Sadly, there are some – too many – who never let themselves reach that stage. Such people are rarely happy people. Or mature. Children worry about their self-image and their ability to compete. Most of them grow out of this. Some don't and frankly, there's something a bit sad about a middle-aged man who gets up every morning, looks in the mirror, and wonders if he's still the toughest kid on the block.

NOT LOOKING, JUST SEEING

 by Phillip Starr

Ancient warriors who survived numerous conflicts wrote that “the eyes must take in everything and nothing.” Many left instructions as to where one's gaze should be directed; some are rather practical while others seem rather mysterious or obscure. But these are concerned with the fixing of the gaze in combat as it relates to martial strategy. What about what is known as “kan kan shiqing”...the ways that we look at things in daily life?

In daily life, training, working, and relating to others as we pass through this world, we strive to adopt the proper way of looking at things. “To look into things” has a special significance to artisans of all kinds (not just martial arts practitioners). When a potter examines a ceramic bowl, he looks at the glaze on it and the outer form of the bowl, as would anyone else...but as an artist, he looks deeper. He sees into the essence of the bowl. One famous ancient potter said that when he held a bowl he could “see its inner formation and see, too, the character and shape of the individual who made it.” He was talking about “seeing INTO” rather than simply “looking at.”

Traditionally, students of an art or Way rarely look directly AT the lesson being taught to them. Trainees may lower their gaze slightly or focus their vision at a place just past where the action is. Some schools encourage students to watch what's going on from “sanpaku” (meaning “one-third white”), which refers to positioning one's head so that it is very slightly tilted down such that the bottom third of the eyeball – the white beneath the iris – is showing,

It sounds pretty silly and impractical; after all, if we want to learn a technique, we have to watch how it's done. But remember, we're talking about seeing into rather than looking at. Next time you're recovering from an injury or illness and unable to jump into class, go anyway and watch how others learn. You'll learn quite a lot when you see how they respond to new material when it is presented to them. Most of them are looking AT but they don't see IN.

For instance, in learning how to do a particular kick, they look AT it and see the foot shoot out where it would strike the intended target but they often miss key points; when the instructor shifts his weight, exactly where was his kicking knee directed, how did his hip(s) move...and so on. So they set about clumsily trying to imitate it. Much later, they will see into it and focus on specific points and then put it all together, They will see more than just a foot kicking out or just disparate parts of a kick; they'll appreciate it as a complete technique.

Focusing directly on an object tends to localize our perception, reinforcing previously formed judgements. One reason why beginners kick so awkwardly is that their only other likely exposure to kicking is in kicking something like a ball. They fail to grasp all that's involved in the performance of a proper front kick. It's similar to the fellow who looks at a tea bowl and concludes, “Huh...damned poor beer mug.” He's not seeing the tea bowl. He sees only a drinking implement that fails to measure up his narrow standards.

Seeing INTO goes far beyond observing simple objects or movements. A spouse snaps at her husband, who beats a hasty retreat to avoid the unpleasantness without pausing to try to see into the reason for her anger. A young man listens to his grandfather's stories, never stopping to consider that such stories are a great source of wisdom for him. A gong-fu student attends class week after week, month after month, never stopping to consider that his art is anything more than a sophisticated form of hand-to-hand fighting. The world is full of people who are perfectly happy looking only at the surface of things. But the aspiring martial arts practitioner must keep his eyes open to the path – the Way – set before him. Every. Day. Not just a glance now and then, but a long, deep look INTO things.

MARTIAL ARTS AND LEGOS

 by Yang Shuangxing

“We're traditionalists and we don't ever change anything in our art.” For many people, this kind of statement is considered a worthy, even a noble sentiment. For others, such statements are the epitome of “stuck in the mud” mentality.

Arguments ensue. It's hard to say who's right. I tend to look at it in the same way that I look at LEGOS... If you're a parent or a younger person, you're probably familiar with them. Those God-cursed little bricks can be found scattered all over the floors of many homes and the number and varieties of LEGO pieces is truly amazing. My litte boy loved them and we'd build all kinds of houses, cars, towers...you name it. The company also sells kits that comes with excellent instructions for building a LEGO world. From the Eiffel Tower to helicopters, batmobiles, and submarines...some kits contains as many as four or five THOUSAND pieces, all of which are to be assembled according to precise, multi-page instruction booklets, into those pirate ships or the Taj Mahal. You'd think that with so many pieces, you'd eventually purchase one that's missing a couple of bricks. I'd open the instruction booklet and worry that one piece would be missing. But I never ran into this problem! There are probably microchip manufacturers that don't match up to LEGO'S quality control...

I think LEGOS are a good metaphor for “traditionalism” in the martial arts. Like the kits, the arts that have withstood the test of time are remarkably complete. If all of the parts of an art aren't present, it's likely the fault of the teacher who didn't completely learn all aspects of the art before trying to teach it. This, more than any other factor, is what's dysfunctional in the bulk of the martial arts of today, worldwide. If you follow the “instruction manual”, you can assemble what a given art intends to be built. Simple? Well...if you've bought a LEGO spaceship kit, you're going to have problems building a skyscraper.

The “eclectic” variations of martial arts could be compared to the LEGO spin-offs that look like LEGOS...but they don't fit well with LEGO pieces at all. It's pretty tough to build anything meaningful if you mix pieces of the two.

One fellow I met a while back said he was going to take up aikido because he wanted to be able to handle multiple armed aggressors. I doubt he came up with this idea after talking to a competent aikido teacher; it's more likely that he watched a cute action movie. I think most aikido teachers would suggest that he look elsewhere. In effect, he was thinking of picking up a LEGO kit, planning to build a race car but failed to see that it was for making a helicopter. So he's going to be disappointed in the aikido school but that's not the fault of the school, is it?

Another aspect of LEGOS is that once you've learned how the pieces fit together, you can begin to adapt them. You can build structures other than the ones advertised on the box. While the potential for creating various structures with LEGOS is very large, it isn't limitless. For instance, you'll never successfully construct a working barbecue grill. And although the martial ways have a very broad spectrum, they cannot be expanded infinitely; if you're wanting to learn an art that will enable you to dodge bullets, fly through the air (without anyone else's help), or become immortal, you're out of ruck. The martial ways aren't magic. They won't solve your personal problems or make you fearless. They have limitations. But their capacities are so remarkable that most of us will spend the rest of our lives studying them.

“Tradition”, as we speak of it in the martial ways, exists only when it is passed down. A suit of armor in a museum isn't a “tradition”; it plays a part in tradition only when it is used from one generation to the next. The same is true for martial arts. They aren't “traditional” if they're not transmitted; they're dead...or at best, a stuffed taxidermy exhibit. And it is our insight into the art, fortified correctly through years of arduous training in the fundamentals, that allows us to better interpret our arts. Those who follow a traditional path don't do it for the sake of tradition itself; rather, tradition is a means to an end. Tradition depends on the continued contributions of of personal insight into the art. Conversely, those insights are meaningless if they're not grounded in the established traditions of the art. It's a cycle.

The idea that tradition and personal insight and interpretation are mutually exclusive is not one that has ever been a part of the original martial ways. The two are, by necessity and the definition of “art” (martial or otherwise), absolutely viable in their harmony. If you don't believe me, pick up a box of LEGOS...

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...