CIVILIAN MARTIAL ARTS?

 by Phillip Starr

In trying to emphasize the validity and worthiness of their chosen martial art, many people use the term, “battle-tested.” Actually, with the exception of a handful of martial disciplines, this is inaccurate. Most martial arts were developed for civilian self-protection although a few would be taught to soldiers for use in war. Some were designed mainly for use on the battlefield.

In China, there exist literally dozens of different forms of gong-fu. These were intended for civilian self-defense. Certainly, ancient military units – especially those led by well-known generals who possessed skill in martial arts – were taught some techniques from various arts, but not the entire system. And they were never taught a standardized method on a large scale (ie., for all military personnel). In past time and even as recently as WWII, recruits (most of whom were trained for a very short time because they were sorely needed on the battlefield immediately) learned basic xingyiquan but they lacked the time to really develop any skill with it.

The legendary “Big Sword (actually, broadsword) Unit” (Dadao Tui) armed most of its troops with a long-handled form of the broadsword. Most of them had previously trained in a form of gong-fu. Many of the troops discarded their rifles, preferring to carry the sword into battle (probably not a very good idea). They were renowned for their ferocity in battle; their shoulder patch, which was rather large, read, “When our rifles are empty, we use our swords, when our sword are broken, we use our fists, when our fists are broken, we bite.”

Japanese martial arts are a different story altogether. Many, if not most, of the “koryu” (old, traditional martial arts) were developed for use on the ancient battlefields. These arts included various forms of swordsmanship as well as use of other weapons such as the naginata (a sort of halberd), spear, the bow and arrow, grappling and striking arts...all to be applied against armored warriors. Jujutsu was taught to new trainees during WWII. Karate was still quite new to Japan and its use had not yet been assimilated by the military.

American recruits received very basic training in what they termed “combat judo” (not knowing that judo, per se, was developed as a sport), jujutsu, and atemi-waza (hitting vital points) as early as WWI and through the whole of WWII.

Taekwondo, which was developed for use in the modern military, was first baptized in battle during the war in Vietnam by the ROK troops, particularly the legendary taekwondo-trained units such as the White Horse, Blue Dragon, and Tiger Divisions. They were renowned for their ferocity in combat- so much so that none of their fire bases were never attacked by the North Vietnamese Army or the Vietcong during the entire conflict!

The fact that a given art or style has never been used on the battlefield certainly doesn't belittle its effectiveness. Not at all. Certainly, “civilian” martial arts have been applied more frequently (for purposes of self-protection) than any of those used in the military. What is more important, in my opinion, is the “test of time.” Those that proved themselves effective have remained with us. Those that didn't...were buried alongside their creators.

CHICKEN FEET

 by Phillip Starr

One of my senior students who had his own gong-fu club employed a rather unique method to help him determine the sincerity of a prospective student. He didn't advertise at all; so those who came to him for instruction had learned of his group by word of mouth. Of course, most of them were quite certain that they REALLY wanted to learn his art in depth and if they were insistent about it, he'd invite them to lunch.

When they arrived, he'd drive them to a very traditional Chinese restaurant (the area in which he lives has quite a number of such places; they serve authentic Chinese cuisine as opposed to the “made for Americans” version, which is what is usually found in most cities). Once seated, they'd peruse the dim sum delicacies being pushed around on small carts and offered to customers. He'd select (for both of them) something like chicken's feet or other unusual dishes and watch the prospective student's reaction.

If the visitor balked and wouldn't even try the “delicacy” placed before him, he would suggest that the potential student go elsewhere for instruction; clearly, he would shirk trying something that didn't meet his expected “tastes.” He felt that such a person, who was unwilling to try something new in the restaurant, would very likely also be unwilling to “try something new” when it came to learning the art...especially concepts and training routines that didn't fit with his “tastes” and culture.

I experienced the same kind of “tests” when I moved to China some years back. Whenever we'd go out with friends for dinner, they'd see to it that I was offered some rather strange cuisine. My Chinese wife and a few members of her family as well as friends expressed concern that I, as a Westerner, would be unable to adapt to Chinese culture. They sought to test as well as teach me as I was served things like chicken stomachs and intestines in bowls of chicken soup, fish eyes (they're crunchy!), and other tidbits that were clearly foreign to me. And, of course, there were the hot and spicy dishes for which Guangxi Province is known. A couple were peculiar to the city of Liuzhou, where I lived.

A little extreme? Perhaps. But likely fairly accurate.

THE CATFISH AND THE GOURD

 by Phillip Starr

The depiction of a catfish swimming around a gourd is a common sort of decoration in the art of old China and Japan. It can be found as the subject of Zen-inspired ink paintings that are often artistic parables. Why is this? Even if I told you that a dried, hollow gourd was used to catch catfish – that still wouldn't explain why these two things (gourd and catfish) have been so popular among Zen artists. The answer lies in the way that the gourd is used to catch the fish and the meaning behind this story has meaning in both Zen and martial arts training.

If you gave many people a hollow gourd and told them there were catfish in the stream, they'd walk into the water and do their best to scoop up their unwary prey...and come up empty-handed. Catfish are slippery critters and you'd likely die of old age before you could get one into a little opening at the end of a dried gourd. At the very least, you'd get soaking wet and probably create some very colorful adjectives to describe your feelings about using such an idiotic trap.

Those who understand catfish would consider the problem, then wade into the water and gently sink the gourd to the bottom of the stream. Then they'd return to dry land where they'd wait and perhaps make preparations for cooking their fish dinner. They understand the nature of catfish, which are very curious critters. The fish would approach the gourd and examine it for a bit before giving in to the temptation of a quick meal (or perhaps an interloper) and the fish swims into the narrow neck of the gourd to see what's inside...and then he's trapped, unable to turn around in that narrow space and escape.

This has much to do with your approach to learning martial arts. I'm sure you've seen people like the first would-be fishermen I described; they jump in and start flailing around, trying to catch a catfish. They're fun to watch, Perhaps you're even one of them. They come to class with a furious inensity; if a new technique is shown to them, they're relentless and follow their motto - “I'm going to get this right if it takes all night!” And they puff and strain and turn beet red in the face.

This kind of “do or die” enthusiasm is certainly admirable but it doesn't help much in class. That's because even the most basic techniques of any martial art are not entirely (or even predominantly) physical skill. Like the horse-riding stance, which seems simple enough...you can be TOLD how to do it but your body needs some time to “fit in” to it and this isn't going to happen in just one class...or even a week or month. The catfish can't be forced into the gourd.

Another example is that of making wine. Assuming that you knew how, could you – within a couple of weeks – turn out a vintage wine even if you had the best grapes, the finest facilities, and an unlimited budget? No. Wine must age and mature. There are no shortcuts. This process can't be changed, regardless of how much “spirit” you put into it. The martial Way is often compared to a path, which is a fine analogy. But remember that his road has its own peculiar geography and it certainly is nothing like Kansas. Sometimes, the path is so steep that you can hardly raise your eyes. You may come to flatter areas where you can travel more easily and you have insights that provide a broader perspective. Then it'll get rocky and hilly again and there's no way you can see the destination before you've covered the whole of the route.

Now, I'm not saying that you should adopt a lackadaisical attitude. Far from it; you must train with total effort. You may be tempted to despair and think that you'll never be able to get it right – and that's hardly a good frame of mind for class or training on your own. Do your best and give it your total effort. The catfish will be trapped eventually, just as your techniques or forms will eventually come on their own.

You have to train hard but at the same time, you must be mature enough to understand that it's going to take some time. Although patience and time are essential ingredients, they can't replace hours, months, and even years of dedicated practice. You have to understand that there's a balance that must be struck. Like catching fish in a gourd, it may not be the most cost effective way of doing it but in the long run, it's better than chasing the fish all over the stream and ending up with nothing more than getting wet.

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.

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?

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.