ABSORB WHAT IS USEFUL...

     One of the very worst pieces of advice ever given to the martial arts community at large came from the lips of Bruce Lee.

"Absorb what is useful,
Reject what is useless,
Add what is specifically your own."

     Determing just what is useful and what isn't is quite a daunting task and one that should be examined closely.  After all, a goodly number of today's so-called "mixed martial arts" crowd as well as followers of numerous eclectic martial ways state very clearly that traditional martial arts aren't entirely applicable to modern combat or combat at all.  They believe that numerous techniques that are taught within the traditional martial arts either don't work very well or, in some cases, not at all.  This, they say, is why they have chosen to follow their "own paths." 

     Executing a correct reverse punch, front snap kick, kotegaeshi, or o-soto-gari is a pretty daunting task for most raw beginners who have had little or no previous martial arts training.  The new student can spend hours working on any one of these techniques for a whole month and it still is practically worthless in a real fight.  The reason why is obvious; to develop any technique so that it is truly usable requires a great deal of practice over a period of time!  There are no short cuts.  My teacher said that developing effective technique is like making tea.  It can't be hurried and any attempt to do so will only ruin the drink.

     It would be easy but very premature and terribly foolish for the novice to simply dismiss these fundamental techniques as being "useless."  The same holds true for other, more advanced techniques that he or she will eventually learn.  I'm sure that you've encountered techniques that just didn't work at first.  I know I have.  Still do.  But with patience, some introspection, and lots of practice you've been able to see how they should be done, where your mistakes were, and suddenly they become functional!
     When you learn a technique that doesn't seem to work well for you, ask yourself, "why?"  What are you doing wrong?  Sometimes the error lies in the physical execution of the technique but sometimes it is hidden in a less obvious place.  Maybe it's your timing that's off - and that can be indicative of a mental/psychological error or block of some kind, can't it?  Perhaps it's your approach to the application of the technique or your approach (physical, mental, or even spiritual) towards your training "opponent."  Regardless, the error is thine.  Find it and correct it.  Sometimes it's the finding of the error that corrects it.

     I was recently reading a book wherein the author stated that a particular movement in a basic karate form was placed there by its creator to show future students why they should NOT execute a particular technique.  Seriously.  It involved Pinan Sandan (aka. "Heian Sandan")...the questioned technique involves a lunging spear-hand.  This is followed by a backward pivot which is made while the performer folds his arm behind his back in the manner of a "hammerlock."  The book's author believes that Master Itosu (who created the five Pinan katas) was showing students that if they tried to execute this kind of spear-hand thrust, the opponent could wrap them up in a hammerlock.  The succeeding movement then shows how to escape from that particular elbow twist.
     How absolutely absurd!  Why would any martial arts master bother to teach students incorrect technique through a kata?  This idea is beyond ridiculous.  Obviously, the author never bothered to study the bunkai (interpretation) of this particular kata in any depth...Rather than do that, he came up with a wild conclusion that Itosu was warning students not to perform a particular technique in a certain way.  Were that true, it would be possible to formulate an almost endless kata based on "what not to do..."

     To say that techniques of the traditional martial arts are not effective (in self-defense) is a blatant display of one's own ignorance, and perhaps, one's unwillingness to put in the required practice (which is a nice way of saying "lazy").  In days long since past, professional warriors (e.g., policemen, soldiers, bodyguards, and their teachers) relied on these arts for their very survival.  Back then, it was pretty easy to determine if a given technique worked.  If it didn't, you died.  Those who developed techniques that didn't work took their failures with them to the their graves.  For the most part, we'll never know what they were.
     The techniques that did work are still with us to this day.  If they didn't work, they would have been buried long ago.  So, to say that the surviving traditional techniques don't really work is, in my opinion, a statement made by someone who has never learned genuine traditional technique...or who is unwilling, for one reason or another, to put in the time and training required to develop effective technique.

     Beginning piano students dare not say that the classics are worthless and no longer functional!  The masters who contributed to the creation of the traditional martial disciplines are our Bachs, Beethovens, and Mozarts.    

     To truly understand a technique and how it should be performed correctly requires at least 10,000 repetitions.  In karate or kung-fu this isn't terribly difficult, considering that you can easily practice 100 punches each day.  In 100 days you should be able to perform the technique correctly, more or less.  That doesn't mean it can't be improved, though.

     But that's not the same as making it workable.  To be able to perform a technique effectively in combat requires much more practice.  You see, the effectiveness of a given technique, whether it's a punch, a kick, a joint twist or throw from aikido or judo...involves much more than just being able to perform the physical aspects of the technique correctly.  Much.  More.

     Back when I trained in forms of Japanese karate, I could not, for the life of me, get a roundhouse kick to work.  Actually, it took MONTHS before I figured out how to do it correctly.  I guess I just had a mental block and I couldn't imagine how to do it...but once I was able to throw a roundhouse kick, I couldn't figure out how such a kick would ever be useful in fighting!  I suppose Bruce Lee would have told me to reject it because, as far as I was concerned, it was pretty useless...

     Then came Baguazhang.  At first glance, this art seems to have about as much in common with combat as a fish does to a bicycle.  It would have been all too easy to simply toss it away as being some sort of pointless, flowery, Chinese bilgewater.  But I didn't.  I stuck with it and studied it...in depth.  I examined it carefully, examined myself, examined its strange footwork and body movements...and I practiced and then when I was sick of it, I practiced some more.  And when I had problems making it work (which was pretty much all the time, at first), I stayed with it and figured out WHY I was having problems.

      In any given martial discipline, at least a decade (or more) is required if one wants to truly understand the art.  The problem is that most Westerners don't want to spend that much time in training.  They want "instant martial arts."  We're accustomed to having "instant food" (which isn't really food), "instant entertainment", and now we want "instant martial arts."  But there isn't such an animal...never was, and never will be.

          So, rather than absorbing what you find immediately useful and rejecting what you think is useless. just ABSORB.

Beginner's Mind

     Tsutomu Ohshima, one of Gichin Funakoshi’s last students (and now a senior instructor of Gichin’s legendary Shotokan style of karate) tells a story about his teacher that illustrates the importance of the basic techniques of the art.  Originally a schoolteacher in Okinawa, Gichin had introduced karate to Japan in 1923.  He passed away in 1958.  In his last months of life, Ohshima would literally carry him up and down stairs whenever the master was scheduled to give demonstrations.  A few days before his passing, Gichin was sitting up on the edge of his bed practicing the basic forefist punch.  He turned to Ohshima and said, “I think I’ve finally got it!”  Ohshima wept.

     Mr. David Lowry, in his excellent book "Moving Toward Stillness" relates a story about the late kendo (Japanese swordsmanship) master, Mori Torao. Master Mori had studied his art under men who had had to use the sword in actual combat. Needless to say, the training was extremely severe; in fact, prior to WWII the art was often referred to as gekken which means "severe swordsmanship." Mr. Mori taught in the U.S. back in the 60's.

     A friend of Mr. Lowry's attended a clinic conducted by Master Mori and arrived early. There he found the legendary Master already in his keikogi (practice uniform), preparing for the class. Mori asked the young man if he would train with him for a while. The young man held Mori in awe and was thrilled with the request. Now he would get the chance to see advanced kendo techniques and learn from the legendary master!

     He was shocked when Mori asked if he might practice shomen uchi which is a frontal strike learned by every kendoka (kendo student) in his first class. "I still don't have it right," Mori explained.

     Students who are still in the junior stages of training envy their seniors who are learning the more advanced forms and techniques of our art. The instructor may call out a cadence and force them to practice the most basic punches and kicks, but you can bet that the juniors are watching (out of the corners of their eyes) their seniors in the corner practicing the advanced techniques and forms and longing for the day when they will learn them. They tend to judge progress by how much they've learned; how much they've acquired.

     Several decades ago, a good friend of mine named John Hutchcroft, who trained in a style of Okinawan karate told me that students of that particular system never said, "Yes, I know that form," or "I know this punch." I asked why. He explained that to say that one knew the form or technique indicated that one had truly mastered it. Instead of saying that they knew a given form or technique, they would say that they trained or worked it.

     It's a small matter of semantics, I know, but it does indicate how seriously these people were about training and true understanding or mastery of technique.

     The legendary founder of Kyokushin karate, Masutatsu Oyama, once said that after 1,000 repetitions one could say that one could perform a given technique. Only after 10,000 repetitions could one say that one had mastered it. He was slightly more generous with forms; after 1,000 repetitions one could say that one had mastered a given form.

     The legendary Xingyichuan teacher, Hung-I Xiang (who passed away in the 1980's), was known to practice his pengchuan (the basic punching technique of Xingyi) daily. Even after more than six decades of training, he focused on constant practice of the most fundamental techniques. Wang Shujin, one of the most famous twentieth-century exponents of Baguachang was known to train daily in the system's most fundamental form and exercise, the Single Palm Change.

     Any given martial art system is finite; limited in scope and curriculum. There comes a time when there are no more new techniques or forms to learn. Having explored every road, the student finds him or herself with only one choice; to go back to the beginning. In this sense, the road is circular and the last teaching is also the first. The greatest secrets lie within the most fundamental techniques and movements. However, they cannot be grasped by those who have not yet traveled the whole length of the road or path.

     In my school in Omaha, I had (amongst other things) framed Chinese calligraphy, the characters for which meant, "Beginner's Mind." This was not intended so much for junior students as it was for the seniors. Once one has "gone full circle," one must come back to the original "mind" of a beginner. Only after coming full circle and back to this stage can one truly grasp the more esoteric teachings of the art.

     Of course, there are some who, having reached a lower grade of black belt, assume that they have come "full circle." Puffing out their chests, they are proud of their accomplishments but the truth is that they have not come "full circle." They are still traveling on the "road." Those who have traveled its full length do not puff out their chests and rarely speak of their accomplishments. They have, after all, come back to the stage of "Beginner's Mind"; a blank slate upon which they will write and draw.

What Were You Thinking?

     Of all the bodily weapons which we seek to strengthen and perfect through the practice of martial arts, the one which is probably the least understood and most neglected is...the mind. To be sure, there are many aspects of the "mind" that have to be considered - and trained - if you intend to achieve a high level of skill in any form of eastern martial discipline. I don't intend to even try to cover all of them today...no; I'll just pick one aspect which I'll call "Misdirected Yi."

     First, we have to establish just what "yi" is. It is often translated simply as "mind" although that term, even in our own language, is more than a little elusive. Certainly, "mind" refers to much more than the brain and its known functions. "Mind" is something more subtle, more...abstract than "brain." "Yi" can also be translated as "will, intention, idea, imagination..." and that gives us a better sense of what the teachers of times past meant when they spoke of it.

     We know that where the "yi" goes, the "qi" (vital energy, life force) follows...and, if you remember your basic Intro to Qigong 101 class and hearken back to the fourth principle of Qigong known as EXTEND, you'll recall that the body wants to go wherever the qi is directed. Therefore, where the "yi" goes the "qi" also goes, and the body wants to follow! This is a vitally important principle because it applies not only to the practice of Qigong, but to all other aspects of your martial arts training...and your life! As I always tell students when they first learn about this basic principle, "This is the most (unconsciously) abused principle not only in martial arts but in daily life."

     Let's start with a very basic example of misdirecting your "yi." Let's say that an opponent (or your training partner) grasps your wrist or your lapel…or your whatever. And he/she doesn't just give it a limp-wristed wimpy grab - THAT'S not going to help you learn anything - so he/she really seizes it firmly like he/she means it!
And where does your mind instantly go? Usually to the spot where you're being grabbed. This is especially true if the opponent's hand actually touches your body (in a lapel grab his or her hand may not actually touch your body, y'know). And as soon as your mind (yi) - which, you'll recall, means, "attention, intention, imagination..." - your "yi" is fixed on that spot. It's as if it is frozen in place and as long as that (mental) condition remains, you'll have trouble struggling to break free...even if you try to perform the nifty "escape technique" that your instructor showed you.

     Yes, it's perfectly natural to fix your mind on the spot where an opponent grabs you...but that doesn't mean that it's the right thing to do. And the same kind of thing usually occurs when your opponent strikes at you. Your mind often becomes "fixed" on the spot (or the area) where you believe you're about to be struck.

     Your mind becomes temporarily paralyzed and as long as your mind is paralyzed, so is your body.

     The other half of this principle involves where the opponent’s mind is fixed. And of course, his "yi" is fixed on the spot where he's grabbed you or the area where he intends to strike you. You both have your minds fixed on the very same spot!

     So for simplicity's sake, let's go back to the wrist grab. Instead of putting your mind on your wrist, try putting it on your elbow...or your shoulder. You'll find that you can easily move your arm! Your wrist may not be freed, but who cares? You can move your arm and do all kinds of nasty things to your opponent as a result. He, on the other hand, must keep his mind fixed on your wrist! By attacking you he has placed himself at a terrible disadvantage.

     How about hearkening back to the name of the art which you practice (for the Yiliquan crowd here)...and Yili means what? "One Principle." And what is this "One Principle?" It is,
                                              KEEP ONE POINT AT ALL TIMES.

     So...how about focusing your "yi" on your One-Point (dantien) and moving from there? Try it. You'll find that directing your mind to your One-Point allows you to move your body pretty freely, especially if you utilize pivoting actions.

      If you're focused on the spot where you're being grabbed, you're actually making the opponent’s grip that much stronger. Don't give him any extra power! If you put your mind on your One-Point, you'll actually siphon off a good deal of his strength! And your instructor can show you how to kindly give it back to him-

   Instead of concerning yourself with the opponent and what he is doing to you (in the case of a wrist grab) or obsessing over what he may do to you (in the case of striking), place your mind on your relationship to him. This isn't to say that you become momentarily engrossed in some spiritual concept that speaks of all men (or women) being brothers (or sisters...). No...it's about how you, your One-Point, and your movement are related to him, his One-Point, and his movement.

     You will take control of his movement by controlling his One-Point. Sometimes, as in the case of grappling techniques, this is done quite literally. In the case of percussive techniques, it is done figuratively but it has the same effect(s) as if it was done literally. When YOU strike, HIS mind becomes fixed on what YOU'RE doing - he "loses his One-Point" and you penetrate through to his very center with your One-Point...

Learning In A Crisis

   Have you ever noticed, in other people or perhaps yourself, situations like these:

* For instance, a woman who is easy going and articulate in a one-to-one situation becomes tongue-tied or withdrawn when she's present at some large social function?

* An athlete (or musician, or whatever) does extremely well when he practices with his friends but when he's in front of an audience or when the chips are down, his skill seems to disintegrate?

* In a given class, a student does very well with his day-to-day work but when an examination comes up his mind goes blank?

     The list is endless. The key element involved in each of these situations is pressure. When the "pressure is on" some people tend to slip and fall, as it were. Take the pressure off and they're fine but when the chips are down, they clutch. This doesn't necessarily infer that those who do well under pressure are superior to these folks; rather, it usually indicates that they have learned to react differently in "critical" situations.

     I am drawing from Dr. Maxwell Maltz's theories of Psycho-Cybernetics, remembering principles that I began practicing many years ago.

     The fact is that although you may learn well and you may learn quickly, people do not learn well in critical situations. If you toss a man into deep water he may learn to stay afloat and swim somehow, but he'll probably not become a championship swimmer. This is because the inept, awkward stroke that he used to survive becomes "fixed" in his mind and he may have a difficult time learning more efficient ways of swimming.

     It is my understanding that in both animals and humans the brain forms a sort of "cognitive map" of the environment while they are learning. If the motivation is not too intense; if there is no crisis present when the brain is engaged in learning, these maps tend to be fairly broad and general. On the other hand, if the animal or person is overly-motivated or stimulated during the learning process these maps tend to be narrow and restrictive. We learn just one way of responding or reacting to a given problem or situation and if this particular problem/situation should occur in the future, and the one way we have learned to solve or react to it is "blocked", we tend to become frustrated and often fail to discern alternative routes or detours. We have learned to respond in only one way and we lose the ability to react spontaneously to a new situation. We are unable to improvise.

     An example is given of people learning how to get out of a burning building. If the building is on fire they will take at least two or three times as long to learn the proper escape route as they would if there was no fire present. Some never learn at all. The automatic reaction mechanism is jammed with too much conscious effort ("trying too hard"). The ability to think clearly is lost.
Those who manage to survive will have learned a narrow fixed response. If you were to put them in another burning building which is constructed differently and change the circumstances slightly, they would react as poorly as they did the first time.

     However, you can take these same people and have them practice a "dry-run" fire drill when there is no fire present. There is no emergency, no crisis to interfere with clear thinking. They are free to concentrate on leaving the building correctly and safely several times...and should a fire ever occur, they will most likely react in the same way as they have practiced several times previously. Their muscles, nerves, and brains have memorized a broad, general, and flexible "map" and the attitude of calmness and clear thinking will carry over from their "dry-run" practice to the real thing.

     The surface moral to this story is obvious; practice without pressure and you will be able to perform better in a critical situation.

     It was "Gentleman" Jim Corbett who coined the term "shadow boxing." He used his left jab to cut the reigning heavyweight boxing championship, John L. Sullivan, to pieces. When he was asked about how he had developed his technique he replied that he'd practiced it in front of a mirror ten thousand times.
     Gene Tunney did the same thing when he prepared to fight the formidable Jack Dempsey. He'd watched Dempsey's fights, knew his every move, then spent hours "shadow-boxing." He imagined he was fighting Dempsey and countering his every move. And it worked.
     It's said that Billy Graham preached sermons to cypress stumps in a swamp before developingn his electrifying speeches before live audiences.

     It occurred to me many years ago that this was one of the most important aspects of technique and form practice. The "father of Japanese karate", Funakoshi Gichin, emphasized that once you have learned to execute a given technique correctly and you can do it without difficulty, you must practice it as if a live opponent is standing before you. Don't just "throw the punches and kicks out there"...you have to visualize the opponent standing before you and attacking you.
      Your conscious mind knows, of course, that there isn't really anybody there and so, you are able to practice without pressure. You practice and your body-mind learns to respond correctly after repeating the movement or technique over and over.
      Form practice is intended to do exactly the same thing; to enable you to learn how to react correctly without pressure. If you practice your form and just count your way through it, you'll learn nothing. It becomes a set of memorized but relatively worthless movements which you won't be able to use spontaneously when the chips are down. But if you concentrate, vividly see your opponent, and apply your movement correctly - and you practice the form over and over and over - your muscles, nerves, and brain will build a flexible and effective "map."

     At the same time, there is the matter of emotion in a crisis. One doctor said that he believed there to be only one basic emotion - excitement. It can be manifest as fear, anger, courage, etc., depending upon your inner goals at the time. ..if you are inwardly organized and determined to conquer a problem, run from it, destroy it, or whatever. "The real problem," he said, "Is not to control the emotion but to control the choice of which tendency will receive emotional reinforcement."
     If you intention (your goal) is to move forward, make the most of the crisis and win out in spite of it, then the excitement of the occasion will reinforce this tendency and it will provide you with the courage and strength to go forward. However, if you concern yourself primarily with running away from the crisis, wanting to get past it by avoiding it - this tendency will likewise be reinforced and you'll experience fear and anxiety.

     If you want to develop superior technique and real skill, I recommend practicing without pressure - but practicing while visualizing an opponent. This must be done whenever you train your techniques and forms and it can also be done while you just sit back, relax, and close your eyes. Your imagination is your most powerful weapon and training aid.

The Martial Spirit

     It was during my last year of high school back in 1967 that I decided to attend Tokyo University. I frankly didn't care one whit about which university I attended; I wanted to go to Japan and study the martial arts - especially karate. I wrote to Master Masutatsu ("Mas") Oyama, who was the founder of the Kyokushin style of karate. I held a black belt grade in his system and discovered that he allowed a certain number of foreigners to live in the honbu dojo (headquarters training hall) each year. I had visions of waking up, cleaning the dojo, working out for a short time before breakfast...what a life!

     Ah, but life had different plans for me. I was accepted at Tokyo University and Mr. Oyama actually wrote me back and invited me to stay at his dojo...but try as I might, I couldn't get enough money put together to bring this dream into reality.

     I still have that letter that the legendary "god-hand' (Mr. Oyama) sent me. One of his statements stuck in my head and it's still there. For some years I couldn't figure out exactly what he meant but as I matured and kept training, I came to understand it. He wrote, "I always look forward to teaching my foreign students in Japan. The most important thing for them to learn while they are here is spirit..." He said that it was the most difficult thing to teach Westerners.

     What Master Oyama was talking about has nothing to do with religion, ghosts, or any of that sort of thing. What he was referring to is the very glue that holds together each aspect of the martial ways of the East. It is very a very real, almost palpable thing although it cannot be weighed, measured, seen, heard, or tasted... But without it, there are no true martial arts - just exercise and dance routines.

     You cannot really understand this concept through intellectualizing about it. Talking or reading about it may help you acquire a basic grasp of its meaning but to truly know it you must experience it directly. It isn't something that you try to experience from time to time; it's something that has to be strengthened, refined, and lived every day.

     To find a simple definition of it is far from simple. It is a striving for perfection - perfection of technique, perfection of form, perfection of physical skill - and these lead to perfection of character, proper behavior, correct etiquette at all times, and consideration and respect for yourself and others.

    You don't seek perfection only within the boundaries of your chosen martial art. At first, that seems to be the goal but with time, introspection, and incessant training, you seek perfection in everything you do.

     It begins with relentless training of the body, which leads to training and refinement of the mind. This means training daily. In the East it's understood and accepted that training in any martial discipline is going to be painful and new students accept that (for the most part). In the West, things are very different. In our society, any form of discomfort is to be avoided. If training in aikido or kendo or any other martial form results in bumps, bruises, sprains, strains, and other assorted "ouchies", we either discontinue practicing until we feel that we're properly healed up or we might quit altogether. In short, we're wimps.

     The find and develop this spirit, you must train daily even when you don't feel like it. You have to push yourself and find the strength to go on even when your body or mind feels like giving up. Now, I'm not encouraging you to practice when you have a serious injury or illness. Spirited training doesn't mean that you should be foolish...but it does mean being mature, tough, and unwilling to accept anything short of perfection. It means that you're unwilling to accept any excuses that you make up for yourself as to why you just can't practice every day, why your punch, kick, iai kata, or whatever, just isn't up to snuff.

     No excuse is acceptable...to you.

     It means being a useful and productive member of your community and society. It means being sincere and honest, and it means being honorable and standing up for what is right.

     It's not something that you strive to develop and feel only when you don your practice uniform or attend your martial arts class. If that's what you're doing, then you're just playing "make believe" and your training will come to nothing. You either dive in head-first and immerse yourself in it or you stay out of it altogether. It's not something that you can do on a part-time basis.

     You have to want to learn badly enough that you won't allow anything (I repeat...anything) to stand in your way. Words like "quit" are not a part of your vocabulary when speaking of your training or doing anything else that you set your hand and mind to do. To you, such ideas are shameful and unacceptable.

     This kind of constant training will reveal to you, as well as your teacher and many of your classmates, much about your personal makeup. All of the ugliness and flaws, as well as the beauty of your personality and spirit will be laid bare. Your true self will be unveiled. This can be more than a little unnerving but it is part and parcel of traveling the path of the martial ways.

     You must determine that even if your desire to learn should lead you to your own death, you'll do it. I know this probably sounds a bit melodramatic but that's how it truly is. The price for learning and acquiring a high level of skill in genuine martial arts can be very high and it involves much more than dollars and cents.

It was during my last year of high school back in 1967 that I decided to attend Tokyo University. I frankly didn't care one whit about which university I attended; I wanted to go to Japan and study the martial arts - especially karate. I wrote to Master Masutatsu ("Mas") Oyama, who was the founder of the Kyokushin style of karate. I held a black belt grade in his system and discovered that he allowed a certain number of foreigners to live in the honbu dojo (headquarters training hall) each year. I had visions of waking up, cleaning the dojo, working out for a short time before breakfast...what a life!

Ah, but life had different plans for me. I was accepted at Tokyo University and Mr. Oyama actually wrote me back and invited me to stay at his dojo...but try as I might, I couldn't get enough money put together to bring this dream into reality.

I still have that letter that the legendary "god-hand' (Mr. Oyama) sent me. One of his statements stuck in my head and it's still there. For some years I couldn't figure out exactly what he meant but as I matured and kept training, I came to understand it. He wrote, "I always look forward to teaching my foreign students in Japan. The most important thing for them to learn while they are here is spirit..." He said that it was the most difficult thing to teach Westerners.

What Master Oyama was talking about has nothing to do with religion, ghosts, or any of that sort of thing. What he was referring to is the very glue that holds together each aspect of the martial ways of the East. It is very a very real, almost palpable thing although it cannot be weighed, measured, seen, heard, or tasted... But without it, there are no true martial arts - just exercise and dance routines.

You cannot really understand this concept through intellectualizing about it. Talking or reading about it may help you acquire a basic grasp of its meaning but to truly know it you must experience it directly. It isn't something that you try to experience from time to time - it's something that has to be strengthened, refined, and lived every day.

To find a simple definition of it is far from simple. It is a striving for perfection - perfection of technique, perfection of form, perfection of physical skill - and these lead to perfection of character, proper behavior, correct etiquette at all times, and consideration and respect for yourself and others.

You don't seek perfection only within the boundaries of your chosen martial art. At first, that seems to be the goal but with time, introspection, and incessant training, you seek perfection in everything you do.

It begins with relentless training of the body, which leads to training and refinement of the mind. This means training daily. In the East, it's understood and accepted that training in any martial discipline is going to be painful and new students accept that (for the most part). In the West, things are very different. In our society, any form of discomfort is to be avoided. If training in aikido or kendo or any other martial form results in bumps, bruises, sprains, strains, and other assorted "ouchies", we either discontinue practicing until we feel that we're properly healed up or we might quit altogether. In short, we're wimps.

The find and develop this spirit, you must train daily even when you don't feel like it. You have to push yourself and find the strength to go on even when your body or mind feels like giving up. Now, I'm not encouraging you to practice when you have a serious injury or illness. Spirited training doesn't mean that you should be foolish...but it does mean being mature, tough, and unwilling to accept anything short of perfection. It means that you're unwilling to accept any excuses that you make up for yourself as to why you just can't practice every day, why your punch, kick, iai kata, or whatever, just isn't up to snuff.

No excuse is acceptable...to you.

It means being a useful and productive member of your community and society. It means being sincere and honest, and it means being honorable and standing up for what is right.

It's not something that you strive to develop and feel only when you don your practice uniform or attend your martial arts class. If that's what you're doing, then you're just playing "make believe" and your training will come to nothing. You either dive in head-first and immerse yourself in it or you stay out of it altogether. It's not something that you can do on a part-time basis.

You have to want to learn badly enough that you won't allow anything (I repeat...anything) to stand in your way. Words like "quit" are not a part of your vocabulary when speaking of your training or doing anything else that you set your hand and mind to do. To you, such ideas are shameful and unacceptable.

This kind of constant training will reveal to you, as well as your teacher and many of your classmates, much about your personal makeup. All of the ugliness and flaws, as well as the beauty of your personality and spirit will be laid bare. Your true self will be unveiled. This can be more than a little unnerving but it is part and parcel of traveling the path of the martial ways.

You must determine that even if your desire to learn should lead you to your own death, you'll do it. I know this probably sounds a bit melodramatic but that's how it truly is. The price for learning and acquiring a high level of skill in genuine martial arts can be very high and it involves much more than dollars and cents.

Pete Starr

t was during my last year of high school back in 1967 that I decided to attend Tokyo University. I frankly didn't care one whit about which university I attended; I wanted to go to Japan and study the martial arts - especially karate. I wrote to Master Masutatsu

Wed 8/31

Getting Back To Basics

     Tsutomu Ohshima, one of Gichin Funakoshi’s last students (and now a senior instructor of Gichin’s legendary Shotokan style of karate), tells a story about his teacher that illustrates the importance of the basic techniques of the art.  Originally a schoolteacher in Okinawa, Gichin had introduced karate to Japan in 1923.  He passed away in 1958.  In his last months of life, Ohshima would literally carry him up and down stairs whenever the master was scheduled to give demonstrations.  A few days before his passing, Gichin was sitting up on the edge of his bed practicing the basic forefist punch.  He turned to Ohshima and said, “I think I’ve finally got it!”  Ohshima wept.

     Mr. David Lowry, in his excellent book "Moving Toward Stillness" relates a story about the late kendo (Japanese swordsmanship) master, Mori Torao. Master Mori had studied his art under men who had had to use the sword in actual combat. Needless to say, the training was extremely severe; in fact, prior to WWII the art was often referred to as gekken which means "severe swordsmanship." Mr. Mori taught in the U.S. back in the 60's.

     A friend of Mr. Lowry's attended a clinic conducted by Master Mori and made it a point to arrive early in the hopes that he might be able to see the legendary master training.  Once inside the gym, the young man found the legendary Master already in his keikogi (practice uniform), preparing for the class. Mori asked the young man if he would train with him for a while. The young man held Mori in awe and was thrilled with the request. Now he would get the chance to see advanced kendo techniques and learn from the legendary master!

     He was shocked when Mori asked if he might practice shomen uchi which is a frontal strike learned by every kendoka (kendo student) in his first class. "I still don't have it right," Mori explained.

     Students who are still in the junior stages of training envy their seniors who are learning the more advanced forms and techniques of our art. The instructor may call out a cadence and force them to practice the most basic punches and kicks, but you can bet that the juniors are watching (out of the corners of their eyes) their seniors in the corner practicing the advanced techniques and forms and longing for the day when they will learn them. They tend to judge progress by how much they've learned; how much they've acquired.

     Several decades ago, a good friend of mine named John Hutchcroft, who trained in a style of Okinawan karate told me that students of that particular system never said, "Yes, I know that form," or "I know this punch." I asked why. He explained that to say that one knew the form or technique indicated that one had truly mastered it. Instead of saying that they knew a given form or technique, they would say that they trained or worked it.

     It's a small matter of semantics, I know, but it does indicate how seriously these people were about training and true understanding or mastery of technique.

      The legendary founder of Kyokushin karate, Masutatsu Oyama, once said that after 1,000 repetitions one could say that one could perform a given technique. Only after 10,000 repetitions could one say that one had mastered it. He was slightly more generous with forms; after 1,000 repetitions one could say that one had mastered a given form.

     The legendary Xingyiquan teacher, Hung-I Xiang (who passed away in the 1980's), was known to practice his bengquan (the basic punching technique of Xingyi) daily. Even after more than six decades of training, he focused on constant practice of the most fundamental techniques. Wang Shujin, one of the most famous twentieth-century exponents of Baguazhang (and my teacher's classmate) was known to train daily in the system's most fundamental form and exercise, the Single Palm Change.

     Any given martial art system is finite; limited in scope and curriculum. There comes a time when there are no more new techniques or forms to learn. Having explored every road, the student finds him or herself with only one choice; to go back to the beginning. In this sense, the road is circular and the last teaching is also the first. The greatest secrets lie within the most fundamental techniques and movements. However, they cannot be grasped by those who have not yet traveled the whole length of the road or path.

     In my school in Omaha, I had (amongst other things) framed Chinese calligraphy, the characters for which meant, "Beginner's Mind." This was not intended so much for junior students as it was for the seniors. Once one has "gone full circle," one must come back to the original "mind" of a beginner. Only after coming full circle and back to this stage can one truly grasp the more esoteric teachings of the art.

     Of course, there are some who, having reached a lower grade of black belt, assume that they have come "full circle." Puffing out their chests, they are proud of their accomplishments but the truth is that they have not come full circle. They are still traveling on the "road." Those who have traveled its full length do not puff out their chests and rarely speak of their accomplishments. They have, after all, come back to the stage of "Beginner's Mind"; a blank slate upon which they will write and draw.

Getting Back To Basics

     Tsutomu Ohshina, one of Gichin Funakoshi’s last students (and now a senior instructor of Gichin’s legendary Shotokan style of karate) tells a story about his teacher that illustrates the importance of the basic techniques of the art.  Originally a schoolteacher in Okinawa, Gichin had introduced karate to Japan in 1923.  He passed away in 1958.  In his last months of life, Ohshima would literally carry him up and down stairs whenever the master was scheduled to give demonstrations.  A few days before his passing, Gichin was sitting up on the edge of his bed practicing the basic forefist punch.  He turnedto Ohshima and said, “I think I’ve finally got it!”  Ohshima wept.

Mr. David Lowry, in his excellent book "Moving Toward Stillness" relates a story about the late kendo (Japanese swordsmanship) master, Mori Torao. Master Mori had studied his art under men who had had to use the sword in actual combat. Needless to say, the training was extremely severe; in fact, prior to WWII the art was often referred to as gekken which means "severe swordsmanship." Mr. Mori taught in the U.S. back in the 60's.

A friend of Mr. Lowry's attended a clinic conducted by Master Mori and arrived early. There he found the legendary Master already in his keikogi (practice uniform), preparing for the class. Mori asked the young man if he would train with him for a while. The young man held Mori in awe and was thrilled with the request. Now he would get the chance to see advanced kendo techniques and learn from the legendary master!

He was shocked when Mori asked if he might practice shomen uchi which is a frontal strike learned by every kendoka (kendo student) in his first class. "I still don't have it right," Mori explained.

Students who are still in the junior stages of training envy their seniors who are learning the more advanced forms and techniques of our art. The instructor may call out a cadence and force them to practice the most basic punches and kicks, but you can bet that the juniors are watching (out of the corners of their eyes) their seniors in the corner practicing the advanced techniques and forms and longing for the day when they will learn them. They tend to judge progress by how much they've learned; how much they've acquired.

Several decades ago, a good friend of mine named John Hutchcroft, who trained in a style of Okinawan karate told me that students of that particular system never said, "Yes, I know that form," or "I know this punch." I asked why. He explained that to say that one knew the form or technique indicated that one had truly mastered it. Instead of saying that they knew a given form or technique, they would say that they trained or worked it.

It's a small matter of semantics, I know, but it does indicate how seriously these people were about training and true understanding or mastery of technique.

The legendary founder of Kyokushin karate, Masutatsu Oyama, once said that after 1,000 repetitions one could say that one could perform a given technique. Only after 10,000 repetitions could one say that one had mastered it. He was slightly more generous with forms; after 1,000 repetitions one could say that one had mastered a given form.

The legendary Xingyichuan teacher, Hung-I Xiang (who passed away in the 1980's), was known to practice his bengchuan (the basic punching technique of Xingyi) daily. Even after more than six decades of training, he focused on constant practice of the most fundamental techniques. Wang Shujin, one of the most famous twentieth-century exponents of Baguachang was known to train daily in the system's most fundamental form and exercise, the Single Palm Change.

Any given martial art system is finite; limited in scope and curriculum. There comes a time when there are no more new techniques or forms to learn. Having explored every road, the student finds him or herself with only one choice; to go back to the beginning. In this sense, the road is circular and the last teaching is also the first. The greatest secrets lie within the most fundamental techniques and movements. However, they cannot be grasped by those who have not yet traveled the whole length of the road or path.

In my school in Omaha, I had (amongst other things) framed Chinese calligraphy, the characters for which meant, "Beginner's Mind." This was not intended so much for junior students as it was for the seniors. Once one has "gone full circle," one must come back to the original "mind" of a beginner. Only after coming full circle and back to this stage can one truly grasp the more esoteric teachings of the art.

Of course, there are some who, having reached a lower grade of black belt, assume that they have come "full circle." Puffing out their chests, they are proud of their accomplishments but the truth is that they have not come "full circle." They are still traveling on the "road." Those who have traveled its full length do not puff out their chests and rarely speak of their accomplishments. They have, after all, come back to the stage of "Beginner's Mind"; a blank slate upon which they will write and draw.