SEEKING THE TRUTH

      Some time ago, one of my senior students told me that he desperately wanted to know the truth about a particular subject. I asked him if he was really serious about his quest and he assured me that he was. So, I gave him my best advice about what the process of truth-seeking involves and for whatever it may be worth, I'd now like to share that with all of you.

      First and foremost, you must clearly identify what it is that you want to know. If you don't have a target at which to direct your aim, your arrows will fly hither, thither, and yon. Once you have a clear view of your target, you must prepare yourself for a long and arduous journey.

      The second step involves stepping away from all of your ingrained feelings and beliefs about your “target.” This is much more difficult to do than it sounds. We often tend to become emotionally attached to our beliefs and letting go of them can be more than a little daunting.    

Nonetheless, we must approach the target free of any and all preconceived notions and emotional ties. Otherwise, our feelings about the subject will taint whatever grains of truth we may find. We must, in a sense, sterilize our minds and hearts before we take the next step.

      Like the second step, the third step involves some considerable introspection. You must determine that you will accept whatever truth you find, regardless of how it may impact your life. After all, it may destroy the very foundation upon which you have built your life. So consider, do you REALLY want to know the truth? Are you willing to accept the consequences of your quest? Most of us live like small frogs in a deep well. The frogs look up at the sky, thinking that that is all there is to the world. Few are those who venture to make the treacherous climb to the mouth of the well and those who have the courage to succeed will realize that what they had previously accepted as the truth...wasn't. Their entire belief systems must now be changed and that can be a very painful experience.

      Many people simply gloss over this step in the process and tell themselves, “Well, of course I'll accept whatever truth I find!” But the TRUTH is that they're lying with themselves. They haven't really cleared their hearts and minds; they'll accept what they find ONLY if it agrees with what they are prepared to accept. And this ruins the entire process. What they will find will not be genuine; it will simply be a reflection of the “truths” from which they are unable to free themselves. So you must determine that even if finding the truth should lead you to your own death, you will accept it.

      The fourth step is really just an extension of the third. It is simply this; real truth is absolute. Something is either true or not. There are no gray areas. Two plus two always equals four. When you discover a truth, you cannot color it to make it more palatable. I've heard many people say things like, “If you believe that something true, then it is...for you.” Although these people often mean well, their thinking is flawed. Truth is absolute. If I believe that something is true, then I am either right or wrong. There is no “in-between.” I may believe the sky is purple and wear purple-tinted glasses to reinforce my belief, but that doesn't make it true.

      The next step is that of research. This stage will probably require some considerable time and it may also involve some substantial expense. You must be ready, willing, and able to research your subject as thoroughly as possible. Bear in mind that those people with whom you may speak are often tainted to some degree by their own beliefs and emotional attachments.     

     This also holds true for any written material that you may utilize in journey. I have met many people who insisted that they'd meticulously researched their subject but it was clear that they'd never completed the second step of the process (go back several paragraphs and look it up); they'd researched materials and spoken to “experts” whose beliefs reflected their own. They were simply reinforcing their own biased beliefs, unwilling to approach the path of truth with a clear, unattached mind.

      I sometimes liken the search for truth to climbing a mountain and following a treacherous path that is sometimes very dark and full of pitfalls. The process is exhausting and when we think we've made it to the end of the path, we find ourselves standing on the edge of a precipice. It is dark and we can't see the bottom. We must be willing to jump without knowing what, if anything, is below us. Maybe we are standing on a small three-foot ledge. Maybe we are poised hundreds of feet above a deep canyon. But regardless of how deep the darkness may be, we have to be willing to jump.

      And that's the sixth and final step. You must make the jump; like the frogs in the well, you must be willing to climb over the top of the well. This will require a strong spirit and great courage but it is the only way to find that which is absolute. Will you fall all the way to the bottom? Will you sprout wings and fly? You can't know the answer to this question until you jump into the darkness.

ACQUIRING REAL STRENGTH

If I had a magic wand that would enable me to instantly bestow a high level of (martial arts) skill upon my students, I would use it for kindling. I have mentioned this to some of my students over the years and they're always surprised. “Why?” they ask. “Why wouldn't you use it?”

“Because acquisition of high physical skill must be accompanied by an equally high level of discipline and spirit,” I tell them. “And it is the struggle for the skill that makes us strong.”

Martial skill in and of itself is very nice but believe it or not, it's not really the entire goal. The struggle; the discipline, the effort and pain and sacrifice that it takes to achieve high skill is, I believe, the most important thing. It is only through this special forge and tempering process that we can truly come to understand and develop ourselves.

As in the art of kyudo (Japanese archery), the goal is not necessarily to hit the bull's eye. To a Westerner, this would seem nonsensical. But as I mentioned in an earlier writing, we tend to see (Eastern) things through Western eyes. This distorts our vision. We are not seeing truly (which is different from not truly seeing).

No, the object in kyudo and in all of the martial ways is to perfect every aspect of the outer movements. This must naturally lead to perfection of the internal aspects as well. Perfection of the self. And if you hit the bull's eye from time to time, that's nice. But stop trying to hit it. Pay attention to how you're standing, how you're breathing, what your mind is doing (or not doing).

Do it perfectly. You'll understand when you get there.

Training the Mind

      In our training, we often hear and use the Chinese term yi (意), which actually means, "idea, intention, will..." This is not the same as xin (心, pronounced roughly, “shin”) which means, "mind." Xin is also is the character for "heart" because it was/is felt that the heart houses the "mind." Yi is a product of the xin. But what is this xin, this thing we call mind? That's a good question and it's one that is a bit difficult to answer. Maybe “consciousness” is a good definition.

      Training of the mind is considered one of the most important parts (if not the most important part) of martial arts training. You can train and condition your body all the livelong day but if your mind isn't properly trained, it's all for nothing.

Today, let's talk about what is referred to as the "non-abiding mind." This is a very important concept in the practice of traditional martial arts and much has been written on the subject. Unfortunately, most of these writings are rather difficult to understand, especially for martial arts practitioners who lack much experience.

      Most of the material on this subject was penned by swordsmen. For those of you who haven't engaged in the practice of swordsmanship, let me say that sword fighting happens much faster than bare-handed fighting. Much faster. There is absolutely no room for error.

In a sparring match or a fistfight, you can make a mistake or two and still come away none the worse for wear. You might have a couple of extra bruises and scuff marks but you'll survive. Not so in a sword fight. Remember that when you execute bare-handed techniques you must move your body just exactly right so as to produce shock and bring the opponent down. This isn't the case with weapons which, by their very nature, deliver shock without your help. All you have to do is control and direct them.

      A mistake in a sword fight means losing a hand or an arm, or worse. In a fistfight you might get thumped on your wrist and still be able to win the day but in a sword fight, a strike to the wrist disarms you and you're dogmeat in a hurry because your weapon is laying on the ground.
Kind of like a gunfight. There are no second-place winners.

      The swordsmen of feudal Japan and China gave us much valuable advice on the subject of training the mind and we would do well to listen to them. After all, many of them lived long enough to die of natural causes. One of the things they stressed was the importance of not allowing your mind to stop on anything. Where the mind stops, the attention (yi) is fixed and you lose the awareness of everything else around that point. Your body also loses the ability to move and respond fluidly and freely. Remember that mind and body are inseparable.

      Way back when you first learned how to engage in freestyle sparring or freestyle one-step, your teacher probably told you not to fix your gaze on the opponent's hands or feet. If you stare at his hands, you cannot see his feet and accurately determine what they are doing (or about to do). If you watch his feet, you won't notice the punch heading for your nose.

There is actually a relationship between the gaze and the mind. If the mind stops on something the eyes tend to stop there, too. And vice-versa. If the eyes are fixed on a single thing, the mind tends to stop there.

      In my classes, I tell students to look at the opponent as if you are looking at a mountain. You don't try to capture any one part of the mountain with your eyes. Rather, you take in the whole thing. Your eyes are relaxed. It's as if you are letting the mountain look at you. If you do that, you can see the foothills around it and every tree and shrub. If a deer pops out somewhere, you'll spot him instantly but if you then stop your mind on him you'll be aware of nothing else.

In sword fighting, if you stop your mind on your sword you cannot clearly see the enemy's weapon. That is, if you think about how to cut or about what you're going to do if he does this or that, you have stopped your mind. On the other hand, if you stop your mind on the opponent's sword by thinking about what he might or might not do, your response will be stuttered and you will hesitate at the moment of truth.

      So, you might ask just what are you supposed to think about? The answer is...nothing. No, that doesn't mean that you should think about nothing because that's actually thinking about something. Just relax. Center yourself. Don't consider the opponent as being separate from you. There is no “me” and no “him.” There is just an “isness.”

The mind must move freely so that you are able to respond easily and correctly. Thoughts of a “me” and a “him” are generated by thoughts of winning and losing, and vice-versa. Strange as it sounds, don't think about those things. If your mind stops on them you will certainly be defeated.

      Don't try to relate past or future to the present moment. What is past is gone forever. Yes, you have learned from the past but just because something happened in the past doesn't necessarily mean that it will happen now! "He defeated his last opponent with his side thrust kick, so I'll be ready for it"...is a fine example of trying to relate past to present. If you ready yourself for a side thrust kick and he fires out a reverse punch, your response will be inappropriate. Learn from the past but don't dwell in it.

      The future never arrives. There is always "one second from now." If you think, "He defeated his last opponent with a side thrust kick, so I'll be ready for it when he tries to do it to me", you are relating past and future to present. He used (past tense) a side kick before, so I'll be ready when he tries to do it to me (future tense). But the truth is that you cannot know what the future holds.

      All you can ever really know is the now; this instant. It is all you can know and experience. You might know the past but you cannot experience it. It's gone. You don't know the future, so you obviously cannot experience it. All you can really know or experience is this very instant. This is the essence of zen.

      "But," you might argue, "If I'm engaged in a life-and-death struggle, it's pretty tough not to think about winning or losing or trying to figure out what the enemy is going to do." Exactly. That is why you practice every day; to internalize the techniques so that you no longer have to consciously think about how to do them. Then your body will respond correctly without your even being aware of it. But you must also train so as not to be concerned about what the opponent is going to do. This takes time and a lot of effort.

      At first, you must focus the mind at your One-Point (a spot in the lower abdomen known in Chinese as “dantien” and Japanese as “tanden.”). "But isn't that stopping the mind?" you ask. Yes, it is. But it's a beginning point. You have to start somewhere and that's the best place. One sword master compared it to training his cat. He had a cat that loved to kill sparrows, which upset him considerably. So, he tied it to a leash and trained it not to kill sparrows. At first it was rebellious and fought the rope but it eventually stopped resisting and learned. Then he could let it roam freely and it would not kill sparrows. Your mind is the same way, only worse. In zen it is sometimes called the “monkey mind” because it plays and jumps around like a wild monkey. The harder you try to hold it down, the harder it struggles. By focusing on your One-Point, you are putting a leash on it. You must practice doing this a great deal at first. When you practice your breathing, your basic techniques, your forms, when you drive to work, when you eat a meal, when you wash your face, you must put your mind on your One-Point. Do everything from One-Point and concentrate. If you do this every day, you will soon find that it gets easier and easier. Eventually, it stays that way naturally. It no longer jumps around or kills sparrows. Then you can let it go and it will behave correctly. But just thinking about it or intellectualizing about it will never achieve it. It requires actual training and concentration.

      When you face an opponent you must not put your mind at One-Point because then it is on its leash and it cannot move freely. If you want to survive, the mind must be free to move quickly. Thinking about keeping it at One-Point is to think of oneself as separate from the opponent. So don't think about it. Yet, without thinking about it, you will be able to keep One-Point. This experience is difficult to describe in words and is really something that has to be experienced.

Timely Movement

      The swordsmen of feudal Japan practiced their art with the utmost intensity. In battle, success or failure was usually decided in a split second. There were rarely any second-place winners. A single blow would decide the outcome of the conflict. If their technique failed, the result was certain; they wouldn't be joining their families to enjoy a second helping of Mom's rice pudding. If the technique was successful, they'd live to fight another day.

A tiger approaches its prey very carefully. Every movement is calculated and precise. The movements are small, some are almost imperceptible as the tiger focuses on what it is about to do. If it fails to bring down its quarry, it may not get another chance to eat for a couple of days or more!

Both the swordsman and the tiger appear to be relaxed. There's no fidgeting around, no bouncing up and down. They are what we call “centered.” Can you imagine what would happen if the swordsman started bouncing round, or began jiggling his sword? I can. It would be a very, very short fight.

When many of the martial disciplines became “sportified”, we began to see a lot of twiddling, jiggling, and wiggling coming into play. The duel was no longer a matter of survival; it was (and still is) simply a question of who wins the game this time. The operative phrase in that last sentence is, “this time.” When one contestant loses, he can always try it again at the next tournament. However, this was not the case for the feudal warrior. If he lost, he lost it all.

In the traditional martial forms of China, Okinawa, and Japan, movement is never performed for its own sake. That is, you don't move just to be moving. Each and every movement, even small shifts of the feet, are done for a reason. Energy is conserved and the trained fighter represents the very essence of economy. The breath is controlled and calm, movements are never wasted.

If the enemy should attack suddenly, the fighter must be able to respond in an instant. This doesn't necessarily mean that he simply avoids the incoming blow(s); he must be able to respond and take advantage of this”window of opportunity.” He knows that within every movement, no matter how slight, there is a moment of vulnerability. If the movement is small, the “window” is likewise small. However, if the “window” is large enough and he is in precisely the right place at exactly the right moment, he can slip through it and bring his opponent down. Naturally, if he is hopping around like a rabbit on steroids or busily fidgeting about like a young man on his first date, he will be unable to breach the “window” and any attempt to do so would probably end in disaster.

I can see the young man in the back waving his hand excitedly. Is there a fire? Oh, you have a question...okay, fire away. You say that boxers stay on the balls of their feet and bounce and weave to confuse the opponent? And you say that they believe that a moving target is harder to hit? Well, let's have a look at your query... I'll start with a question of my own. What is the purpose of a boxing match? What is each contestant trying to do?

You say that they're trying to knock out the opponent? Well, that's only partially true. You see, the objective is not necessarily to render the opponent unconscious; the objective is to win! And you don't necessarily need to knock anyone out in order to win the bout, right? Right. That's because boxing is a game. There's a winner and a loser. At the end of the match, both competitors shake hands and go home to nurse their bruises. However, real combat is not a game. It's about “not losing.” It's about survival. In a life-and-death struggle there can be only one survivor (and sometimes, there are no survivors). There are no rules, no “points”, no referees, and no rounds. It ends when one of the participants dies.

Now, let's address the idea of bouncing around so as to confuse the opponent and to present him with a target that is difficult to hit. A trained fighter won't be at all confused by his enemy's movements. He remains focused on his intended target without any expectations. Secondly, a moving target is not at all difficult to hit. Remember what I said about each movement presenting a “window of opportunity?” A fighter who prances around is presenting his foe with numerous “windows” and sooner or later, the enemy will find one that's well within his timing and the fight will end abruptly.

Yes, I'm aware that there have been contests pitting boxers and even wrestlers against practitioners of various martial disciplines and the boxers or wrestlers frequently win. These have all been fools games, with “games” being the key word. No one was ever killed. The rules were fairly stringent so as to avoid serious injuries. However, traditional martial arts were never intended to be practiced as games. I wonder what the outcome would have been if no protective gear was worn – no gloves or footpads, no groin cups, no mouthpieces. And what if there had been no rules whatsoever? Combatant would be allowed to use any and all techniques at their disposal, including kicks to the legs, seizing techniques, biting, and whatever else came to mind. And what if there were no rounds? The fighters couldn't rest until the fight was finished. And what if the fight would end only when one of the combatants was killed? It would certainly make for a completely different approach to the match, don't you think?

In real martial arts, nothing is wasted. The feudal swordsman appears to be relaxed and calm as he faces his enemy. His movements are slight and made only when necessary. His mind is focused. When the window slides open he'll dart through in an instant and maybe, just maybe, he'll go home when it's over.

DON'T CONCENTRATE OUT THERE, FEEL IN HERE!

     Just when you thought I was out of stories regarding my teacher, here comes another one! 
;-)  I've gots lots of 'em!  This one occured to me yesterday as I was teaching class and found myself repeating my teacher's words. 

     Once a student had learned to perform a number of fundamental techniques correctly, my teacher emphasized the movement and shifting of the body rather than the technique.  For instance, I recall practicing pengquan (the basic punching technique of Xingyiquan) with my classmates.  It was a basic technique we'd practiced many times before and we didn't really have to "think" much about how to do it.  We just fired one punch after another, trying to maximize the striking power of our fists.

     Sifu Chen walked over to us and quietly observed our practice for a short time.  That was usually a bad sign and this time was no different. 

     He held out his fist, pointed at it, and said, "Don't think of power out here!"

     Fine...so where do we concentrate our power???

     Chen then grasped his belly with both hands and said, "Power is in here!  Concentrate in here!  Feel in here!"

     I guess we all looked equally confused because Chen sighed (another bad sign) and walked up to one of my classmates.

     "Punch," he said.  "Punch strong."

     My classmate shot out a punch which I thought was darned sharp.  And strong.  Clearly, Chen disagreed because he shook his head and the look on his face was a bit sour.  He looked at his student as if he was a complete dunce.

     "No," Chen said. Grabbing the student's fist and shaking it, he repeated, "Don't think about power out here!"  Then, pointing to his pupils lower abdomen, he said, "Power comes from here!   Think of the movement in here!" 

     Even after they have acquired a fair measure of skill with the basic techniques, many students tend to focus their attention on the striking weapon/surface during practice.  That is, they concentrate on the fist when they punch or they direct all of their attention on the striking surface of the foot when they kick.  If they've learned the technique properly, there's really no need for this.  It's akin to looking at the accelerator, brake pedal, and speedometer once you have learned to drive.  You shouldn't need to.  You learn to "feel" what you need to do rather than looking at it. 

     In executing the various techniques, emphasis is eventually shifted to the body movement (In Yiliquan this is known as "body action" and there are eight of them) and feeling it...the technique is executed from there, from the soles of the feet and the core of the body rather than with the fist or foot. 

     This is how you learn to gradually "condense" the body's movements, making them smaller and smaller so that the power which is generated is more concentrated and hence, more explosive.

     If you spread a flammable or explosive substance out over a large surface it can be very dangerous when it's ignited...but pour it into a small container, light it up, and see what happens! 

     You need to pay attention to the pressure in your feet/foot when you execute your technique.  Feel the body action and strive to make it sharper and faster as you feel how it connects to your feet and legs and waist (and gua).  Feel how they interconnected, how the movement inside your body originates in the soles of your feet and how it moves up the legs (especially pay attention to the feeling in your ankles and knees), your waist, back, shoulders (are they rounded forward properly)....

     Feel the movement of your dantien.  Remember, it's like a ball which can turn and roll in any direction.  Learn to control its movement.  Don't let it just move willy-nilly on its own.  If you do, your movement will be unbalanced, sloppy, and uncontrolled.   

     And this should happen very quickly, like the snapping of a bullwhip.  

 

     Then look at your breathing and how it connects to your (internal) movement.  It's not just a noise.  It's much more than just exhaling so much air.  It's concentrated power! 

     Don't concern yourself with your striking knuckles, the ball of your foot, or whatever.  Those are just the surfaces that happen to make contact with your target.  If you focus your mind on these things, you'll likely "overpower" your technique, making it top-heavy (and thus, unstable), overly-tense and wooden (which kills much of your power), awkward, and even slow. 

     Learn to feel what's happening inside.  Train to control what's happening inside.  Train just one technique at a time, over and over until you get the feel of it...inside.

 

AN INCH OF TRUTH

     The last time you attended class, how many punches did you execute? How many front snap kicks or side thrust kicks? How many of each kind of block? I don’t know, either. I don’t keep count. So, with all of those repetitions…did you really pay close attention to your technique or did you just kind of lob it out there?  Yeah, I know. Everybody was paying very close attention to their techniques, right?  Let’s have a look.
     Pick a technique…pretty much any technique. A forefist thrust, sword-hand strike, high block, side thrust kick…almost any technique will do. Perform it slowly. Very slowly…like at “taijiquan” speed. 
     “So what?” you ask. “Big deal. I can do it in slow motion…so what’s this about?” Well, have a training partner do it. Pick just one or two techniques. Have him or her do it very slowly and watch carefully…especially the last inch or so of the technique
     Within the last inch of the technique is the truth of it…a snap, a twist…something. Is it there? Is it in the right spot…in the last inch or so? Or did it happen too early? Did it not happen at all? Sometimes it’s to be found in the wrist or ankle. Sometimes it’s in the hips..or shoulder(s), or chest and upper back. Sometimes it includes several parts of your body…all moving in perfect synch in the last inch of movement. But it’s there. Without it, the technique loses much or most of its power and effectiveness.
     Did you find it? If you did, that’s good! Now select a form and do it very slowly. Look at the last inch of each and every movement (not just the individual techniques). You may be surprised at what you find.
     And once you discover the many truths in the last inch, practice them when you go full-tilt boogie. It may well change the way you look at your techniques and forms…ny punches did you execute? How many front snap kicks or side thrust kicks? How many of each kind of block? I don’t know, either. I don’t keep count. So, with all of those repetitions…did you really pay close attention to your technique or did you just kind of lob it out there?

Yeah, I know. Everybody was paying very close attention to their techniques, right? J Let’s have a look.

Pick a technique…pretty much any technique. A forefist thrust, sword-hand strike, high block, side thrust kick…almost any technique will do. Perform it slowly. Very slowly…like at “taijiquan” speed.

“So what?” you ask. “Big deal. I can do it in slow motion…so what’s this about?” Well, have a training partner do it. Pick just one or two techniques. Have him or her do it very slowly and watch carefully…especially the last inch or so of the technique.

Within the last inch of the technique is the truth of it…a snap, a twist…something. Is it there? Is it in the right spot…in the last inch or so? Or did it happen too early? Did it not happen at all? Sometimes it’s to be found in the wrist or ankle. Sometimes it’s in the hips..or shoulder(s), or chest and upper back. Sometimes it includes several parts of your body…all moving in perfect synch in the last inch of movement. But it’s there. Without it, the technique loses much or most of it’s power and effectiveness.

Did you find it? If you did, that’s good! Now select a form and do it very slowly. Look at the last inch of each and every movement (not just the individual techniques). You may be surprised at what you find.

And once you discover the many truths in the last inch, practice them when you go full-tilt boogie. It may well change the way you look at your techniques and forms…

 

 

EXTRA BAGGAGE

     I looked at the young man who had entered my training hall to inquire about classes.  We retired to my office so that I could explain something about the art I teach, and what is involved in training.  "I have a bad left knee," he explained.  "So, would it be okay if I don't do kicks and other techniques with that leg?"
     Ask any martial arts teacher and he’ll give you many varied versions of this same story.  Aspiring pupils come in and lay their "baggage" on the table straight away…
everything from bad backs to tennis elbow to arthritic hips to poor eyesight.  They all seem to believe that their problem is unique and that the teacher should make special allowances for them.  They are, they believe, different from the other students who are out on the floor.  They have special needs.
     Basically, prospective students who enter the training hall with excess baggage come in one of two flavors.  There are those who ask that they be given special treatment and who believe that the teacher may, in some way, be able to "fix" their problem(s) or work around it.
     Then there are those who approach the school and teacher much as one would approach a waitress.  The school and the teacher are, insofar as they're concerned, primarily a business.  They order up what they want and how they want it and fully expect the business proprietor to comply.
     In both cases, the inquiring student is usually very surprised (and sometimes shocked) when I make it clear that no special allowances are made for anybody.  That's just the way it is in the world of martial arts.  If you have a bad knee your kicks probably won't ever be as good as those of the fellow standing next to you but you'll still be expected to give it your best effort.  I've had students who wore prosthetic arms and legs and they were expected to learn how to execute all the movements and techniques of the art with their prostheses.  And they did very well!
     Martial arts teachers usually respond to the "extra baggage" applicant in one of two ways.  Some teachers will tell the student that they'll find a way to "work around" their problem; they may be excused from certain aspects of training that they find too difficult.  This kind of approach is, in my opinion, the mark of a weak instructor. 
     The other type of teacher will politely inform the student that he or she will simply have to learn to make do; that exemptions are made for no one, regardless of the baggage they bring with them.  I think that this is one of the marks of a superior instructor.
     Someday, I'm going to put a basket inside the front door of the training hall and post a sign on it: "Leave Extra Baggage Here."