Over the past few weeks in my classes, I have been pointing out to students the importance of guarding the center line. It does not seem to matter what genre of budo we are talking about - guarding the center line is the key to good technique, both offensive and defensive. Speaking just in terms of jodo and iai, we are constantly paying attention to the placement of the jo or katana to make sure the center is covered. In iaido and kendo, kenjutsu, etc., the sword, shinai or bokuto is held in the center of the body, protecting the practitioner from attack. Many partner kata are predicated on the idea of provoking the aggressor into attacking in order to move his weapon away from this defensive position.
In jodo, sune no kamae is a basic position in which the jo is held at one's side, but - importantly - the tip of the jo is pointing in the swordsman's face. The jodoka often steps slightly off the center line in order to defend oneself from the swordsman, but almost immediately takes the opponent's center from an oblique angle. In taiatari, for example, the jodoka steps off to catch the opponent's sword, then swings into his center and pushes him back. Jo kata end with the opponent staring down the length of the jo, which is pointed in his face. The jodoka has taken the center line, and is not giving it back!
There are techniques in iaido kumidachi that are specifically designed to invade and disrupt the opponent's center. Some of these resemble advanced techniques in kendo, where the "winner" of the kata drives his bokuto down the other person's center line. In others, as noted above, the "defender" in a partner kata "provokes" an attack in order to use a counter technique to "win" the engagement. Frequently, the "winner" drops to gedan - giving up the defense of one's own center in order to bring an "opponent" to attack. Using bokuto, in 2012, this does not seem like much of a big deal, but if we were to imagine, for a second, that someone would deliberately drop his guard in front of another's razor-sharp katana, it seems very close to a crazy idea. I sometimes wonder if some of my more scaredy-cat students are imagining a real encounter when they get freaked out by kumidachi practice? In that case, their impulse is correct, though in order to effectively practice, it needs to be overcome.
Even after an imaginary encounter, whether in partner kata or solo kata, zanshin demands that the center line be covered - the jo ends in the swordsman's face, the chiburi (even though it is decorative) ends with the sword covering the center line, just in case.
The protection of the center line can be seen in lots of other places. Obviously, humans' vital organs are all at the center of the body, and the arms and legs can be used to protect these areas. Arms and legs are even considered expendible if absolutely necessary in order to protect the vital center. On old-fashioned battlefields, tactics were designed to protect the center, and a battle was lost if the center could not hold. Sometimes these ideas could be used contrarily, such as luring an enemy army to attack what it might think was the center of the opposing army, only to have it drawn in and surrounded. In a way, it's almost like deliberately going to gedan in kumitachi in order to defeat an opponent.
The contrary point of maintaining the center line, of course, is location, location, location. If something is centrally located, it is relatively easy to go anywhere else. But once you get there, (with a cut, for example) it is still important to be able to get back to the center with relative ease. Proper kamae are great illustrations of this. Even if I am not familiar with a given style, I can tell if a kamae is bogus if it does not potentially protect the center line. A cut is overdone if it passes through the target and ends somewhere outside. Forgive me for saying it, but I have seen any number of photos of people with a great deal more experience with cutting targets than I have, but who nevertheless end up with their sword totally out of line to a potential opponent. My teacher used to say that anyone can evade at least one cut; if the swordsman is not prepared to make a second one if necessary he will lose sooner or later.
Zanshin is just another way of saying "backup plan."
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Relying on oneself
It's been a weird few years of rebuilding my curriculum, and also rebuilding my personal training. With a lot of help from some colleagues, I now have reestablished some of my personal training, and will work to continue to improve it. But as I do that, there are a couple of things I hope I keep in mind.
When I was at my old place, I believed anything I did with regard to my old dojo was overall for the good of the group. I planned seminars, arranged practices (beginner and advanced) and special events. I was very trusting of people who were senior to me, as well as to the students, believing that since my motives were good, no one could misinterpret what I was doing as being anything other than what I felt it was. My husband viewed at least some of my sense of service with concern. He worried that my involvement in the hierarchy was overdone; i.e. that I had become dependent on the place and its structure, to the detriment of what I could do myself. Before everything backfired, we had several discussions on this topic.
Leaving aside issues of domestic dependency (guess who does the dishes at night 99% of the time) and maybe that he was slightly jealous of my involvement, I understood his point - teachers train you, but what you do with the training is what makes you who you are. As an artist, he trained in different media and art genres, as well as history and even some elementary chemistry in order to understand how different materials work (and, importantly, their potential toxicity), but once trained, it was up to him to find out how to communicate, in this case, to the canvas, what his artistic sensibility was.
I used to explain to him that as a classical budoka, I always needed someone above me for guidance. Like ballet dancers, koryu budoka need to constantly assess what they are doing and have corrections made by people who know better. I assured him that I was not in thrall to anyone, either here or in Japan, but merely respected their seniority and expertise, appreciating that they would take time to kick my butt when necessary. The reality, of course, was somewhere in the middle - I had bought in to the hierarchy to the point where I identified very strongly with it. It was a hard lesson to find out that trust can be abused, even after many years (yes, a divorce analogy can be applied here if one insists).
Lately, one of my colleagues has gotten a new job and will be leaving for Japan soon for perhaps several months. My second reaction (the first was being really, really happy for him) was envy that he would be in the Old Country and able to meet with his teachers on some kind of regular basis for the time he is there. It is sort of drug-like - kind of like how I used to feel when walking down the street and encountering a whiff of someone's weed - my body remembers, and reacts even though I haven't smoked in about 1000 years (now the stuff smells really stinky and I don't get the same feeling I used to). But envy is a small emotion, and today I realized that feeling envious of his good fortune was stupid. I have benefited enormously from contact with some of the same teachers, as well as others, but the real point is what I do with what I have learned.
I have realized I can keep those lessons learned, even if I am no longer learning them in the same place; even if my teacher is no longer alive, and practice what I was taught, both improving myself and passing things along to others.
I was able to train last fall in Japan with some superb people. With some luck I will be able to train again there soon. But in the meanwhile, the point is what I am doing with what I learned in the here and now.
When I was at my old place, I believed anything I did with regard to my old dojo was overall for the good of the group. I planned seminars, arranged practices (beginner and advanced) and special events. I was very trusting of people who were senior to me, as well as to the students, believing that since my motives were good, no one could misinterpret what I was doing as being anything other than what I felt it was. My husband viewed at least some of my sense of service with concern. He worried that my involvement in the hierarchy was overdone; i.e. that I had become dependent on the place and its structure, to the detriment of what I could do myself. Before everything backfired, we had several discussions on this topic.
Leaving aside issues of domestic dependency (guess who does the dishes at night 99% of the time) and maybe that he was slightly jealous of my involvement, I understood his point - teachers train you, but what you do with the training is what makes you who you are. As an artist, he trained in different media and art genres, as well as history and even some elementary chemistry in order to understand how different materials work (and, importantly, their potential toxicity), but once trained, it was up to him to find out how to communicate, in this case, to the canvas, what his artistic sensibility was.
I used to explain to him that as a classical budoka, I always needed someone above me for guidance. Like ballet dancers, koryu budoka need to constantly assess what they are doing and have corrections made by people who know better. I assured him that I was not in thrall to anyone, either here or in Japan, but merely respected their seniority and expertise, appreciating that they would take time to kick my butt when necessary. The reality, of course, was somewhere in the middle - I had bought in to the hierarchy to the point where I identified very strongly with it. It was a hard lesson to find out that trust can be abused, even after many years (yes, a divorce analogy can be applied here if one insists).
Lately, one of my colleagues has gotten a new job and will be leaving for Japan soon for perhaps several months. My second reaction (the first was being really, really happy for him) was envy that he would be in the Old Country and able to meet with his teachers on some kind of regular basis for the time he is there. It is sort of drug-like - kind of like how I used to feel when walking down the street and encountering a whiff of someone's weed - my body remembers, and reacts even though I haven't smoked in about 1000 years (now the stuff smells really stinky and I don't get the same feeling I used to). But envy is a small emotion, and today I realized that feeling envious of his good fortune was stupid. I have benefited enormously from contact with some of the same teachers, as well as others, but the real point is what I do with what I have learned.
I have realized I can keep those lessons learned, even if I am no longer learning them in the same place; even if my teacher is no longer alive, and practice what I was taught, both improving myself and passing things along to others.
I was able to train last fall in Japan with some superb people. With some luck I will be able to train again there soon. But in the meanwhile, the point is what I am doing with what I learned in the here and now.
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