Serious Play

Sticks.  Long swords.  Short swords.  Sickles with ball and chain.  Truncheons.  Gentlemen's walking sticks.  This was a fun week.

I just came back (a whole week ago now) from a 5-day training intensive in Japan.  The event was by invitation only (hence I am obscuring details here).  Starting on Saturday afternoon, a group of serious budoka came together to eat, sleep and train, train, train.  Training on most days began at 8:30 in the morning and continued (with a short lunch break) until 5:15 every afternoon.

It's a tradition that does not really exist here in the US.  Yes, we have seminars, but generally speaking, people come to the training, maybe have a meal together and go home to their families in the evening.  If the seminar even lasts more than one day, maybe some who are not overburdened by work or family obligations will come for a second day of training if they can afford it.  A budo seminar in the US is, generally speaking, brief, expensive and open to the public.  In short, there is no equivalent to this experience here in the level of intensity involved in the training.  (To be fair, I know there are various "camps" offered, here and there, in koryu arts in the US.  I am not being critical, I am just saying it's not the same experience.)

This gasshuku (aka "training camp," an unfortunate-sounding translation, in our current way of looking at things) is held, weather and other factors permitting, two times per year.  Attendance varies (and not all participants can stay for the entire time), but generally speaking, at the peak, there can be about 60 participants; most people stay for more than two days, and at least 20 stay for the entire time.

We fill up a huge, old dojo in a small town outside of Tokyo.  Training varies depending on what the head teacher wants to do; sometimes the overall plan is not that obvious, but the overall goals for participants are: to train at slightly above your average level with a wide variety of people, and to be introduced to levels of training or even other parts of the curriculum that are not familiar.  Over the five days we trained in various levels of Shinto Muso Ryu jodo, Seitei jodo, kusarigama (sickle with ball and chain), kenjutsu (swordsmanship), jutte (truncheon) and tanjo (walking stick).  Though there were times when participants divided into groups according to ability, no one was allowed to stand to the side while unfamiliar material was introduced.  Everyone had to TRY. 

Introduction to new stuff was done in Japanese style - the teacher showed the technique once, or maybe twice, then everyone had to do their best.  Sometimes they got more than one chance, but most times not.  It is a place of opportunity to do new things, but if you are of the shrinking-violet variety, don't apply here.  People are dragged out to show what they have "learned," even if that means trying to show what you were just shown a few minutes ago and given no time to think or analyze anything.  The teachers were not looking for perfection, they were looking for effort.  They were looking to see if you were paying attention. 

Food is plain and abundant, and disappears quickly.  There is not much conversation until evening, when the junpai comes around the table and everyone takes turns sipping very good sake'.  There are speeches and toasts.  After dinner, those who have the energy circulate to different rooms for more sake' or beer, but everyone is mindful of the fact that breakfast is at 7:00am, and everyone is expected to be on time.

The dojo is very, very cold in February and considerable ingenuity is employed in trying to stay warm.  This was my fourth gasshuku, and the second time I have trained in February, and my cold-weather strategy is evolving, but still a work in progress.   I think once I have the achingly cold feet thing nailed, I'll be totally good!

I have written abundantly on why people want to engage in this sort of thing.  It's not that simple -  Japanese work and family life is at least as complicated as it is in the US.  As extraordinary as it seems that a small but determined group of foreigners would travel halfway around the world to take part, students who can see Sensei every week nevertheless take precious time off work to take part in this semiannual event as well. 

What we are doing, of course, is playing.  I remember a number of years ago someone on an email list being upset that the Japanese often interpret the verb for doing kendo as "playing."  The writer felt that using the verb "play" rendered the activity somehow trivial, like kids' games or poker.  As serious kendoka, they wanted a more serious verb to decribe their activity.  But any expert on play will tell you that virtually nothing is more serious, for children or anyone else.  If you think of the advantages of group play for children, you will discover that it is equally, if not even more advantageous for adults.  It creates cooperation; develops a multitude of physical and mental skills; it enhances fitness; it's relaxing; and it's fun.

As a number of contemporary sages keep trying to remind us, fun is important, and especially grownups (though more increasingly, children) do not get enough of it.  It's time to look up from our smartphones and take notice.