Okay, so the prompt for this one came from the NYT Room for Debate column. It was inspired by the nascent "Lean In" campaign, er - movement, er, I mean, "movement." The headline wondered if women had what it took to be leaders. I noticed first that the reaction to the question provoked an outcry, and then looked at the column itself (which I had somehow not noticed the other day, but, one must actually, sometimes, work). Anyway, once I saw the headlines of the responding essays I decided not to read them, seeing as how the titles, were (i) inane, (ii) irritating, or (iii) both at once.
I managed a dojo for over 14 years. I never made decisions in a vacuum in the sense that important stuff either came up for a vote of the yudanshakai, or that at the very least one or more of the senior members were made aware of whatever the decision was and if they had any objections, modifications were made. We tried for consensus, but that was reserved for only really important decisions. When it came to day-to-day stuff, a decision was simply made - by me. When no one stepped forward to organize the teacher visit or demonstration, I did it. I may have asked people what they wanted to do; and in the case of teacher visits I may have had to cajole people into doing something, but at the end of the day, the buck stopped with me.
I did not especially like my leadership role all that much. I consider myself a teacher, and after things were up and running after a few years, I kept trying to get someone else to take over the role. Guess what? No one wanted it. The best I was able to do was spin off the treasurer function (which made better business sense anyway), and I succeeded in that, though sometimes I needed to intervene, as in the time when a drop off in membership dues resulted in a big depletion of capital before I was made aware of it. The treasurer waited until the bleeding got really bad before he told me. I had to step in and stop it, and I did; and we righted the ship before it went broke. And the daisempai? We never mentioned it to him, because we never needed to.
The treasurer held the checkbook, but he was not a leader. When there was a problem, he could not solve it. He was a nice guy, but he needed guidance. He needed a leader. It was me.
This is my first point to all the NYT's handwringers - there are not that many people, male or female, who can handle leadership. Even rarer are the ones who can handle leadership and be responsible (think about all the "empty suit" stories we hear about CEO's bailing with bags of money after running some place or other into the ground). Lean in all you want - most of you have neither the talent nor the inclination (and they are not the same thing).
Second point (very important) - styles of leadership are as variable as the leaders. I was not a "nurturing" consensus builder. I was a hardass. A reluctant hardass most of the time, to be sure, but a hardass nonetheless. Managing the dojo was not my first leadership role; and in both cases, hardass was what was called for. As a professional theatre stage manager, I can categorically say I did not have any friends among the company members, but I did a damn good job. I did not step on any toes that did not need stepping on, but when it was necessary, I wore boots, because that is how the job had to be done.
Was I happy kicking butt? Not really. It actually is lonely at the top, if you are a real leader, I think. You never get to relax, really, because the next decision is always sitting there, waiting for you. And it won't necessarily wait until you are ready to take care of it. You may need to take care of it right now. I was never not the stage manager, or the dojocho. And for me, at least, the pay sucked.
So if you are looking to be liked, leadership is probably not what you want. If you like to complain, ditto. As the leader, there is no one to complain to. Will people complain about you? Absolutely.
(And, as a side note, the role of micro-manager is not compatible with that of leader. Micro-managers, by definition, cannot see the big picture. It's like a stage manager worrying about getting through a rehearsal, when you need to worry about getting through to the last performance; or in the case of my experience, an entire season of performances. The leader delegates; the micro-manager has to do everything herself!)
I notice, of course, that "manager" not CEO, was in both of these relevant titles. I can also say that I was not inspiring in either role (except to a very few people who actually appreciated what I was doing), which is somehow a trait associated with leaders. It is - with political leaders, for example (or church leaders, I suppose). But if guiding and moving an organization in a good direction is what makes a leader, then I was one, FWIW.
As I said, I was reluctant, and now for the moment at least, I do not have to be a leader who moves things along. I am hoping, in a way, that I will have more time now, to inspire - as a teacher.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Some thoughts on the spiritual side (or not)
Many years ago, I was asked to review a book written by women in the martial arts (and not for the first, or last time). The book was a series of essays wherein the writers expressed their reasons for studying different disciplines and what their practices meant to them.
Outside of the fact that some of the writing was horrifically bad (you think the Internet is bad? You're right, but it did not invent bad writing, believe me), a repetitive theme that I found very troubling was that some writers were previous assault victims who were using their practice to somehow heal themelves. In the midst of learning to punch, block and kick, they were using their martial arts training as therapy of one sort or another; to empower themselves or otherwise convert their practice into something I felt it was never intended to be.
Many writers have discussed the shifting reasons for martial arts training. Certainly, if any of the essay writers mentioned above declared that their training made them (as one guy many years ago declared in an email list I belonged to) "the best warrior I can be," I would have been equally dismayed. It is very rare (and sometimes lucky) that a discretely applied empty-hand technique can give someone the upper hand in an encounter, but we do not use sticks (except in very rare cases) or swords or halberds, glaives or spears in our daily life any more. Yet we still practice these things, so there must be a reason, even though the original reason has become less relevant.
One of those reasons is spiritual development - developing calmness of spirit, ability to think on our feet, and in some way roll better with life's day-to-day crap. This is the idea behind the -do forms (kendo, iaido, kyudo, or collectively, budo), wherein "do" means "way." I consider these to be worthy goals of practice, but spiritual development is hardly the sole province of martial arts training. For example, one of my old sempai, who came and went at my old dojo before I even came on the scene, followed the spiritual aspects of his training to Japan. After many years he followed it to its evident conclusion and became a Buddhist monk. Interestingly, once he got to that point in his spiritual life, he gave up practicing budo, because, he said, even though the self-improvement, spiritual development aspects of budo are there, he felt the "bu" ("martial") part to be against the tenets of Buddhism, which frown altogether on the taking of life. Koryu budo in particular involves practicing kata wherein the overt goal is to maim or kill an opponent. The idea that somehow through this practice one was also supposed to become more spiritually developed and compassionate formed a paradox that he just could not get past. So he stopped.
A couple of weeks ago, one of my students balked at learning the iai kata Junto, in which the iaidoka takes on the role of assisting at a state-ordered suicide (for lack of a better expression). As even casual observers know, Japan, up until the latter 19th century, had a practice of ordering an offender to commit suicide as a means of capital punishment. The assistant would take up a position behind him or her, decapitating the person at the proper moment in order to finish carrying out the sentence. This student was appalled at having to learn to do something which was against his personal beliefs. He even felt that the miming of such an act was brutal.
I told him he was right; it was brutal. I have always found the practice of Junto to be very emotional and even troubling. We never show this kata in public, but we learn to perform it anyway. I explained that there were philosophical and spiritual reasons, as well as training reasons, for learning this kata. The stated, nominal reason that swordsmen learned this technique was, of course, that as a samurai, they had orders and were bound to follow them. In fact, there were members of the samurai class for whom this was a job up until the end of the Edo period. Observers like Lord Redesdale remarked that these men spent all of their time practicing with targets. Though it was possible an individual might never be called upon to take part in an execution, he needed to be ready, just in case, and be able to perform a single, perfect cut.
I told my student that there are a whole range of philosophical issues dredged up by this kata that are worthy of discussion and consideration. One, of course, is the pursuit of excellence in finding and perfecting that one cut. Additionally, that one cut could even be considered an act of compassion, since, properly done, it would save the condemned from suffering. It is also worth considering that sometimes "orders" may be morally suspect. After a brief chat, he agreed with me and decided to try to learn the kata, even though it still creeped him out.
As a performer by training, I tend to take a performance- and aesthetic-oriented view of my practice. Those elements are there by design; I did not invent them, but that point of view tends to rub people in various ways. The warrior types don't like the idea that kata are beautiful and expressive. For them, effectiveness is the most important quality (and it is there, if the style is worth anything). The spiritual types like to gloss over the fact that we are studying contained and ritualized violence, and that the purpose of kata originally was to learn techniques to enable you win an encounter in which your life was at stake, or, more prosaically, that you were carrying out orders to kill this guy. Sometimes the guy was actually running away from you, but he had to die nonetheless (orders, again). Iaido practice actually encompases all of these things, and more besides.
Compassion and self-control are also part of the practice. On a practical level, that attitude was necessary in order to learn safely; and I think those who practice budo in order to develop those qualities and even to undertake spiritual healing are making lovely use of their time. But I am on the side of my monk colleague that if you really want those qualities, there is more than one path to follow, and some other paths may be better ones. For me, budo is a paradox, a puzzle, where brutality contends with contemplating life and death - mine, and other people's. There's also beauty and strength and toughness of mind, compassion and duty (and maybe thinking about when blind loyalty is a problem, not a virtue). Does my practice make me a better person? I'd like to think so. But I also can't help looking at the whole picture.
Outside of the fact that some of the writing was horrifically bad (you think the Internet is bad? You're right, but it did not invent bad writing, believe me), a repetitive theme that I found very troubling was that some writers were previous assault victims who were using their practice to somehow heal themelves. In the midst of learning to punch, block and kick, they were using their martial arts training as therapy of one sort or another; to empower themselves or otherwise convert their practice into something I felt it was never intended to be.
Many writers have discussed the shifting reasons for martial arts training. Certainly, if any of the essay writers mentioned above declared that their training made them (as one guy many years ago declared in an email list I belonged to) "the best warrior I can be," I would have been equally dismayed. It is very rare (and sometimes lucky) that a discretely applied empty-hand technique can give someone the upper hand in an encounter, but we do not use sticks (except in very rare cases) or swords or halberds, glaives or spears in our daily life any more. Yet we still practice these things, so there must be a reason, even though the original reason has become less relevant.
One of those reasons is spiritual development - developing calmness of spirit, ability to think on our feet, and in some way roll better with life's day-to-day crap. This is the idea behind the -do forms (kendo, iaido, kyudo, or collectively, budo), wherein "do" means "way." I consider these to be worthy goals of practice, but spiritual development is hardly the sole province of martial arts training. For example, one of my old sempai, who came and went at my old dojo before I even came on the scene, followed the spiritual aspects of his training to Japan. After many years he followed it to its evident conclusion and became a Buddhist monk. Interestingly, once he got to that point in his spiritual life, he gave up practicing budo, because, he said, even though the self-improvement, spiritual development aspects of budo are there, he felt the "bu" ("martial") part to be against the tenets of Buddhism, which frown altogether on the taking of life. Koryu budo in particular involves practicing kata wherein the overt goal is to maim or kill an opponent. The idea that somehow through this practice one was also supposed to become more spiritually developed and compassionate formed a paradox that he just could not get past. So he stopped.
A couple of weeks ago, one of my students balked at learning the iai kata Junto, in which the iaidoka takes on the role of assisting at a state-ordered suicide (for lack of a better expression). As even casual observers know, Japan, up until the latter 19th century, had a practice of ordering an offender to commit suicide as a means of capital punishment. The assistant would take up a position behind him or her, decapitating the person at the proper moment in order to finish carrying out the sentence. This student was appalled at having to learn to do something which was against his personal beliefs. He even felt that the miming of such an act was brutal.
I told him he was right; it was brutal. I have always found the practice of Junto to be very emotional and even troubling. We never show this kata in public, but we learn to perform it anyway. I explained that there were philosophical and spiritual reasons, as well as training reasons, for learning this kata. The stated, nominal reason that swordsmen learned this technique was, of course, that as a samurai, they had orders and were bound to follow them. In fact, there were members of the samurai class for whom this was a job up until the end of the Edo period. Observers like Lord Redesdale remarked that these men spent all of their time practicing with targets. Though it was possible an individual might never be called upon to take part in an execution, he needed to be ready, just in case, and be able to perform a single, perfect cut.
I told my student that there are a whole range of philosophical issues dredged up by this kata that are worthy of discussion and consideration. One, of course, is the pursuit of excellence in finding and perfecting that one cut. Additionally, that one cut could even be considered an act of compassion, since, properly done, it would save the condemned from suffering. It is also worth considering that sometimes "orders" may be morally suspect. After a brief chat, he agreed with me and decided to try to learn the kata, even though it still creeped him out.
As a performer by training, I tend to take a performance- and aesthetic-oriented view of my practice. Those elements are there by design; I did not invent them, but that point of view tends to rub people in various ways. The warrior types don't like the idea that kata are beautiful and expressive. For them, effectiveness is the most important quality (and it is there, if the style is worth anything). The spiritual types like to gloss over the fact that we are studying contained and ritualized violence, and that the purpose of kata originally was to learn techniques to enable you win an encounter in which your life was at stake, or, more prosaically, that you were carrying out orders to kill this guy. Sometimes the guy was actually running away from you, but he had to die nonetheless (orders, again). Iaido practice actually encompases all of these things, and more besides.
Compassion and self-control are also part of the practice. On a practical level, that attitude was necessary in order to learn safely; and I think those who practice budo in order to develop those qualities and even to undertake spiritual healing are making lovely use of their time. But I am on the side of my monk colleague that if you really want those qualities, there is more than one path to follow, and some other paths may be better ones. For me, budo is a paradox, a puzzle, where brutality contends with contemplating life and death - mine, and other people's. There's also beauty and strength and toughness of mind, compassion and duty (and maybe thinking about when blind loyalty is a problem, not a virtue). Does my practice make me a better person? I'd like to think so. But I also can't help looking at the whole picture.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Why I train in the old country
I was concerned in writing about this topic that I had already covered this at some point, so I reviewed some old posts. The closest is "Learning Koryu (or not)" from 'way back in 2011, and, to be honest, I did not really stress the idea that if one is really serious about a traditional art form (and I don't care if it's budo, Japanese classical dance, tea, or anything else) that if a practitioner does not at least spend some time training in Japan, she will never gain a very deep understanding of what her practice is about.
I once asked my teacher, Otani sensei, about his opinion on the then-flood of Chinese-made "shinken" which were everywhere available in the US market at the time (they aren't shinken, since they are not traditionally-made. I call them "sharpies", because they definitely are, but that's all). He simply said, "If you study a Japanese traditional art form, you should use Japanese things." The same rule goes for me in terms of training.
I go to Japan at least once a year. I go to train, but also to wander around, take photos, and just interact with people. I generally go by myself, so I can simply be there. Though I may run into fellow American budoka at a particular training event, I always try to spend a little extra time, even if it is only a few days, in Japan.
Sure, you can learn all the fundamentals, and even advanced techniques of various traditional ryuha provided you have a competent teacher. Travel is expensive and time-consuming, and my teacher fully understood that it could be difficult for people to train in the Old Country. He never faulted beginners who were reluctant to make the time and money commitment to go abroad, but for the senior students, it came to be more or less expected. But not everyone was interested in complying. I needed no encouragement; I have always enjoyed traveling, and I always wanted to go to Japan. My first trip there was in (wait for it) 1986. But I remember him talking to others who had no interest in traveling and/or no interest in learning anything about the history, language or culture of the origin of the art form we were diligently practicing, week after week. No matter how physically talented, it seemed to sensei that a student who did not want to visit the country of origin was deficient in his training. Being sensei, however, he never insisted; but I could tell he was disappointed in their lack of interest.
Of course, I know many competetent, and even masterly, budoka, who have never spent much time in Japan. And at least from a book/video perspective, they may well know a great deal about the history of their style as well as Japanese history, etc. They may even have picked up enough Japanese language to talk to their teacher when he comes to the States on his annual visit. It's all good; but in my opinion, it's not enough.
There are several reasons to go to Japan. One, obviously, is to meet your fellow practitioners and train at the honbu and/or branch dojo. That can be a real eye-opening experience, though the seminar experience is a rarified one (I actually like the regular dojo practices better overall). But when the seminar is over, there are many more reasons to stick around. It's one thing to read history in books, it's totally another to feel and see the palimpsest of history all around you, if you know how to look for it. I'm not just talking about wandering the picturesque temples of Kyoto (though it's a good idea). I'm talking about the ancient, small shrine tucked down a side street in Tokyo, visitng Sengakuji and watching people go to and fro lighting incense to honor the memory of the Ako o-gishi after over 300 years, to catch a glimpse of Fuji-san as the shinkansen speeds you past from one place to another, or going to Matsumoto jo, which is surrounded by a public park where people go at the end of the day to relax and simply look at it. There is also the bustle of train stations and experience of superb infrastructure that should not work, given the sheer volume of people, but it does, and the tents of homeless people down by the Sumidagawa (though fewer of them are there now because of the rebuilt waterfront). And the continuing pain of Fukushima, two years after the tsunami disaster, as people still work to put their shattered lives back together.
That's what you miss when you stay home in your local dojo, or only go on a fast break to a seminar. I guess it depends not so much on financial means (since I regularly forego buying cool stuff in order to preserve my travel budget) as much as what your practice means to you. Anyone can pick up a sword and swing it around according to someone's directions. You can even get really good at it. But you won't even begin to "get" it unless you go practice in Japan. Often.
I once asked my teacher, Otani sensei, about his opinion on the then-flood of Chinese-made "shinken" which were everywhere available in the US market at the time (they aren't shinken, since they are not traditionally-made. I call them "sharpies", because they definitely are, but that's all). He simply said, "If you study a Japanese traditional art form, you should use Japanese things." The same rule goes for me in terms of training.
I go to Japan at least once a year. I go to train, but also to wander around, take photos, and just interact with people. I generally go by myself, so I can simply be there. Though I may run into fellow American budoka at a particular training event, I always try to spend a little extra time, even if it is only a few days, in Japan.
Sure, you can learn all the fundamentals, and even advanced techniques of various traditional ryuha provided you have a competent teacher. Travel is expensive and time-consuming, and my teacher fully understood that it could be difficult for people to train in the Old Country. He never faulted beginners who were reluctant to make the time and money commitment to go abroad, but for the senior students, it came to be more or less expected. But not everyone was interested in complying. I needed no encouragement; I have always enjoyed traveling, and I always wanted to go to Japan. My first trip there was in (wait for it) 1986. But I remember him talking to others who had no interest in traveling and/or no interest in learning anything about the history, language or culture of the origin of the art form we were diligently practicing, week after week. No matter how physically talented, it seemed to sensei that a student who did not want to visit the country of origin was deficient in his training. Being sensei, however, he never insisted; but I could tell he was disappointed in their lack of interest.
Of course, I know many competetent, and even masterly, budoka, who have never spent much time in Japan. And at least from a book/video perspective, they may well know a great deal about the history of their style as well as Japanese history, etc. They may even have picked up enough Japanese language to talk to their teacher when he comes to the States on his annual visit. It's all good; but in my opinion, it's not enough.
There are several reasons to go to Japan. One, obviously, is to meet your fellow practitioners and train at the honbu and/or branch dojo. That can be a real eye-opening experience, though the seminar experience is a rarified one (I actually like the regular dojo practices better overall). But when the seminar is over, there are many more reasons to stick around. It's one thing to read history in books, it's totally another to feel and see the palimpsest of history all around you, if you know how to look for it. I'm not just talking about wandering the picturesque temples of Kyoto (though it's a good idea). I'm talking about the ancient, small shrine tucked down a side street in Tokyo, visitng Sengakuji and watching people go to and fro lighting incense to honor the memory of the Ako o-gishi after over 300 years, to catch a glimpse of Fuji-san as the shinkansen speeds you past from one place to another, or going to Matsumoto jo, which is surrounded by a public park where people go at the end of the day to relax and simply look at it. There is also the bustle of train stations and experience of superb infrastructure that should not work, given the sheer volume of people, but it does, and the tents of homeless people down by the Sumidagawa (though fewer of them are there now because of the rebuilt waterfront). And the continuing pain of Fukushima, two years after the tsunami disaster, as people still work to put their shattered lives back together.
That's what you miss when you stay home in your local dojo, or only go on a fast break to a seminar. I guess it depends not so much on financial means (since I regularly forego buying cool stuff in order to preserve my travel budget) as much as what your practice means to you. Anyone can pick up a sword and swing it around according to someone's directions. You can even get really good at it. But you won't even begin to "get" it unless you go practice in Japan. Often.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Tradition v./and flexibility
When I first started graduate research, I ran into a certain amount of "concern" (not strong enough to be outright criticism) that my chosen subject was too "traditional" to be worthwhile. Americans have this idea that "tradition" is analogous to "hidebound," or even "dead." Whenever a tradition is shown to contain some flexibility, the counter argument is that it is therefore no longer a tradition or perhaps (one of my favorite tropes) no longer "authentic."
I have spent the last two weeks or so catching up on some reading - I am about 2 years behind on the one or two actual, hard-copy journals that I subscribe to that in fact still exist. One article, by a Japanese grad student, outlined a traditional method for learning the noh flute. The method reminded me very much of koryu budo practice. The motifs for flute-playing have been organized and given names in the Japanese syllabary (ka ki ku ke ko and so on). These motifs must be learned by direct transmission from master to student. Once the student memorizes them, she can play pieces that are organized according to the different motifs, add improvisations (either learned informally from hearing the master's playing, or, eventually, created by the player herself) and used for either accompanying the noh performer or for stand-alone pieces that can be played in a recital. The motifs can also be used as a shorthand by the flute player to coordinate with drummers who are familiar with them, and these little meetings before a performance can be used in place of an actual rehearsal. Pretty cool stuff.
Several things struck me about her article. Firstly, that the idea that improvisation was expected, and is considered part of the tradition, though the improvisations have to suit the mood of the piece (she uses an example of a lively dance, in which her teacher used a great deal of embellishment, to a more somber piece that was played relatively straightforwardly). Secondly, that memorizing the motifs allowed for better collaboration among the musicians in the hayashi (in this case, the musical ensemble) because it served as a shorthand communication to enable them to work together in performance.
Recently, one of my colleagues and I had an email chat regarding the "point" of learning kata (in terms of technique, not philosophy). Were they an end in themselves, or for something else? My colleague has always been of the opinion that kata are theoretical situations that teach techniques, but are not an end in themselves. He noted that US Marines now use kata-type learning for some fighting techiques, but that no Marine would ever assume the kata is going to present itself in combat. Everyone understands that the techniques being taught are meant to be used in other situations. In other words, the techniques must be adapted for improvisation if they are to be effective.
This is the thinking for budo sports like kendo, where techiques are presented but the participants improvise in putting them to use, but with a crucial difference - there are no "kata" for kendo players (the Kendo-no-Kata are bokuto techiques unrelated to actual kendo). Atarashii Naginata does have kata, though they are taught alongside the kihon and in my brief time of practice never seemed to be pathways to actual matches in the way the kihon was.
Of course, we are not learning sword or jo kata so that we can go out and use the techniques in actual encounters. At least, not anymore; but my colleague had a point that originally weapons kata were developed as safe ways to learn actual (sometimes deadly) techniques that were used in that way. After memorizing the techniques in kata, just like learning the motifs of the noh flute, the students were expected to improvise, or the kata were essentially useless. Crucially, if the techniques taught in the kata were ineffective, the kata would be useless in that case as well.
Even though we do not learn koryu budo anymore to take part in actual personal combat, it is good to keep in mind the improvisational character of the traditions we labor to perfect. In actual, modern practice, perhaps it is the philosophical aspect that is the improvisation now. What are the lessons we take from our practices, and how do we use them in our actual lives?
I have spent the last two weeks or so catching up on some reading - I am about 2 years behind on the one or two actual, hard-copy journals that I subscribe to that in fact still exist. One article, by a Japanese grad student, outlined a traditional method for learning the noh flute. The method reminded me very much of koryu budo practice. The motifs for flute-playing have been organized and given names in the Japanese syllabary (ka ki ku ke ko and so on). These motifs must be learned by direct transmission from master to student. Once the student memorizes them, she can play pieces that are organized according to the different motifs, add improvisations (either learned informally from hearing the master's playing, or, eventually, created by the player herself) and used for either accompanying the noh performer or for stand-alone pieces that can be played in a recital. The motifs can also be used as a shorthand by the flute player to coordinate with drummers who are familiar with them, and these little meetings before a performance can be used in place of an actual rehearsal. Pretty cool stuff.
Several things struck me about her article. Firstly, that the idea that improvisation was expected, and is considered part of the tradition, though the improvisations have to suit the mood of the piece (she uses an example of a lively dance, in which her teacher used a great deal of embellishment, to a more somber piece that was played relatively straightforwardly). Secondly, that memorizing the motifs allowed for better collaboration among the musicians in the hayashi (in this case, the musical ensemble) because it served as a shorthand communication to enable them to work together in performance.
Recently, one of my colleagues and I had an email chat regarding the "point" of learning kata (in terms of technique, not philosophy). Were they an end in themselves, or for something else? My colleague has always been of the opinion that kata are theoretical situations that teach techniques, but are not an end in themselves. He noted that US Marines now use kata-type learning for some fighting techiques, but that no Marine would ever assume the kata is going to present itself in combat. Everyone understands that the techniques being taught are meant to be used in other situations. In other words, the techniques must be adapted for improvisation if they are to be effective.
This is the thinking for budo sports like kendo, where techiques are presented but the participants improvise in putting them to use, but with a crucial difference - there are no "kata" for kendo players (the Kendo-no-Kata are bokuto techiques unrelated to actual kendo). Atarashii Naginata does have kata, though they are taught alongside the kihon and in my brief time of practice never seemed to be pathways to actual matches in the way the kihon was.
Of course, we are not learning sword or jo kata so that we can go out and use the techniques in actual encounters. At least, not anymore; but my colleague had a point that originally weapons kata were developed as safe ways to learn actual (sometimes deadly) techniques that were used in that way. After memorizing the techniques in kata, just like learning the motifs of the noh flute, the students were expected to improvise, or the kata were essentially useless. Crucially, if the techniques taught in the kata were ineffective, the kata would be useless in that case as well.
Even though we do not learn koryu budo anymore to take part in actual personal combat, it is good to keep in mind the improvisational character of the traditions we labor to perfect. In actual, modern practice, perhaps it is the philosophical aspect that is the improvisation now. What are the lessons we take from our practices, and how do we use them in our actual lives?
Friday, March 1, 2013
On mindless practice
Much of what we read and hear about budo practice emphasizes the idea of mindfulness. Even in repetitive practice, if we do our repetitions with a sense of understanding the pluses and minuses of our technique, we will improve. It seems pretty straightforward.
At the same time, one hears about the idea of "mu-shin" or "no mind." I am not qualified to write about this in the meditative sense, and I may not even quite understand it in the budo sense, but I remember people trying to explain to me that "no-mindedness" means the techniques become so fluid and automatic, they can be performed effectively and almost unconsciously. It's an interesting idea, but I am not sure (a) anyone could ever really get there; and (b) why anyone would want to. So I guess that puts me in the mindfulness camp.
But there are exceptions. About 1-1/2 years ago I was at an intensive practice in Japan. The turnout was unexpectedly low, and those that did turn out were among the most senior students. The teacher, therefore, spent almost no time on any basic work (which would have been at my level), and instead began showing techniques that even some of the most senior people had never seen before. I had two choices, basically - (1) stand around and watch, uncomprehendingly; or (2) take part, still uncomprehendingly. I chose (2), of course, though I had no hope of understanding anything that was going on.
Since the turnout was small, even an uncomprehending practice partner was preferable to no practice partner, and I spent the several days being moved here and there by the different sempai - Stand, here, do this - No! Not that! I did my best, and everyone maintained good humor, though I am sure they wished they had a more competent partner available to learn what was really some very cool stuff.
During one of the breaks, one of the senior Americans present remarked, "This is 'way above your level." I was not sure what he really meant (beyond stating the obvious), but I had a ready reply.
"It sure is," I said, "but I have the advantage. You have to try and remember all of this stuff, and I'm totally not expected to."
It was true. I was having a great, incomprehensible time. I was truly unable to follow much of what was happening, but instead of feeling left out, isolated, or just plain stupid, I felt free. No obligation to remember, or try to explain the techniques to others. Instead I was feeling totally in the moment, and since someone coming at your head with a stick or bokuto is great for concentration, that is all I was doing - concentrating on the moment at hand.
After I was back in New York, I had time to mull things over, and dealt with the thought that I "didn't learn anything" at the intensive. As always, the training was a great experience, and I had a chance to see some people I had met there once again, but I really felt that it was true that I could not say that I had brought back one practical thing that I had "learned."
But I was wrong. My next intensive training session was different, with more beginner and intermediate students, and an opportunity to train better at my level. But the incomprehensible stuff was in there too. I was surprised to find that even though I still would not be able to replicate it, I actually understood what was going on. In the case of the advanced techniques that I had been introduced to 18 months ago, it was a matter of more regular practice that allowed me to break down and "see" the techniques being employed in a way I could not have done the last time. That was some kind of revelation. I could see well enough to at least be able to walk through the kata most of the time. Best of all, I think I was able to give my training partners more worthwhile experiences.
But we also did some techniques I had never been exposed to before, ever, using weapons I had never used before, and I still managed to walk through them. In typical seminar fashion, the techniques were shown once, or at most, twice, and then everyone was expected to try them, and I did as well as any other newbie there. Why could I do that? Again, I snapped back into the "no-mind" set - I observed, then imitated what I had seen, without trying to consciously think about or comprehend the techniques. And, like the last time, I cannot recall anything really about them beyond the beginning kamae, but, instead of feeling frustrated, I again felt free. And it was fun.
But I wonder, when I get the chance to try those techniques again, whether I will be equally clueless, or will I be able to "read" them because some part of my primitive brain will somehow remember them? Only one way to find out...
Make plans for next year!
At the same time, one hears about the idea of "mu-shin" or "no mind." I am not qualified to write about this in the meditative sense, and I may not even quite understand it in the budo sense, but I remember people trying to explain to me that "no-mindedness" means the techniques become so fluid and automatic, they can be performed effectively and almost unconsciously. It's an interesting idea, but I am not sure (a) anyone could ever really get there; and (b) why anyone would want to. So I guess that puts me in the mindfulness camp.
But there are exceptions. About 1-1/2 years ago I was at an intensive practice in Japan. The turnout was unexpectedly low, and those that did turn out were among the most senior students. The teacher, therefore, spent almost no time on any basic work (which would have been at my level), and instead began showing techniques that even some of the most senior people had never seen before. I had two choices, basically - (1) stand around and watch, uncomprehendingly; or (2) take part, still uncomprehendingly. I chose (2), of course, though I had no hope of understanding anything that was going on.
Since the turnout was small, even an uncomprehending practice partner was preferable to no practice partner, and I spent the several days being moved here and there by the different sempai - Stand, here, do this - No! Not that! I did my best, and everyone maintained good humor, though I am sure they wished they had a more competent partner available to learn what was really some very cool stuff.
During one of the breaks, one of the senior Americans present remarked, "This is 'way above your level." I was not sure what he really meant (beyond stating the obvious), but I had a ready reply.
"It sure is," I said, "but I have the advantage. You have to try and remember all of this stuff, and I'm totally not expected to."
It was true. I was having a great, incomprehensible time. I was truly unable to follow much of what was happening, but instead of feeling left out, isolated, or just plain stupid, I felt free. No obligation to remember, or try to explain the techniques to others. Instead I was feeling totally in the moment, and since someone coming at your head with a stick or bokuto is great for concentration, that is all I was doing - concentrating on the moment at hand.
After I was back in New York, I had time to mull things over, and dealt with the thought that I "didn't learn anything" at the intensive. As always, the training was a great experience, and I had a chance to see some people I had met there once again, but I really felt that it was true that I could not say that I had brought back one practical thing that I had "learned."
But I was wrong. My next intensive training session was different, with more beginner and intermediate students, and an opportunity to train better at my level. But the incomprehensible stuff was in there too. I was surprised to find that even though I still would not be able to replicate it, I actually understood what was going on. In the case of the advanced techniques that I had been introduced to 18 months ago, it was a matter of more regular practice that allowed me to break down and "see" the techniques being employed in a way I could not have done the last time. That was some kind of revelation. I could see well enough to at least be able to walk through the kata most of the time. Best of all, I think I was able to give my training partners more worthwhile experiences.
But we also did some techniques I had never been exposed to before, ever, using weapons I had never used before, and I still managed to walk through them. In typical seminar fashion, the techniques were shown once, or at most, twice, and then everyone was expected to try them, and I did as well as any other newbie there. Why could I do that? Again, I snapped back into the "no-mind" set - I observed, then imitated what I had seen, without trying to consciously think about or comprehend the techniques. And, like the last time, I cannot recall anything really about them beyond the beginning kamae, but, instead of feeling frustrated, I again felt free. And it was fun.
But I wonder, when I get the chance to try those techniques again, whether I will be equally clueless, or will I be able to "read" them because some part of my primitive brain will somehow remember them? Only one way to find out...
Make plans for next year!
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