Just because it's a convention doesn't mean it's right!

[I wrote this last month, but I somewhat arbitrarily forgot to post it. But then again, what difference does a day make, or a week, or a month for that matter?]


Welcome to a new year--January 1st--and yet off in the woods the new year looks pretty much like the old one did a few days ago. The blue jays are scolding me as I trudge by on the trail and the squirrels pause to look up and jump behind a tree, waiting to see whether I'm a threat. I've read that squirrels are very territorial, so I suppose these are the same squirrels that were scurrying around last

First technique of Saifa kata.

week, digging up acorns that they had buried last fall. I wonder whether squirrels are really as busy as they seem to be or whether they might be a bit like office workers rearranging the papers on their desks into neater piles, just looking busy in case the boss comes by or the wives ask where they've been all day.

But the days are already getting longer, past the winter solstice. We've turned another page on the calendar. And yet all of this business of time and calendars is a human construct, isn't it? A mass delusion, or if not a delusion at least something that we all culturally have come to agree on; that is, there's little rhyme or reason to any of it, it's just accepted. I mean, we've had lunar calendars and solar calendars and some combination of the two. Not even the seven-day week is

First technique of Seiunchin kata.

anything but arbitrary, something we have just come to agree on. In fact, for a good deal of human history we haven't even agreed upon a 24-hour day. Daniel Boorstin's book, The Discoverers, has an interesting section on all of this. Way back in 1582, they took 10 days out to correct the old Julian calendar that was off by 11 minutes and 14 seconds each year, so really I'm not even sure of the date. And in America, we didn't even accept this restructuring until Colonial times.

Anyway, all of this got me thinking about what we accept as a society, what we take for granted as we carry on with our daily lives. Actually I was thinking about all of this because I had been reading Kazuo Ishiguro's book, The Buried Giant. He describes a medieval England where strangers are  feared and the forests are filled with ogres, and mists shroud the land and bring an eerie forgetfulness. And it's all accepted as perfectly natural.

Initial technique of the first
sequence of Sanseiru kata.

It made me wonder about all of the things we accept in karate without question, all supported and bolstered by the bulwark of convention or lineage or rank. Of course,  we practice all sorts of harmless conventions in the martial arts, from the karate gi to the formalities of seiza and bowing to the shrine and pictures of those teachers who have preceded us to the use of Japanese terminology and the practice of kata. But we also practice what I can only call conventional interpretations of kata technique. And these conventional interpretations (bunkai) get passed on with very little questioning of their practicality, as if we are hesitant to question anything that most everyone else seems to be doing.

First technique of Seipai kata.

And these problematic inter-pretations are everywhere in Goju-ryu. For example: The opening technique of Saifa does
not use both of the defender's hands to pull away from an attacker's wrist grab. Why disconnect from the attacker? The opening technique of Seiunchin kata does not use both hands to release the opponent's choke hold. Why would you step towards someone who was choking you? The opening technique of Sanseiru (after the three slow punches, that is) is not used in order to block an opponent's kick and then grab the kicking foot and muscle the attacker to the ground. Why would you lean forward with your head undefended as an attacker was coming at you and then even attempt to grab a kick? The opening technique of Seipai is not a nukite to the opponent's chest--it's not a nukite at all--nor an elaborate wrist release. Why would you even think of attacking a hard target with the finger tips? And why would you take the time to weave your hands in and out of the arms of an opponent grabbing you with both hands using the techniques that follow it, as the conventional interpretation shows? There is no response to a full-nelson in Kururunfa. Try it sometime against an uncooperative opponent who's bigger and stronger.

Convention suggests that this
technique from Kururunfa is
a release from a full-nelson.

And yet these are all conventional interpretations of kata techniques. The problem is they don't make a whole lot of sense for a variety of reasons: they are too slow or they leave the defender open to attack or they don't really follow kata or they are easily thwarted by the opponent, etc. Their only reason for being is that they are the conventional interpretations, and conventions are rarely questioned.
This is not to suggest that all conventions are useless or without merit. Clocks and calendars are very useful even if they are a somewhat arbitrary means of marking time. But conventional wisdom once suggested that the earth was flat, that there was witchcraft at work in Salem, that you'd catch your death if you walked around with wet feet.

Most of the conventional interpretations of kata, I think, are, at the very least, useful in pointing out some of the pitfalls one may encounter with interpretations of kata, as ironic as that may be. And by example, they can steer us off into better directions, bushwhacking through the woods in search of a better trail.

[For a more detailed discussion of these techniques see my book, The Kata and Bunkai of Goju-Ryu, here.]

Book coming out...cross one more thing off the bucket list

This has gone through a lot of revisions, but it's finally at the printers. No more changes. Wait...no, just one more thing. Too late. I suppose that's the trouble with publishing anything; it locks it in, carved in stone. I know there are things I would revise even now, but it's taken almost two years already from when I began this book. 

Of course, I've been writing about this stuff--Goju ryu kata and bunkai--since 2002, when I published an article on the techniques of Seipai kata in the erstwhile Journal of Asian Martial Arts. And the blog posts have been fairly regular for the past few years. But this book is an attempt to put it all in one place, to discuss some of the key points of kata analysis in a more systematic way in each of the classical Goju ryu kata, from Saifa to Suparinpei, and with some reminiscences of training with some great teachers as well, teachers like Matayoshi Shinpo, Kimo Wall, and Gibo Seiki senseis.

There are a lot of books out there that illustrate a couple of kata and then throw in a few examples of applications. Then they pad out the book with oft-repeated historical information or illustrations of generic karate techniques. I've done very little of that here--after all, history, in this case, seems to be half guess-work and rehashing generic applications seems a waste of time. This book, like each of my magazine articles and blog posts, is an attempt to get at the original intent of the techniques found in the Goju ryu kata, to point out themes and explain the structures of the various kata, to show how we might better analyze kata, and how we can come to see it as a system, to see it all fit together.

What we so often see on the Internet, while wonderfully creative, can, in most cases, hardly be called realistic. And when it does seem viable, it does not follow the movements of kata and more often than not seems to ignore sound martial principles. Most of this is simply a repetition of conventional "wisdom," such as it is, and only seems to remind one of Miyagi Chojun's observation, reported by his student Genkai Nakaima in his "Memories of My Sensei": "Studying karate nowadays is like walking in the dark without a lantern." So my attempt is to offer students of karate something else. If I were merely repeating what others have done already, I wouldn't have bothered to write at all.

I've hinted at a lot of these things in blog posts over the years, but I've generally been fairly guarded about giving away "secrets." This, however, is an attempt to be far more clear and specific, with pictures to illustrate key points and descriptions of the bunkai to be found in each of the Goju-ryu classical kata. 

I'm hoping that others will read it, study it, understand the methods and principles, and that finally sharing this will help us all--me included--improve our practice and understanding of karate. North Atlantic Publishing and Blue Snake Books did a great job editing and laying out the book. It's fairly simple and straight forward, and in general pretty clear.

Anyway, it comes out the beginning of February, though you can order it now from Amazon or Barnes and Noble. Or you can get it here: https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/562446/the-kata-and-bunkai-of-goju-ryu-karate-by-giles-hopkins/9781623171995/

Seiunchin once again

Off in the woods the other day, admiring the mushrooms and toadstools that seemed to have sprung up overnight, and generally marveling at the magical quality of the woods after a rainstorm, I found myself thinking about a news story I had heard on the radio a few days earlier. The story summarized an article published in Nature about the supernova known as iPTF14hls. (Now there's a catchy name!) It's 500 million light-years away--astounding to me but that's not what the astronomers found so interesting. What was unusual, apparently, was that they expected it to act like any other supernova and gradually dim until it would fade from view--something that takes around 100 days for your average supernova. This one has exploded multiple times since 1954 and this current "explosion," if I understand it correctly, has lasted three years. What I thought was interesting, however, was that the scientists said that it defied their understanding of how stars die--that current theories couldn't fully explain what was happening. In other words, they'd have to go back to the drawing board. And that's why they sounded so excited!

Gedan finishing technique for
the four angle sequences.

I wonder how many people get that excited when they get it wrong? And why? Does it take a certain thirst for discovery or is it a simpler pleasure, a sort of pleasure in the realization that one doesn't have all the answers, that there are new frontiers, new things to learn? Or perhaps it's the moment we realize that the structure or the rules or what have you are more complex and intriguing than we first imagined.

I was thinking about all of this while I was practicing Seiunchin. I like the movements of Seiunchin, but I thought that at least this kata was one that I felt fairly secure about, that I knew the bunkai. There are, after all, only five sequences in the kata (not counting repetitions).  And it's fairly clear, I think, that the counterattacks (or receiving techniques, if you will) are all against either cross-hand grabs or two-handed pushes. Of course, if you don't see the sequences, then even this part won't make sense. But that's a whole other issue.

The beginning of the second
of the north-south sequences.

Anyway, I realized that I may have failed, after all these years, to notice something about the structure of the kata. If you understand the structure of a kata, it can explain a lot about the techniques themselves. The problem is that at least in some cases there may be a fair amount of guesswork, though just as in any scientific inquiry there are some things that indicate at the very least whether you're on the right track or not.

But what I noticed was that the sequences on the angles--since this part of the kata is constructed in an "X" pattern, the angle sequences move to the northeast, the northwest, the southwest, and the southeast, in that order--all end with a downward forearm strike to the back of the opponent's neck. (This is the technique that is sometimes referred to as a gedan barai or gedan uke.) There are four of these angles but only two different sequences since each is repeated on both the right and left sides. What is of interest here is that the downward forearm strike to the back of the neck is a finishing technique, just as it is in Seipai kata.

The beginning of the third
of the north-south sequences.

The other three sequences of the kata all occur on the north-south axis. The first of these, of course, is the opening sequence, which is partially repeated three times, with the "finishing" technique tacked onto the third repetition--the left hand wrapped around the opponent's chin and the vertical right elbow attack coming up into the back of the opponent's neck. (I've written about this in an article in the Journal of Asian Martial Arts, 2005, vol. 14, no. 2.)

The second of the north-south sequences is the high-low technique done in shiko dachi and shown on both the right and left sides. The second of these, with the right arm up and the left arm down, shows a right hand grab of the opponent's right arm and a left, low nukite attack to the opponent's ribs. This technique seems to finish with a right forearm attack and downward elbow (and one should emphasize seems).

The technique that ends the
second north-south sequence
but seems less than satisfying
as a finish technique.

The third and last of these north-south sequences is often described as two elbow attacks. (I've tried to explain this misunderstanding in my new book, The Kata and Bunkai of Goju-Ryu, due out in February 2018.) The finishing technique for this sequence is the knee attack to the head, the last technique of the kata, often described as a yama uke in cat stance (neko ashi dachi).

But structure is everything. The structure or pattern of a kata is often the key to understanding the techniques--in this case, the sequences of the kata. I had always felt that the "finishing" techniques in the first two
north-south sequences, while good, seemed less conclusive, less lethal, than many of the finishing techniques in the other classical kata or even in the third of these sequences, and this was what I was thinking a few weeks ago while I practiced Seiunchin. And then I realized that the two patterns of the kata--the "X" pattern of the angle sequences and the north-south line of the other three sequences--might show two different finishing techniques, but only two. The first one is the use of the downward forearm strike. The second is the knee kick to the head in cat stance. The supposition is that the "yama uke" and knee kick in cat stance--the last technique of the kata--is the finishing technique for all three of the north-south sequences, only it's just shown once, tacked onto the third sequence. This structure--of showing the finishing technique tacked onto the final repetition--is typical of the classical kata. It also makes the end of each sequence more lethal, finishing the sequence with a more decisive blow, if you will. And it fits. That is, it's easy to move into this final technique from the end of either of the first two north-south sequences.

The technique that may, in fact,
be the finish technique for each
of the north-south sequences.

I found this realization, though admittedly only an educated guess on my part, to be exciting, even if I had been wrong in how I had been thinking about Seiunchin all these years. Live and learn. I still don't know, however, whether it was the discovery that I found interesting or the realization that the structure of the kata was more complex than I originally thought, that whoever created this kata had been so clever at hiding something and yet keeping it right out there in plain view at the same time. It was all so fascinating. And, of course, it also reminds me that there is always so much more to learn.

It's a system, like the trees in the forest

The forest was wet today. Droplets of water collected in the leaves here and there, and the moss looked a bit brighter green after the rain we had overnight. But the temperature is dropping gradually, the days are getting shorter, and most of the trees are bare. It's hard to tell which trees are dead this time of year. The only thing that seems to be thriving is the lichen and small colonies of mushrooms clinging to the old tree trunks that lay rotting by the side of the trail. 

Saifa kata

Seipai kata

When I'm out in the woods these days, I don't usually think of the forest as an eco-system, though I know it is. I know that when the larger trees fall, after a strong rain or a heavy storm with high winds, they leave a hole in the canopy overhead and the wild grasses, the ground cover, and the acorns lying buried beneath the leaves, some waiting patiently for years, will start to grow in the spring, reaching for the sunlight that's finally been able to make its way through the leaves of the taller trees. 

Suparinpei kata

Seiunchin kata

No, when I'm out walking in the woods these days, I'm just looking for the seemingly random beauty you can find when you go out "forest bathing." Nothing seems so systematic. Everything seems chaotic and haphazard. But, of course, it is a system, just like any martial art, despite what some may imply when they suggest that a style like Goju ryu, for example, is a random collection of kata that come from different sources andwere created by different people at different periods in the past.

Kururunfa kata

Seipai kata

While this may be true (and probably is given that the structure of the Goju classical subjects varies considerably), it does not change the fact that it's a system. The different kata show variations as if they were jazz compositions, as if different composers were given the same melody and told to improvise. One need only compare techniques from different kata to see the variations, to appreciate how different techniques explore similar themes. Certainly there are differences--any given self-defense scenario may vary depending on one's position in relationship to the attacker or, for that matter, what the initial attack is--but the apparent similarity of some techniques and the fact that they are used in a very similar manner (the application or bunkai) underscores the notion that they are all part of the same system, regardless of whether or not the different classical subjects may have had different origins.

Sanseiru kata

Shisochin kata

The key here, of course, is to understand (or "see") the applications. You can't rely solely on the appearance of the techniques. This is admittedly a challenge. We have to first let go of our expectations, which may include not only what the technique appears to be, but also
what we may have been told--in other words, the conventional interpretation of the techniques in question. The problem may be compounded by texts and pictures that seem to record "end" positions; that is, it's difficult to convey in pictures or words what happens in-between the pictures one generally sees in karate manuals or texts which discuss kata, and it's often in the space between one move and the next that we see how a given technique is applied.

Saifa kata

Seipai kata

And you need the whole system. You need all eight classical kata in order to address different scenarios on the one hand and, on the other, to be able to see how to move from one technique in one kata to a similar technique in another kata if the dynamics of the situation change--and they are likely to change. That is, you need to see the similarities and variations in order to alter your counterattack. You may begin with the opening or receiving technique from Saifa (as pictured above), but you have to be able to change to the controlling or bridging technique from Seipai, for example (the bridging technique from Seipai being the technique which follows the Seipai opening technique pictured above). In other words, once you "see" the similarities and variations, you should be able to move back and forth between the techniques of each sequence of moves. This is the way a system works. Of course, you have to also be aware of the sequences. And if you can see the sequences, then you realize that the techniques within a sequence function in specific ways--that is, they can't just mean whatever you want them to mean.

Some have suggested that any single kata is a complete system of self-defense in itself. This is a rather silly notion, as is the idea that any given technique has multiple interpretations or applications. Either one of these notions gets in the way of "seeing" the whole system and being able to comfortably work within the system. Both of these views are short-sighted. Metaphorically, they're like being lost in the woods, failing to see the forest for the trees.

Well, that's about the size of it.

"Well, that's about the size of it," he said. I realized I hadn't been paying attention. I knew he was summing something up, but I didn't remember what he had been talking about. I was thinking about the conservation area where we found ourselves. I had stopped on the trail to watch a pileated woodpecker and he had been coming up from the other direction when he paused to see what had caught my attention.

The conservation area isn't very big--about 625 acres with over a hundred different bird species and five miles of trails--but it's enough to get away from the sounds of traffic and the general insanity of the world for an hour or two. But as we separated, I found myself thinking about the size of things. After all, the Fitzgerald Lake area is only a fraction of the size of the new Katahdin Woods and Waters National Monument that President Obama designated last year, all 87,500 acres, and that's supposedly only 1% of Maine's woodlands. I can't really even picture things that size. All you can say is, it's H-U-G-E.

But that got me to thinking about martial arts stuff and different systems of self defense. I once knew a guy who said he had studied Kempo (that's the only designation he gave it) for five years or so, and in that time he had learned 300,000 forms. Now, I'm thinking, there's no way in hell this is true, so I asked him to elaborate. His first "form" consisted of a head block and punch. His second "form" consisted of a chest block and punch. And so on and so on. Still, 300,000?!

One of the finishing techniques of
Shisochin kata.

I visited a Shito Ryu dojo once where they told me that their curriculum included over 50 kata. The funny thing was that when one of the black belts was asked to demonstrate a particular kata (Seipai), he demurred, saying he hadn't practiced it for quite a while and worried that he couldn't remember it.

And on the other end of the spectrum, we have Uechi with its three classical kata--Sanchin, Sanseiru, and Seisan.

So how big is Goju Ryu? There are eight classical kata--kata of ancient origin that show bunkai and embody the principles of the system--and, of course, Sanchin and Tensho (and a number of other modern training kata developed by various teachers in the 20th century). Each of the classical "bunkai" kata, for lack of a better term, explores a theme or themes of self defense and illustrates

Double-arm receiving technique
of Sanseiru kata.

them with anywhere from three to five scenarios, each sequence beginning with an uke or receiving technique and progressing to a finishing technique. Some of the themes are more obvious than others--like the double-arm receiving technique of Sanseiru paired with a couple of different controlling or bridging techniques and two or three different finishing techniques. Or the five techniques against cross-hand grabs and pushes we see in Seiunchin, though one might also look at the downward forearm strike as one of the themes of the kata since it is used in a number of the sequences.

So how big is Goju Ryu? It's hard to say. Seipai is fairly straightforward with five bunkai sequences, while Saifa has four, though one of the four is a close variation. Kururunfa also has four sequences. And Suparinpei, though it shows three complete bunkai sequences, is largely made up of the repetition of fundamental techniques, various entry and controlling techniques. How do you count fundamental or basic techniques?

One of the grab release techniques
of Seiunchin kata.

And then there's the question of structure. The sort of fragmented (or complex?) structure of some kata, like Shisochin or Sanseiru, makes them difficult to size up. Shisochin seems to show  four release techniques against a clinch or two-handed grab, with one bridging technique and two different finishes, one short and one significantly longer. But each of these sequences can be taken apart and put together in various ways. The structure itself seems to suggest variations. And really it's all about variations. Seisan kata has only three bunkai sequences but each is a variation of the same fundamental techniques--the same entry, bridging, and finishing techniques.

The really interesting aspect of this idea of themes and variations, however, is that once you see them you can not only change from one sequence to another within a given kata but also from one technique to another between different kata, moving from a receiving technique in one kata to a completely different controlling or finishing technique from another kata. So in that sense, Goju Ryu is fairly small, composed of only eight bunkai kata with a combined total of around 30 or so bunkai sequences, but almost infinitely large if you consider how the different sequences can be broken down and recombined, dependent on the dynamics of a changing situation and the exigencies of a given self defense scenario.

Too big? The fact that it is all based on themes and variations--as opposed to its being an encyclopedic collection of individual techniques--makes it manageable. Provided, that is, you can see the forest for the trees.

That's what we call y'ur basic basics

First day of Spring.

I was out snowshoeing the other day. The snow wasn't particularly deep--I think there was six or eight inches on the wooded trails--but the snowshoes made it much less of a slog. Part way up the trail I ran into an old New Englander walking his two dogs, and since the dogs were running free and charging down the trail at me, I stopped to say hello to both the dogs and their owner. And, as often happens it seems when you stop to talk off in the woods, one thing led to another and before you know it I'm getting an introduction to the trees of New England.

"That there is your basic hemlock," he said, pointing ahead to a large tree by the side of the trail. "And that over there is your basic black birch. And most of those down across there are your basic quakin' aspens." By this time, though, the dogs were off down the trail and he decided to head off after them, and I set off in the opposite direction.

I walked the first two mile loop and then, feeling energetic, I set off to run the second loop. But what I found myself thinking about was your "basic" tree. Now I know his use of the word "basic" was just a manner of speaking, but it got me to thinking about a video I had seen a few days before. The video lasted about ten minutes. There were four old men (I feel as though I can say that being one of that older group myself) in gi's and black belts doing basics. They did 20 counts each of sweeping kicks, front kicks, short punches, single forearm blocks, double forearm blocks, and chest punches, over a hundred of those, and then more double punches. The video was labeled "Basic training." And that's what got me to wondering. Why is this basic training?

Your basic block and attack from
Seipai kata.

Now admittedly, this was Shorin-ryu training, which I know next to nothing about, but it wasn't so very far from what we would see in any other dojo training any other style of karate. And maybe that's the problem: Shouldn't the training of basics train one for what is fundamental to the art or the system or the style? That is, if the essence of a martial system like Goju-ryu is contained within the classical kata--fairly obvious, I think, since Miyagi Chojun sensei seemed to suggest that the classical kata were the only things sacrosanct in the system (witness his statements at the 1936 meeting of karate masters sponsored by the Ryukyu Shinpo newspapers)--shouldn't the "basics" reflect the tenor of the classical kata? Why not take basics straight from the classical subjects and practice those instead of these generic basics we so often see at the start of any karate class? For each class one could select a different technique, one from each of the classical kata, for instance, and repeat it 10 or 20 times, with the added benefit that students would be practicing the technique on both sides. When we generally move to that part of class focused on classical kata, we do each one once or twice. That means some techniques, since there are many single techniques in the classical subjects, may be practiced once or twice in class. Multiply that times the number of times a student trains the kata and see how long it takes to get to 10,000, that magic number of mastery in any physical activity according to the journalist Malcolm Gladwell.

The longer I live, the more language seems to befuddle me. I'm not at all sure I know what basics or kihon waza are. The head block ("jodan uke") we see practiced so diligently doesn't occur in the classical kata of Goju-ryu. Of course, we see it in the Gekisai kata, but those are certainly more generic karate kata, "school-boy kata" as they are sometimes called, so how is that fundamental or basic to the practice of Goju-ryu? And when you really begin to look at the classical subjects, there aren't that many straight punches either, certainly not the preponderance of straight punches that their seemingly endless practice in basics would warrant. And why that particular chest block? And the down block? Does it change how we practice basics if we find that the down block is always used as an attack in the classical subjects of Goju-ryu? And there are probably more knee kicks in the classical kata than kicks with the foot.

Your basic block and attack from
Seisan kata.

So why does this sort of basic training still persist? When I first started training, we would practice these basic punches and blocks hundreds of times each class--we often counted around the dojo for each basic, sixty students counting to ten for each blocking or punching or kicking technique. We got very good at basic blocks, punches, and kicks. And there is certainly something to be said for developing a good stance and foundation or good body mechanics. But why the emphasis on those particular techniques, techniques that one finds in Gekisai Dai Ichi, even if one has been training for five, ten, or twenty years? Is that the essence of Goju-ryu? Are there fundamental lessons to be learned here, even though the techniques themselves have very little to do with the classical subjects? If these basic blocks and punches constitute so much of one's training, won't that affect how one sees kata and bunkai? Won't a student's interpretation of kata (bunkai) simply be a reflection of one's training? That is, if it's all block, punch, kick, that may be all one sees in kata. Is there such a thing as a basic karate kata (and here I'm asking about only the classical subjects)? What would it even mean if someone sitting at a traditional embukai were to lean over towards his neighbor and say, "That there is y'ur basic karate kata"?

Rooting in Sanchin

We used to head up to the White Mountains every Columbus Day. We'd start out early in the morning and, after a three or four hour drive, try to hit the mountain by ten in the morning. One of our favorites was the Franconia Notch trail that runs north along a knife-edge ridge that connects Mount Liberty, Little Haystack, Mount Lincoln, and Mount Lafayette. Most of the hikes in the White Mountains, at least if you're going up to the summit, are all-day affairs, but Franconia was especially nice to take the kids up when they were little, though we often had to tell long, drawn-out stories to get them all the way up. It might be Macbeth one year or Lonesome Dove the next. The rule was that every time we stopped to rest, the story stopped too. But when you get to the top, the trail along the ridge can be spectacular on a clear day; you can see down both sides and there's nothing to block the view.

One year, it was fairly warm at the bottom where we parked the car--warm for the end of October anyway--but by the time we got to the summit, there was two or three feet of snow, and it was quite a bit colder. We passed another family with a teenage daughter on the narrow path that led along the ridge. The daughter, dressed in fashionable sweatpants and a pair of pink sneakers, was sitting on a rock by the side of the trail. She was crying and sniffling and refusing to go on. She looked miserable. Her father was trying to reason with her. "You can't just stay here," he argued. But she wouldn't move. When her father suggested they turn around and go back down, she said, "No, I'm not going." When her father suggested that they continue in the direction they were going, she wailed, "No, I'm not going." Her father was clearly getting frustrated with the situation, and the girl, blaming her father for her own misery and the perceived ills of the natural world, decided she would make everyone around her as miserable as she was. She wanted another choice--one that didn't entail walking anywhere in the cold for the next few hours. The funny part--if there was anything funny about being on the top of a snow-covered mountain in the late afternoon with the only option being a four-hour hike in either direction with someone clearly not dressed for it--was how simple the situation appeared from the outside. They couldn't stay there for long, so the only choice--and they were both really the same--was which way to go down. Whether they went forward or back, it was about the same distance. It wasn't really a Hobson's Choice, but it seemed almost as simple.

We left them there, so I don't know what eventually happened to them. We continued on, but it wasn't quite the hike we had planned. The wind picked up and it started to snow. The rocky path along the ridge got more and more treacherous. However, we knew the trail, having hiked it many times before, and we knew that it would be a lot easier once we made it down to the tree line, and chances were there wouldn't be any snow down there. But up on the top, the path could be slippery, and it was no place to fall and get seriously hurt. Of course, we always tell our kids not to fall or "Be careful; don't slip," as if you had any say in the matter.

Sanchin kata

But of course, you do have some say in the matter. All you have to do is keep your feet under you. Is that a little too obvious? I would always say this half jokingly to my kids when we went hiking. That's all there is to it really, though it may be considerably harder to do than it might seem. After all, that's really, I have come to believe, a good deal of what Sanchin is about, isn't it? Balance. Rooting. Sinking. Down power. Lowering your center. How difficult should it be to just stand in sanchin dachi with your hips tucked under slightly and your center of gravity between your feet--from front to back and from side to side--and keep it there as you move and execute fairly simple techniques? Of course, your knees also have to be over your feet and slightly bent and your spine needs to be straight. It's the same thing that T'ai Chi practitioners are trying to work out when they engage in "pushing hands," I imagine. It's often said that Kanryo Higashionna was able to stand in Sanchin posture while four people pushed and pulled him from different directions. But in a piece written by Genkai Nakaima, Memories of My Sensei, Miyagi Chojun sensei tells the young student that he himself might have "performed Sanchin well only once out of 30 times" he practiced it!

Without a strong root, the tree falls.

How difficult is it? It's incredibly difficult. I think most of us tend to fall forward even when we walk, or we slump and sag and weave wherever we go. Or we work on balance and down power when we do Sanchin and that's it--that is, if we even realize we should be working on balance and rooting and down power and putting our center or mind in the tanden (dan t'ien). I think most people's Sanchin is too hard and the focus is on being hard. The martial arts is all about balance, and balance extends outward into all aspects of life. You just have to keep your feet under you. Simple really.

Shu Ha Ri: the stages of training

On a cold Sunday afternoon last week, I found myself in the woods, my scarf tight around my neck and a wool hat pulled down over my ears, listening to Michael Wojtech talk about tree bark—me and 29 or 30 other people crazy enough to stand around in the woods as if we too were weathering this first blast of winter like the trees. Mr. Wojtech, pointing out a white birch just off the trail, explained how trees breathe through their lenticels (how I understood it) or more properly how those dark, horizontal striations on the surface allow for the exchange of gases between the inside of the tree and the outside air (though I would never describe my own respiration that way). He pointed out shagbark hickories and red maples and hemlocks and quaking aspens, and explained how the trees grew and how the bark functioned. It was really quite an interesting talk, despite the cold. It gave me a much better appreciation of trees but also a sort of fascination with their “aliveness."

I don’t know why this reminded me of the martial concepts of Shu, Ha, and Ri. Perhaps because I had been rereading a marvelous little book that morning, a collection of old essays by Kensho Furuya titled “Kodo: Ancient Ways: Lessons in the Spiritual Life of the Warrior/Martial Artist.”  Furuya sensei talks of these stages in one’s training using the image of an egg. In the first stage, the student “develops in the shell…learning the form and technique.” The teacher does his or her best to pass on the techniques of the style and the student in turn does his or her best to preserve and protect what is being passed on.

In the second stage, the student “breaks out of his shell,” mastering the techniques. In this stage, the student preserves the technique but also adapts the technique to fit his or her own movement and idiosyncrasies. The kata and execution of the techniques are the same but there are also differences. The minute corrections a teacher might make in the first phase of a student’s training don’t matter as much because the student now understands the technique. The student now knows what the techniques are for, how to use them, but in order to make them work, there may be subtle differences from how the teacher executes the same techniques. This does not mean that there may not be a need to correct techniques here and there—there is always the danger that in adapting one’s technique to one’s own movement, the fundamental principles may be inadvertently ignored or subverted in one way or another. For example, as students get stronger or faster, they may find themselves unconsciously relying on strength or speed instead of technique. In some ways, I suppose, the analogy of the egg and the baby chick breaks down here—there may be a need at times to revisit that earlier stage of learning to “check” one’s technique. Perhaps there is, in fact, a constant reminder to “check” one’s technique in the same way that Kosho Uchiyama Roshi reminds us to “Sit silently for ten years, then for ten more years and then for another ten years.”

And yet there is another stage—Ri. In this stage, the student has “left the nest.” The student has transcended the technique—that is, they are not consciously thinking about the form of the technique or applying the techniques; instead, they are relying on an intuitive understanding of the principles to guide their techniques. The principles have been learned and absorbed through ruthless practice of the techniques. This understanding of the principles behind the formal movements is what guides this last stage of formal training. There are no shortcuts. But there are dangers here. You can’t just arrive at this stage because you want to, not without long hours of practice. And yet, as Dogen says of an understanding of Zen, you can’t get there unless there is a desire. 

The other danger for me comes with how we understand the principles of kata. We may know the form of the techniques, but our understanding of the bunkai—how we are meant to apply the techniques—may be, at the very least, lacking or altogether wrong. How can we understand the principles of a martial system—and the principles are, of course, preserved in the kata—if we are simply guessing about the applications of the techniques? If we don’t understand the principles, there is no “Ri.” If we don’t practice the techniques with the right frame of mind, we won’t discover how the techniques are meant to be applied. And if we don’t discover the original bunkai, we won’t find the principles. And once again, no principles, no “Ri.” 

I don't think this really had anything to do with seeing a small bird’s nest on a branch up in a nearby oak tree. What I was really thinking about on that cold walk through the woods was how we can learn to understand the principles that seem to connect things—how trees, in all of their variety, live and breathe and work at survival; how they take in water and fight off insects; how they grow and adapt to different environments. It was all based on an understanding of the principles involved. The more trees you study, I imagine, the more you see these principles manifested. And really, it all seemed so human. 

Of course, I could be wrong about all of this. After all, I'm no authority on trees either--I just enjoy them. Perhaps there is no difference whether one is working with the "original intent" of kata and bunkai or practicing block-punch-kick bunkai derived from a less traditional approach to karate; with the right frame of mind, one might still work through the stages of Shu, Ha, Ri, I suppose. When all is said and done, there may be no real difference between the formal Japanese tea ceremony—Chado or the “Way of tea,” for example—and serving up a burger and fries at McDonald’s. Or is there?

In an alternate universe...cont.

Entry technique and initial attack
from Seipai kata.

"Wait," I said. "Let's start all over again."
   "Okay," he said. "But let me point out one possible flaw in your beginning premise. You suggested that bunkai came before the creation of kata. But doesn't it really depend on how you look at the relationship between kata and bunkai? Under your scenario it really demands that you see kata as a collection of combinations--not just individual techniques--that shows how one deals with specific attacks by an opponent, from the beginning receiving technique (uke) to the finishing technique."
   "Yes," I said. "I would agree with that. Kata shows--really thematically--how to deal with single aggressive movements by an opponent; how you avoid and receive them, move to control the opponent so he cannot attack again, and how to end the confrontation."

Controlling technique from Seipai.

   "That makes sense, but why would they--whoever they were--put certain techniques together to create a particular kata?"
   "Well, it seems to me," I responded, "that they're part of a system organized around individual themes. I think based on an analysis of bunkai you could make a pretty convincing argument for this. But you could probably just as easily suggest that the katas were created by different people, at different times, though still part of the same system."
   "But just for the sake of argument," my friend suggested, "couldn't you look at kata not as a collection of sequences or combinations, but as individual techniques? Perhaps each technique is itself a receiving technique, in which case there are no combinations or complete bunkais shown."
   "But there are clearly some techniques that are attacks. How," I asked, "would you reconcile those? How could you look at the double 'punch' down attack in shiko-dachi in Seipai as a receiving technique or more pointedly without connecting it to the techniques that precede it?"
   "I guess you're right," my friend said, "but couldn't that technique be attached to a number of other techniques?"

Finishing technique from Seipai
along with the technique which
follows it.

   "Certainly," I said. "One of the end products of studying the combinations in kata, for me, is to see where they can connect to other combinations, sometimes within the same kata and oftentimes with techniques in other katas. That's why we can call it a system. For example, you could take the entry (uke) technique from one kata and pair it with the controlling technique of another kata and the finishing technique from yet another kata."
   "Okay," he said, "so there are an almost infinite number of ways to pair up techniques, but each individual technique should only be understood as having one interpretation, more or less. Is that right?"
   "Yes," I smiled.
   "Why don't more people see that then?" he asked, musing a bit to himself. "I suppose it's more fun to make up a whole bunch of cool applications. And then again, every teacher can be an authority or at least their own expert. And, I suppose, the prevailing opinion has something to do with it--that any technique from kata can mean anything as long as it works."
   "Well, as long as it works in the dojo," I laughed, "where logic doesn't always prevail and few are willing to suggest to the teacher that a technique or interpretation doesn't make sense."
   "So how we interpret kata and bunkai may really have a lot to do with our expectations," my friend suggested.
   "Yeah, maybe," I agreed. "In 1949 there was an experiment set up by two psychologists at Harvard to test people's perceptions when faced with a reality that contradicted their expectations. Students were shown playing cards and asked to identify them as they were flipped over. Most of the cards conformed to exactly what one would expect, but the experimenters had also slipped in cards that one wouldn't expect, like a red six of spades and a black four of hearts. When the cards were turned over quickly, the subjects simply ignored the incongruities, calling the red six of spades a six of hearts, for instance. When the cards were turned over more slowly, the subjects were just plain confused and 'completely flummoxed'" (cited in The Sixth Extinction by Elizabeth Kolbert, p. 92).
   "So the real problem when we look at kata," he said, "may be that we tend to find what we expect to find. So what's the solution?"
   "Make sure it's logical. Make sure it's real. Make sure it conforms to sound martial principles."

Idle ramblings and word associations

Practicing Gwa in
Matayoshi's dojo.

It's easy to teach kata, I suppose, and you can pick up lots of bunkai fairly easily off YouTube. Of course, it doesn't mean the bunkai is any good or that the kata is done correctly. So how do you know what you're getting?

Matayoshi sensei was very proud that the tradition of kobudo in his family went back generations. He showed me a family tree once, tracing his family back four hundred years. I'm not sure they all practiced kobudo, but the martial tradition in his family did go quite far back in time. And the point was, as he said, that once upon a time there were many many different martial traditions, but over time they got pared down. The bad ones died off, because in the old days you had to use your martial arts to survive. If
you didn't survive the battle or the confrontation, neither did your martial art. Those who survived passed their systems on to others. The problem is that that same natural weeding out of what's good and what's bad doesn't really exist today; we don't generally use our martial arts in battles or confrontations of the sort that might have been more commonplace in ancient times. Nowadays anybody can put a shingle out and teach martial arts without having to put it to the test, without having anyone question the techniques.

How one steps and turns
is very important in
executing this bunkai
 from Shisochin correctly.

I once learned a bo kata from a friend who trained in a traditional Uechi dojo. As a rule, they didn't do very much kobudo--after all, kobudo is really a separate tradition--but their teacher had taught them this one bo kata. I spent about 30 minutes following my friend through the moves of the kata before I realized that it was Sakugawa-no-kon, a kata I already knew. What confused me was the fact that they had been taught the mirror-image of the kata; everything was backwards. Not that there's anything wrong with doing a kata backwards, but I suspect that the teacher had taught himself from watching a video.

You can certainly learn a lot from videos. We live in a very technological age. I've often heard people say that you can find anything on the Internet. And many people are quite adept at navigating through all of that information. The problem is that some things can't be taught through videos. There are some things I have trouble teaching students in the dojo. You have to see it and realize what you're seeing in order to practice it. You can teach the moves, but not the movement. I'm reminded of some of the principles talked about in the Chinese classics and that can be found in Douglas Wile's T'ai-chi Touchstones: Yang Family Secret Transmissions. Here are a few:

"All the joints of the body should be connected without permitting the slightest break." "Power issues from the back." "At all times bear in mind and consciously remember that as soon as one part of the body moves the whole body moves." "Do not allow gaps." 

This movement from Saifa is really
the start of the third sequence, but
it occurs in-between the techniques
that we usually recognize. We don't
turn and face the opponent to then
execute the hand techniques. The
turns in kata show how to step
off the line of attack.

It's all so poetic and cryptic because it's difficult to teach...and just as difficult to talk about. It's almost as if the phrases are only reminders, only useful if you already understand what they mean.
And the really interesting thing is that the katas--and more importantly the bunkai of the various kata--reinforce this kind of movement. In fact, to do the bunkai to the Goju-ryu classical subjects, you have to move this way. In a way, a correct analysis of the kata (bunkai) demands that you understand the lessons contained within the movements of the kata.The most obvious movements are how you get from one technique to the next technique. But the turns and changes of direction are also important in most cases. As someone once pointed out, an awful lot occurs between the movements of kata. So often I see bunkai that ignores the stepping that occurs in the execution of the same technique in kata, as if the body and the hands are disconnected from the feet. It seems to me that people often content themselves with practicing the hand techniques of karate only. If they use the feet, it's only to kick. The stepping and turning in karate, however, are integral to a proper understanding of bunkai, as well as a lesson in how to move. Without a proper understanding of movement, kara-te really is just "empty hands."

Chest punches in traditional martial arts?

We were sittin' around the campfire one night, after the horses had been fed and hobbled, and Pokey the cook had heated up some beans, when I turned to Clem and said, "It's awful quiet out there." Clem nodded his head sorta serious like and said, "Yeah, too quiet."

Attacking the head in
Saifa kata.

So I was reading posts on the Internet again.... I ask myself, why do I do that?? I'm reminded of something I once read. I think it was a criticism of the telegraph by Henry David Thoreau. My goodness, what a wonderful invention it must have seemed. It connected the whole country. People in Maine could suddenly talk to folks in Texas. The only problem, it seems, is that they had nothing to say. Radios, telephones, the Internet. I recently got a smart phone. Whenever I text someone I find that the phone is so smart that it knows what I want to say before I say it! It's truly amazing. Or maybe it's because we don't really have that much to say...or that much that needs saying.

So I was reading this blog post and it was discussing chest punches in the traditional martial arts. The suggestion was that traditional martial arts show so many chest punches--and when you look at the classical kata of Goju-ryu you will find only chest punches--because, and I'm paraphrasing here, it's safer and teaches one to train "at the correct range" (the poster suggested) and in so doing we are sort of forced into "making [our] training more realistic and practical" and thereby "doing it with reasonable safety from injury."

So let me get this straight. The original creators of kata put in only chest punches because they were safer, right? But if that's true, why didn't they make all of the other quite deadly techniques safer to

Attacking the head in
Seiunchin kata.

practice against an opponent? Actually, I'd rather turn that around a bit. Why preserve something in kata that's not the actual technique? Are the chest punches supposed to be "hidden" head punches--that is, you practice chest-level punches in kata but you're really supposed to raise them to head-level in reality, but that's too dangerous in the dojo so we practice chest-level??? And our dojo partners, what are they practicing? Are they practicing blocking a chest-level punch that in reality would be to head-level and so all of their practice of chest-level blocks is sort of pointless? Boy, this gets confusing. Does all of that make sense? Are you making something "more realistic" and "safer" at the same time? What about it is "realistic"? Is it that we allow ourselves to throw "realistic" punches with full power and speed at someone's chest but not at their face? But aren't we supposed to be practicing control in the dojo as well?

The same blog post prefaced this rather lengthy discussion with this: "I believe the answer is rather more simple.  It's all about training at the correct range...." Well, it is simple, but it's not about "correct range." My goodness, as we get more skilled, we should be able to punch to the face at close range and not paste each other!!!

If you want simple, consider that the closed-fist punches are all chest-level punches because they are to the head!!! It's just that the head has been brought down to that level. In Goju-ryu classical kata, we practice blocking/receiving techniques against the upper-level punches of an opponent. But receiving techniques (uke) are predominately circular, so this may be hard to see at times. And then each receiving technique is generally followed by a controlling or bridging technique. These
techniques generally go for the opponent's head or neck, and, sometimes alone or coupled with a kick, they are most often used to bring the opponent's head down. Once the head is brought down, this is where you will see the application of the straight, closed-fist punch. In order to really see any of this, you have to see that the Goju-ryu classical kata are composed of combinations of techniques--all of the combinations start with a "block" or receiving technique and end with a finishing technique. If you see a straight punch to the chest in kata--as you do at the end of Saifa kata, for instance--you should assume that it's a punch to the head and ask yourself how you got the head into that position. Then back up the sequence until you find the initial block or receiving technique. Simple, right? Well, yes, at least he was right about that.

And with that, I spread out my bedroll, said goodnight to Clem and Pokey the cook, and caught some shut eye, thinking maybe tomorrow we'd come across somethin' a wee bit more interestin'.