Unravelling The Cords: The Instructions of a Master in the Tradition of Taisha-ryu

 

 

 

 

 

Unraveling The Cords: The Instructions of a Master in the Tradition of Taisha-ryu 
Georgi Krastev & Alex Allera (authors), Yamamoto Takahiro (contributor)

476 pages

Hardcover and softbound

2023

Available through Amazon and the Purple Cloud Institute

I have finished reading the most insightful book I have ever encountered on budo thought and philosophy. “Unravelling the Cords: The Instructions of a Master in theTradition of Taisha-ryū” by Georgi Krastev & Alex Allera, with significant assistance from Yamamoto Takahiro (Contributor). Krastev and Allera are longtime students of Taisha Ryu, and Yamamoto is a shihan of Taisha Ryu. They know the ryuha, and at least as important in this case, they know the literary and cultural background of the author they are translating.

What they are translating is Nakano Shumei’s 17th century treatise, “Taisha Ryu Kaichu.” Taisha Ryu is a sister art to the more well-known Yagyu Shinkage Ryu. Like Yagyu Shinkage Ryu, Taisha Ryu was founded by a menkyo kaiden student of Shinkage Ryu founder Kamiizumi Ise-no Kami Nobutsuna, in this case, Marume Kurando. Nakano Shumei was a late 17th century master of Taisha Ryu, and he wrote the Kaichu to help later generations better understand and practice the art.

The translation of Taisha Kaichu and other writings by Nakano Shumei is excellent, and makes up about a quarter of the Unraveling the Chords. A history of Taisha Ryu and Nakano Shumei, along with the discussion of the Buddhist, Daoist, and Confucian thought that flows through Nakano’s writing takes up about half of the book, and reference materials, including the original Japanese for all of Nakano’s writings, makes up the last quarter of the book.

Until this volume was published in 2023, Taisha Ryu Kaichu was unknown outside of a few scholars of Taisha Ryu. Like the Heiho Kadensho by Yagyu Munenori of Yagyu Shinkage Ryu, it is a treasure of information and budo wisdom. The authors of Unraveling the Chords have done a masterful job of not only translating Taisha Ru Kaichu, but also locating it in the history of Chinese and Japanese philosophical thought. Through extensive footnoting, the authors have made clear just how much an education in these philosophical concepts is needed to truly understand their subject. They point out where seemingly mundane phrases are references to important philosophical concepts that transform the meaning of what is being read.

Knowing neither ‘Enemy’ no ‘I’

Serene is made the twilight sky

By wind rustling the pines.

                                        Page 178

This is the last of fifty teaching poems by Nakano Shumei contained in the Kaichu. It seems straightforward, yet the authors of Unraveling the Chords took half a page just to list all of the references contained in this brief poem. Without the copious footnotes, the meaning of the Kaichu and all of the other things translated would be completely missed by readers.

In addition to the translation, the authors provide more than 200 pages of history, as well as explanations of the Buddhist, Daoist, and Confucian ideas and concepts that are necessary to understand Nakano Shumei’s writings. Alone, this necessary background should be a requirement for anyone who is serious about understanding the mental and philosophical aspects of the Japanese martial arts. As a companion to the widely known and generally misunderstood Book of Five Rings by Miyamoto Musashi, Heiho Kadensho by Yagyu Munenori, or any of the writings of the zen master Takuan Soho, this book is an invaluable resource.

I’ve read all of these books many times, but after reading the Unraveling the Chords, I find myself really seeing them for the first time. What Krastev, Allera, and Yamamoto have done is lay out much of the philosophical world that these volumes were written in, and give the reader the chance to begin drawing sophisticated connections. The discussion of the much abused terms setsuninto and katsujinken is remarkable. Rather than being terms that Takuan and Yagyu came up with in their discussions of budo, these are ancient ideas from Buddhist thought that carry a great deal more meaning than the simple translations usually seen of “death dealing sword” and “life giving sword”. There is far too much to attempt here, but the depth brought to these concepts is eye-opening.

This is a treasure for all practitioners of budo, whether classical or modern. The clear explanations of topics that have been presented in translations of other books that do not contain the accompanying history and philosophical explanation make reading this book a must. I am rereading all of my classical budo texts, and what I have learned from reading Unraveling the Chords has made all of them completely new books for me.

This is simply the most important text on budo that I own. I cannot recommend it strongly enough. You could buy it from Amazon if you had to, but if you can, I recommend buying it directly from the publisher so they get as much support as possible from the sale.

 

Thanks to Deborah Klens-Bigman for editing the mess I gave her.

Seitei versus Koryu

by 田所道子, copyright 2017

A friend asked me to contrast seitei systems and koryu systems in Japanese budo, and their relative benefits and drawbacks. “Seitei” are standardized systems, generally practiced by large organizations that intend to create a common standard for rank testing and competitions. “Koryu” are classical systems, generally defined as having been founded prior to the end of the Tokugawa Shogunate in 1868. Seitei are used by organizations that can be global in reach, such as the International Judo Federation, the International Kendo Federation and the International Naginata Federation. Koryu are generally small groups ranging from fewer than 10 people, to a few hundred or a thousand.

The advantages of standardized training systems are straightforward. Everyone knows what is expected. The syllabus and the path to promotion are clearly defined. Since it is standardized, you know that anywhere you go in the organization, people will be doing the same thing in the same way, and that your experience and rank will be respected. Because the decisions about rank are made by the organization, you should be able to clearly see and define differences between ranks. If you run into a personality issue in one dojo, it is not difficult to move to another dojo training the same curriculum. The biggest benefit is that there are many people pushing against each other to improve, so there is a great deal of experimentation in how to teach things, and successful techniques are shared widely, making the teaching ever more effective. A similar benefit for the art is that people are naturally competitive, comparing themselves to others in the organization and finding more ways that they can improve. Actual competition deserves its own essay.

Koryu is the antithesis of a standardized practice. There have been thousands of koryu throughout history, and there may be a couple of hundred that remain today. They each have their own prescribed kata, and the variety is amazing. Not just unarmed combat, sword arts and naginata (similar to a glaive), but somewhere in the syllabus of one of these koryu you’re likely to find methods for fighting with nearly anything that was recorded as being a weapon in Japanese history. Koryu are personal rather than organizational. Koryu’s strength is actually this lack of standardization. The kata are there, but they are not carved in stone, or even really printed on paper. Koryu grow and evolve as their practitioners explore new ideas and pathways. Different groups doing koryu of the same origin are free to go in different directions. This flexibility and adaptability mean that healthy koryu never stop evolving. It is much easier for a koryu to modify or add to its syllabus than it is for a large organization where everything is codified and overseen by committees that have to come to agreement about how things will be done. Koryu can adapt quickly to changes in the world around them.

Large, standardized, organizations are large, standardized, organizations. This means that they come with all the baggage of any large bureaucracy. There are internal politics and petty fights to satisfy petty egos. They tend to be rigid and have difficulty with change, even when the path they’re on is clearly heading off a cliff. All that standardization that makes it possible for people to freely train with each other also tends to drive things down narrower and narrower roads. The effort to match the ideal of the standardized kata often means that anything that strays from that limited model is deemed “wrong”. This makes cross-training difficult because you will be criticized for anything that bleeds through from other systems, styles, or schools into the standardized set. I find this a particular issue because I sincerely believe that martial arts whose practitioners don’t cross-train are doomed to fade and die in weakness and irrelevancy. Cross training in martial arts isn’t optional. It’s necessary. 

 

Where I mouth off about a lot of things!

The rigidity of the bureaucracies includes another problem: ego building. The one thing that is truly required for someone to become the head of a group, section, division, or even an entire international organization is that they want the job. Competency is not a requirement. Look at all the big companies that have been run into the ground by incompetent CEOs. Then combine this with an unhealthy dose of ego and you get all sorts of problems. People argue and fight over who’s going to be in charge. They fight because their self-esteem is so small that they feel threatened by anyone who is competent. I find organizational politics to be so petty and contrary to every reason that I do martial arts that my reaction is to go somewhere else. I have great respect for competent people who are willing to put up with organizational politics in order to preserve and grow what is worthwhile in the organization. 

Another weakness of organization budo is the tendency to mistake technical skill for individual maturity and organizational ability. Too often, the people who are the most technically skilled, the ones who can win in competition, are the people who end up at the top of the organization. The traits required to develop great personal skill are very different from the traits required to effectively manage an organization. Just because someone has a great  o soto gari doesn’t mean they should be put in charge of anything. Look at the people who become great coaches and managers in team sports. Very rarely were they great players. Many baseball general managers come up out of the minor leagues without ever playing in the major leagues. Playing and managing are unrelated skills. Respect those who develop great personal skill, but don’t put them in charge. In budo organizations though, it is far too common for people with high rank but little organizational and managerial skill to be given positions of responsibility. Then things get messy. 

Koryu don’t generally suffer from the problem of the best technicians rising to the top. They do suffer from the problem of not having clear standards for when someone is ready for the next step in learning or responsibility. It all depends on the soke’s or shihan’s ability as a teacher, leader, and organizer. If the current leader is good at these things, then likely this generation of the ryuha will do well and flourish. If they’re not, the leader’s incompetence could kill a ryuha that has survived for hundreds of years. If the leader isn’t a skilled teacher, critical elements of a ryuha’s curriculum and pedagogy can be lost. If the leader can’t manage people, they can end up creating jealousy, anger, and frustration among the ryuha’s members. A teacher who plays favorites, or plays students against each other can seriously weaken and even destroy a koryu. 

Koryu lack the quality control of a large organization’s clear, easily evaluated, standards. The standards all exist in the leader’s mind. They aren’t clearly written out, argued over by committees of experts, and easily evaluated. If the leader is great technically, but not good at teaching and evaluating students, the quality of the skills the ryuha teaches can deteriorate and the teacher can end up hurting it even more by elevating unqualified students. The end result is that unqualified people end up leading, and the ryuha slides towards death.

Another weakness that destroys koryu is their relative isolation. Koryu practitioners don’t have to get out and deal with people from other groups. They can stay in their dojos and only deal with people who do the same koryu. They don’t even have to deal with people from slightly different branches of the same ryuha who are trying different interpretations. The result can be ryuha that gradually become duller and duller, losing the sharp skill levels that competition and contact with a variety of different practitioners brings. Koryu where the practitioners don’t get out and train with outsiders will get insular and weak. Practitioners who don’t train with outsiders from time-to-time don’t have their assumptions and skills challenged. Cross-training challenges us and polishes us just as abrasives sharpen a sword. Without active competitions and large training seminars, koryu risk becoming dull and weak.

There are small groups that work to keep people in slowly diverging lineages in touch with each other and training together. They work to prevent practitioners from getting isolated and stagnating. They don’t impose a single, standard way, but provide people with the opportunity to test and explore their ideas with people who will challenge them to find the optimal way of doing things. There’s never agreement on what’s optimal, and that’s a good thing. That means that the testing and exploring won’t end. Isolation and elitism are the path to extinction for koryu budo.

When people are involved, nothing will ever be perfect. Koryu and seitei budo organizations all have faults. The biggest ones are that they are run by fallible, egotistical, humans. In koryu and seitei groups, human weaknesses and faults find different ways to express themselves. It’s up to those of us who love and value budo to resist these human traits that can tear down everything that decades and centuries of effort have created. More than 99% of the ryuha in the Bugei Ryuha Daijiten are extinct. Part of our training is our effort to maintain healthy organizations and push back against our inherent human faults so future generations can experience the growth that training in good budo provides.

 

Special thanks to Deborah Klens-Bigman Ph.D. for editorial support and bad idea busting.

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When The Senior Is You

 

Adam Grandt, Deborah Klens-Bigman, Kiyama Hiroshi, Peter Boylan.  Photo copyright Peter Boylan 2023

I still remember clearly, the first time at the judo dojo in Omihachiman, Japan, that we lined up to bow in and there was no one to my right. I was so shocked at being the senior on the mat that I promptly forgot half the commands that the senior calls out at the beginning of practice. Thank goodness the dohai on my left remembered them and was kind enough to whisper them so I didn’t look like too much of an idiot. Maybe I should have realized that this could happen and made a point to really memorize the commands, but I never in my wildest imagination thought that I would be the senior person on the mat. Fortunately, on that occasion it didn’t last very long: about 10 minutes into practice a sempai showed up and I was quite happy to have someone else be responsible. 

Being the senior in the room is one of those things that happens slowly, and then suddenly. We start training and we have no idea what we are doing. As the weeks go by and we get a sense of how things work in the dojo we don’t have to know much and we don’t have any responsibility. As the weeks turn into months we start learning some of the basics and we’re able to contribute a little to the dojo besides our dues and our ignorance. As the months turn into years we find ourselves helping beginners figure out that they need to step with their other left foot, how to take a fall or a strike, how to do the warm-ups and what the dojo etiquette is. 

Gradually our place in the lineup shifts towards the deep end without us doing anything more special than showing up for practice regularly and putting some effort into learning what sensei is teaching. If you’re lucky, sensei will help you learn the senior ropes and maybe even have you teach occasionally while she watches so you can get some experience at the front of the room and start feeling the weight of being responsible for teaching well and making sure everyone finishes practice in health as good as when they started.

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 It’s not uncommon though, to be taking your time edging your way up the seniority ranks, when you show up to practice and sensei is out sick, or one sempai has to work late, or another has child raising duties…no one knows where the others are, but you’re in charge! 

Dennis Hooker, the late founder of Shindai Dojo was fond of saying when asked how you become a senior martial artist: “Don’t die and don’t quit!” - that, and a little genuine effort to learn your art are all it really takes. Seniority certainly doesn’t take talent. If that were required I would still be a white belt.

Becoming a senior student is something that happens if you don’t quit and you don’t die. Succession in the martial arts is fraught with ego, but first you have to not quit and not die. One of the arts I train in, Shinto Hatakage Ryu Iai Heiho, very nearly ceased to exist when the soke passed away, and then a month later his son and successor was killed in an automobile accident. Suddenly my teacher, Kiyama Hiroshi, was the most knowledgeable person practicing Shinto Hatakage Ryu.  He didn’t set out to be the head of the system. He was just learning it as best he could by copying what Noda Shihan was doing. 

It doesn’t take planning and desire to become a senior; it takes the quiet dedication to show up for practice day in and day out. Then one day you don’t do anything new and suddenly you’re the senior in the room.

I’ve seen lots of people so desperate to be the senior at the top of the heap that they will start their own organization or even invent their own art. Somehow folks imagine being the senior is a glorious parade where everyone treats you with deference and you can do what you want. Being senior is the opposite of glorious. 

What is often missed in training is that increases in rank aren’t rewards. They are weighted with responsibility. Every time you move up in rank, the responsibilities become a little heavier. As a white belt my responsibilities were to show up, and if I got to the dojo early, make sure I was on the floor sweeping it before anyone senior to me could show up and grab the broom. As you get more senior you get more responsibility. Maybe you start handling some of the record keeping, or you’re taking care of the bookkeeping. Then you start teaching occasionally. Then one day sensei asks you to take a regular spot on the teaching roster. 

Rank doesn’t equal privilege. Rank equals responsibility. Kiyama Sensei passed away in September. That means that three of us who have been around long enough without quitting are suddenly responsible for everything that he taught us. We are responsible for teaching all the principles that he shared with us to the very fullest of our ability. We are responsible for Shinto Hatakage Ryu Iai Heiho. We are responsible for whether this ryuha and these teachings live and contribute to another generation or are forgotten and lost forever.

That’s what happens when you become senior. You get the responsibility. Deborah Klens-Bigman, Kawakami Ryusuke and I received this responsibility. If we fail, then Shinto Hatakage Ryu Iai Heiho becomes just another footnote in some books.

Everyone who does budo, whether koryu or gendai, has this responsibility to a certain extent. We are all responsible for the arts we train in. We are responsible to those who gave their time to teach us, and we are responsible to those who take the time to learn from us. Our rank just tells us how much responsibility we bear.

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 In an art like judo or kendo or aikido, with plenty of dojos around, you don’t have to worry much about being responsible for the survival of the art. You still have the responsibility to your teachers and the other members of the dojo. If you’re teaching, you have responsibility to your students, and the responsibility to carry on the traditions of the dojo and to pass on the understanding of your teachers. That would be plenty of responsibility for anyone. Those who climb to the highest echelons of an art take on the responsibility of seeing that the art that is passed on to the next generations is a strong, healthy one.

Small styles like Shinto Hatakage Ryu are wonderful jewels. There are perhaps 200 small ryuha surviving in Japan. Many of them have only two or three or even just one dojo with a handful of students. In such an environment it doesn’t take long to find you have a lot of responsibility. When you're at the top, you’re responsible for everything in the dojo, from teaching the classes to making sure the toilet works. If you belong to a small koryu you might discover that you have at least some of the responsibility for the art living into the next generation. 

That’s what happens when you’re the senior.

The Role Of Competition In Budo

 

Final of All-Japan Judo Championships in 2007   Photo Copyright Gotcha2. Used under GNU Free Documentation License.

There is a continual discussion in budo about the importance of competition. The argument for competition has two prongs. The first is that you have to learn to perform techniques under stress, and competition is the best way to pressure-test technique.  The second is that you have to learn  to deal with the unexpected and the only way to do that is in a competitive situation. I agree  that you have to be able to perform under stress and that you have to be able to deal with the unexpected.  If you’re not learning to do things when you are stressed, and you’re not learning to deal with the unexpected, you’re not learning budo.

I’ve heard a lot of people expound on the stress benefits of competition. The desire to win ramps up the stress, and in judo or full contact karate, the fact that effective technique can hurt, and may even leave you unconscious, ramps it up further. Add the frustration that builds when your adversary prevents your technique from being effective and the stress level can get pretty high. You can certainly learn something about stress in competition.

I know that for most of the time I was competing I found competition stressful. I would get anxious and it would become harder and harder to stay still and not fidget as the match approached.  I had to learn to apply breathing and relaxation techniques in order to control the stress so I didn’t become tense and lose my ability to move flexibly and quickly. 

Once the match starts the tension can get worse. The more skilful the adversary, the more frustration and stress. It’s a quick check on students getting cocky about the strength of their technique. It is one thing to practice a technique on a partner who isn’t resisting, and another thing to try to throw someone who is trying to throw you. The experience of learning to flow from technique to technique is great. The dynamism and volatility of competition are excellent experiences for many people.

As Rory Miller so eloquently points out in Meditations On Violence, every training methodology includes a fail. That is, there is always a way in which what you are doing fails, and specifically doesn’t mimic the real world. In competition, it’s that fact that there are rules limiting what you can do, and what your partner can do to you. The possibilities are artificially limited so people can compete with a reasonable expectation that they will be safe and healthy at the end of the competition. Just think of all the techniques that are excluded. Or the protective gear that is worn. Then there is the referee who is there to award points, but also to make sure no one does anything harmful.

This is a safe environment to train in. And the stress level never gets too high because we know it is safe going in. As much as it is a pressure-testing experience, the fact that we don’t have to worry about someone taking a shot at our throat or eyes, or attempting to destroy our knees or elbows means that we’re not experiencing anywhere near the pressure of dealing with someone who genuinely wants to harm us.

There are different kinds and levels of stress. I’ve never seen evidence that competition can rise to anywhere near the level of stress and fear and adrenaline dump that a confrontation outside the tournament area and outside the tournament rules produces. When someone swings a knife at you, the feeling in your gut is quite different from the one when someone is trying to pound you with the ground or choke you unconscious in a tournament. The fear and the adrenaline hit you  much harder. That doesn’t make competition useless; we just shouldn’t think it can do something it’s not specifically designed for.

 

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One of the best things about competition is that it is fun. We enjoy it, whether it’s a friendly match in the dojo where no one is keeping score, or it is a national level tournament, we enjoy competition. Competition is so much fun that people will come back to train again and again just so they can have the fun of competing, both in tournaments with medals and trophies, and in friendly bouts in the dojo. Competition is a great motivator for many people, but it’s not combat preparation and we shouldn’t pretend it is. 

There are lots of ways stress can be induced in training. I know the most stressed I’ve ever been in the dojo wasn’t some sort of competition. Some of the most intense stress I’ve experienced was the day my teacher swapped out his wooden sword for a metal one during jodo practice. I’ve made plenty of mistakes during practice that resulted in me getting whacked with a wooden weapon. Some of the bruises have been spectacular. When Sensei swapped out the bokuto for a metal blade though, I broke out in a sweat. If I screwed up, the consequences could have been a lot more severe than a nasty bruise. 

Other ways stress can be induced: Train into exhaustion. Ramp up the speed. Increase the intensity. Yes, even compete. Don’t imagine that any of these comes close to combative stress. The closest I’ve come to feeling stress equal to what I’ve felt in real confrontations was in kata practice. Paired kata training as is done in koryu bugei has consistently generated the most stress-filled training I’ve done. It can range from very gentle walk-throughs to adrenalin rush inducing intensity. It all depends on what your partner is giving you.

My koryu teachers have never given me more than I can handle, but they have been more than happy to give me more than I thought I could handle. They ask me to put as much as I can into practice, and sometimes that includes dragging me past the edge of what I perceive as my ability into frightening new territory. That’s part of their role. In koryu the senior is responsible for taking the losing role. It is the senior's job to control the speed and intensity of training so the junior gets as much from the training as is possible.

One of the complaints that people make about kata training is that you know exactly what is going to happen. In good training that is, and isn’t, true.I was strongly reminded of that recently. I was working with a senior teacher who would attack into any opening I left while doing the kata. I got whacked on the head with his fukuro shinai in places where it’s not called for in the kata. It was good kata training. He showed me openings I was leaving as I did the kata. In most instances I was too focused on one aspect of the kata and he attacked where my awareness wasn’t. 

Talk about inducing stress! My stress level went well above what I have felt in competition. It was a lot like randori because I never knew when he would spot an opening and fill it with his sword. Thank goodness it was a fukuro shinai; a bokuto would have left colorful bruises in a number of places.

This way of practicing kata is a great one, and it provides the same sense of uncertainty that competition does. In koryu kata practice, your partner is supposed to be trying to kill you. It makes sense that they would attack any opening you leave, not just move with the choreography of the kata. Uchi’s intention to attack you anywhere they can is important for making the kata practice as effective as possible. In koryu kata the role the junior person takes is the winning side, and the choreography of the kata on their side is the optimal set of techniques for the situation. That doesn’t mean the senior, in the role of uchi, should just go  along and forget about any attacks that are specified. In good kata practice, uchi is always looking for additional opportunities to attack. If the junior does a good job, there won’t be any. Since the junior is in the process of learning, they will make mistakes, leave openings, and get attacked. If you practice kata correctly, the planned actions are the logical ones. If you don’t, other options present themselves.  Or not.

The element of unpredictability and spontaneous action is what gives competition its real value, but the  stress level of competition isn’t any greater than many other exercises. Competition involves  learning to see openings and to close them. Learning to deal with unexpected attacks and how to prevent them. Learning to flow from one action to the next without pausing and without leaving openings. That’s where the real value of competition is. I just don’t think that it’s the only way, or even the best way, to learn these things. 

The rules that make safe competition possible also limit its value for learning to deal with spontaneous action. Too many options are artificially eliminated. Judoka get used to nothing coming at their faces and not having to worry about strikes. Karateka don’t have to worry about opponents closing with them. No one learns to deal with weapons attacks. No one learns to deal with asymmetrical situations where people are armed differently.

In competition everything has to be fair.  No one would show up for a competition where you don’t know if you or your opponent will be armed or unarmed, or even armed similarly. That wouldn’t be fun, and it wouldn’t be a fair comparison of skills. It would be much more realistic though.  And more dangerous!

I think that too much concentration on competition will render one blind to everything that is not allowed in competition. A little competition for the purpose of learning to be spontaneous and flow  isn’t bad. Too much focus on competition and you risk training the things that aren’t allowed in competition right out of your system. If you ignore all the stuff that isn’t allowed in competition, very soon you aren’t doing budo. You’re only doing sport. Kata training can fill in some of the gaps. Budo training doesn’t need competition to be effective.

 

Special thanks to Deborah Klens-Bigman, Ph.D., for editorial support.

The Emperor Has No Clothes

 

 

 

“His technique surpassed human ability.”

“This is exactly how ****** Sensei did it. We want to do it exactly as he did.”

“Nobody can ever equal ******* Sensei.”

“My karate teacher’s teacher was the best ever, that’s why our system is the best!”

“******* was unbeatable.”

“He was a living kami.”

“If he says it works, it must work.”

 

Teachers who can’t be questioned, for whatever reason, are dangerous to their students and themselves. They seem to inexorably fall into the trap of believing their own propaganda. It happens all the time, in all sorts of arts. As soon as students start going along with whatever sensei does because sensei’s technique is the ultimate, the perfect, the divinely inspired (take your pick), teachers are trapped in an ugly downward spiral.

 The problem for the teacher is that since their students always go along with sensei’s technique, the sensei stops getting honest feedback with regard to their training and teaching. As a result, the teacher’s technique inevitably begins to deteriorate. They can’t avoid it. Any time their technique wasn't right they would feel more resistance, which would tell them they need to sharpen fundamental practice and technique. When their students always go with the flow, the sensei never gets that feedback, and therefore never experiences a technique working less than perfectly. As a result, the sensei has no way to know if their skills are sharp or dull.

 The result is the teacher’s technique gradually becomes duller and duller. However, this can’t be blamed entirely on the teacher. The students are lying to themselves and their teacher about the quality of the techniques. Without opportunities to train with people who recognize a teacher’s imperfections, the only possible result is a slow deterioration of the teacher’s skills. 

 This is sad for the teachers and the students.

 There is a phenomenon in martial arts of students deifying teachers. It can happen in any art with superlative practitioners and teachers. In the world of Japanese budo I’ve seen it in both gendai and koryu arts, and it’s a sad phenomenon no matter where it happens. Budo teachers are human, maybe especially human.

 To be a martial arts teacher is to have a high degree of skill.  Being skilled at martial arts means possessing a certain type of power. Those with skill are seen as being able to subdue, control, or just plain beat into the ground anyone who threatens them. A few people with bad attitudes and/or impulse control problems are even seen as being dangerous to just about anyone because they won’t wait to be threatened. They’ll pick the fight just because they are confident they can do it without getting hurt themselves.

 As a kid growing up, the power to physically subdue someone, or pound them into the ground, was a very attractive power. I was a skinny kid with allergies and not a clue how to relate to other people, so I was picked on. A lot. I didn’t realize it then, but later I figured out that I caused a lot of the issues just by being so socially inept. That doesn’t make the schoolyard abuse any better, and while I was going through it I fantasized about having the superpower of being unbeatable. It was a wonderful daydream.

 The temptation to revel in power is strong. I understand that temptation. When I started training Kodokan Judo in college, the realization that I was becoming good at grappling was shocking, and the temptation to abuse this ability was powerful. In my case, my friends and sempai were more than happy to remind me that I was thoroughly human and quite beatable. As I moved through the kyu ranks, it was easy to idolize my teacher and attribute more than normal wisdom to him. He was very human though, and he never implied that anything he did was perfect or that we should blindly copy his technique or his life.

 When I see students of any teacher proclaim that their teacher’s way is absolutely correct and that one should not deviate from the teacher’s example even a little, I worry about those students and that teacher’s legacy. When students start idolizing a teacher and idealizing the teachings, I can only see bad things happening. A teacher who is never questioned and never challenged in any way is trapped. That teacher can’t sharpen their skills by practicing with their students.

 Teachers need challenges as much as any student. Any teacher worthy of respect looks for things and people who will challenge their technique. That’s how we all progress and improve. We try something we can’t do, and we work at it until we can. The best budoka don’t discourage students from giving them puzzles to solve and difficulties to refine their technique against - people like Kano Jigoro and Kunii Zen’ya come to mind. Most of us are not undefeated legends like Kunii Zen’ya, but I’ve seen lots of teachers challenge themselves and ask their students to help them stay challenged. 

 I remember being at a seminar with some of the top people in the art we were training, folks who could make a strong case for being the best in the world at what they did. The most senior teacher there chose me to be his uke when he wanted to demonstrate a strangle using a weapon. He reached in, placed the weapon and applied the strangle. I didn’t tap. His technique wasn’t working. It’s not that the technique was bad, just his application of it at that moment. It was a technique he demonstrated fairly regularly at seminars, and I think people had been tapping out for him just because of his status. I’m too stupid to do that, so I just sat there. Sensei stepped back, looked at me a moment, adjusted his technique and the strangle got better. He played around with it for a few seconds more, the strangle sank in and I tapped. He never said anything about my failure to immediately tap. Some of his students seemed a little horrified that I had embarrassed Sensei with my behavior. He never said a word, but after that, whenever I was present, he called on me to be his uke for that technique demonstration.

 I think he appreciated that he had to do the technique absolutely correctly on me. I didn’t give him a pass just because he was so much senior to me and in general one of the finest technicians I’ve ever seen. With me, he knew he would get an honest reaction to his technique, so he could tell how well he was doing it. People who just go with whatever technique you are trying to do will ruin your technique. Anyone who wants to stay technically sharp has to be challenged regularly. I don’t mean they have to do challenge matches. Rather, they need situations where they have to fully engage to be sure their technique will work. 

 A martial artist who isn’t open to partners who challenge their technique isn’t going to be able to maintain that technique for long and will end up relying on students to take the fall or tap out from the technique. This isn’t good for the teacher or the students. The teachers find their technique slowly degrading from the lack of a stone to sharpen it on. The students have to lose respect for their teacher as they realize that the only reason his technique works is because they let it.

 It took a child to call out the emperor when he was naked. No teacher worthy of the title deserves to be put in a situation where someone can call them out because their students haven’t been giving them honest practice.

 

 

Special thanks to Deborah Klens-Bigman, PhD. for making this smooth and readable with her excellent editing skills.