When to quit

About seven years back, I was in my naginata prime.

Work was a very distant second to training and my daughter was in the making. I was training three times a week regular practice on top of regular weekend seminars. It was the right way to train. I passed 3rd dan in one go, and 3rd dan is a major dividing point in the naginata world, which only runs the dan ranks up to 5th dan. (After that, it is only the titles: renshi, kyoshi, hanshi).

At that time, I also passed the test to become a nationally-recognized naginata shinpan (referee), joining a very small number of non-Japanese to have done so. Alas, since that time, my naginata career has not continued to soar, but that is another story for another time and place. For now, we are focused on accomplishments, not decline. And on quitting…

Some time after passing 3rd dan, a person may be ready for consideration for shinpan training. The final stages involve a pair of intensive trainings which culminate in the testing. The naginata world may be even more conservative than those of other Japanese martial arts, and the pass rate is not excessively high.

I managed to pass. Along the way, I had an encounter which will always stay with me. For the second intensive, we were joined by the nationally famous K Sensei. Atarashii “sport” naginata or not, no one could watch her motions and not be impressed. By the way, she has long been active in one of the more combative naginata koryu ryuha.

Somewhere along the way, I heard that she had a huge “blank” in her training, about 15 years. I couldn’t believe it, could not fathom it. She was nationally recognized for her skill, then stopped, completely, for fifteen years. Absolutely no practice.

This just could not penetrate my brain. No matter the reason – she decided to devote herself entirely to being a mother upon becoming pregnant. At that time in my life, it was alien to me. As for me, there would only have been one option: to reduce naginata practice yet continue, while devoting myself to parenting.

Not an option in Japan. This is a country where people – especially martial arts people – are very focused. You devote yourself to one thing and, with time, come to do it very, very well.

Anyway, sometime around her child’s high school years, this teacher returned to the naginata world and remains a strong and respectable presence to this day.

Slight change of topic, but related.

Some months back, I caught a ride to the train station with my ryuukyuu kobudo friend after practice. He is an interesting and supportive fellow, and we have begun to climb up the ranks together. That particular night, I was listening to the music he played in the car and liked it despite its mainstream feel.

Upon asking, I was told it was Yamaguchi Momoe. After some youtubing and wikipedia-ing and a look through The Encyclopedia of Japanese Pop Culture (Schilling), I learned quite a bit about her.

Now anyone who knew me Way Back in the Day may be surprised to know of my interest in a pop idol totally within the mainstream. True, I have been a Wang Faye fan for a decade since living in China, but I don’t divulge that information often, either.

Anyhow, something in her music caught me and drew me in. She was a very young pop idol, starting about age 13 in 1972 and quickly taking Japan by storm. That despite being a “love child” outside of marriage (a major taboo in Japan just a couple decades back).

After a string of hits she suddenly called it quits in 1980. Just like that. One final concert and tearful apologies for selfishly abandoning her fans. And it was over.

Many others in the fickle Japanese entertainment world have called it quits, only to revive their careers (or look ridiculous trying). But Yamaguchi Momoe remained true to her word – once she quit, she has never come back for a single appearance. She has opted for a quiet, domestic life on the outskirts of Tokyo.

What started this entire post was her words upon quitting the entertainment world at the height of her popularity: “I want to give my love with both hands”. Innuendo aside, this simple statement really captures something at the heart of Japanese culture. She was declaring her intent to devote herself solely to her husband and her domestic role. There was no possibility of her being a wife and a member of the entertainment world. Schilling’s Encyclopedia mentions that feminists were aghast at Yamaguchi’s decision to give up a singing career for her husband, but that millions of fans were touched by her devotion and resolution.

Whatever your take on this decision, she has stayed true to her word despite the clamoring of fans and has never once reappeared in the entertainment world. She quit one pursuit and devoted herself entirely to another. And, my wife informs me, she continues to live a few stations down the train line from us, still married and still domestic.

Back to the naginata world…there was another story I heard during that pivotal intensive when I gained my referees’ license. It involved a practitioner of Ten Do Ryu naginata, a centuries-old ryuha in which I was active at the time and maintain some commitment even now.

She was devoted to Ten Do Ryu and practiced endlessly at the home dojo outside Kyoto, which still serves as a home for the ryuha and as a gathering point for large numbers of practitioners several times a year. She got married and continued her practice. She had a baby and continued her practice. The story I heard had her back in the dojo less than a month after giving birth, the baby strapped on her back, running through the naginata techniques.

All of this comes back to me and my penchant for practicing more than one or two arts. For years (decades almost) my guiding principle was to never quit. Once I started a martial art, I could not quit. So I added one, then another. And here I am today, struggling to balance several martial arts. In recent years I have (regrettably) quit an art or two, and significantly reduced my commitment to others. But in choosing this way, I have strayed from the Japanese way of practice. Or have I?

There are those like K Sensei, one of my kendo teachers, 80-some years old and still going strong. Started young and never practiced any other martial art. And he has reached a height, a pinnacle, unseen by millions of others practicing kendo. I can go full bore against him and not touch him – and I am not holding back at all due to his age. But more importantly, there is a row of 7th dans in the dojo who face off against him weekly– and seem not to take many points at all.

There are also those who practice several martial arts. Of course they must specialize in one, but they have familiarity with others.

The question for me, though, comes down to when to quit an art. We can’t keep starting new arts without quitting some. I met one man who was devoted to a particular style of karate. A national champion in one country, he came to Japan for many years to continue his training and has since returned to his home country.

I had one hours-long talk with him after a few (??) drinks at the infamous annual budo seminar in Katsuura, Japan. We have had almost no contact since then, but his ideas left a strong impact upon me.

He was a karateka to the core and there were no questions about what his specialty was. Yet at the same time, he investigated a number of other martial arts in order to supplement his understanding of karate. He would study a number of years, then stop, just like that, once he felt that he had learned enough to add to his karate.

Like the naginata story above, I respected his idea yet it simply could not penetrate my head. I could not grasp spending a few years on an art, then setting it aside permanently. Why not keep karate as his main art, while continuing to explore martial art X or Y, to which he had already devoted a number of years??

It is one of the fundamental questions in martial arts – whether to devote yourself solely to a single art, or to pursue several of them, once a strong foundation is achieved. You know where I fit in this picture. This question has haunted me for years, mostly because of the criticism of those who are devoted to a single art. There seem to be two views, and they further seem to be irreconcilable.

My only answer is that it comes down to one’s personality. Some of us are just “built” psychologically to focus on one art and pursue it exclusively. Great, go do it. Some of us are just “built” psychologically to pursue a number of arts. Great, go do it. I just hope that we can respect each other while going and doing it.

Those of us in the latter group, in addition to the daily struggle of how to nurture more than one art, are sometimes faced with the question of when to quit an art. I have no answer for this, but I find much food for thought in the examples above.

Blast from the past

We interrupt the ongoing updates regarding Liu Laoshi's Tokyo visit to bring you a pair of revealing photos from this blogger's sordid past. Maybe 12 years back, doing a short demo in Tokyo. Ugh.

We will return with ongoing coverage of The Liu Laoshi Visit before long.

100

Here they are and here we are at the 100-post mark. I was going to leave off the shoes pictures, but this couldn’t be missed.

15 years in the making, these guys have finally started to give in and are doing so just in time for the centenary post. I bought them back in the university karate days when I had nothing but time and energy.

I was going jogging late at night, pounding around the streets of Lincoln. Being a student and lacking any athletic sensibility, I bought a cheap pair of shoes with Velcro straps, no laces. I was so far removed from athletes and athletic equipment. But they served me well enough at the time, then languished in storage for several years.

I can still remember some of those late night runs. Houses with dogs that barked as I passed, tree roots to be nimbly jumped over in the park. Snow starting to fall under a shining moon. I might have had an afternoon practice followed by a night practice, but I don’t recall feeling especially winded during those runs. No, these shoes carried me along and moved me forward.

But the late night runs ended and I focused more on my regular training and review. This fine pair of shoes languished in the less accessible corners of closets, no longer tasting the fresh air or moving under the stars.

Somewhere along the line I brought them over to Japan as a spare pair. I wore them only occasionally (and always at night, when no one could see or smell them) until last year. Another old pair of running shoes (hightops with laces even) had fallen apart, yielding to the scraping and turning of ba gua footwork.

So this pair returned to glory for a short time. They tasted the caress of the concrete once again. I grew bold, not caring who might see or smell them. I sometimes wore them in daylight. But the years of alternate abuse and neglect had taken their toll and the grinding away accelerated. And the stink festering within their depths accumulated.

The Velcro straps don’t cling as tenaciously as they used to, but I still have a few sessions left with these old friends before holes are completely worn through the soles. Until then, let’s extend them the dignity – and distance – which they deserve.

Parks in the cold

Bright sun with bitter cold and wind in Tokyo today – perfect chance to bundle up in layers and start moving outside.

I make a few circuits through tai ji 48 outside my home but the sunlight is blocked, so I venture off a few hundred meters to Kami 3 Hiroba, a small park-like area where I used to practice near-nightly a few years back.

The sunlight is good but the exposure throws me off a bit. There had been a good border of overgrown trees and shrubs which provided a feeling of sanctuary. I could hear the people and cars passing by on the street, but they would have to be really looking to see me.

Earlier this autumn the city came in and cleaned it all up, leaving only the large trees standing and a perfect view into the park from the road.

No reason not to perform in front of people, so I got down to work, continuing the 48 form and almost instantly forgot the gawking passersby anyway. I stopped now and then for a sip of hot water from the thermos and sat at a make-shift table on wobbly benches. Rather uncharacteristic of Japan, where everything is new and bright and shiny. This table and benches have been out in the rain and wind for several years now and they show it. They have also hosted their share of late night drinking sessions and are thus much appreciated. I hope they will remain for many years to come, broken down and rough.

Sitting in the wind in the park took me back to Tao Ran Ting, the park in Beijing where Liu Jingru Laoshi sips tea and teaches each day. My first trip over there was in late October and it was chilly and windy, though the harshness of Beijing winter had yet to descend. No, it was still reasonable outside, though we warmed ourselves with regular sips of tea.

I learned a form using the yuan yang yue there, a pair of curved, pointy, multi-bladed weapons written about elsewhere in this blog. The motions of the form took me up high and down low, and weaving back and forth across the practice area, occasionally halting suddenly to avoid a hapless, totally unconcerned passerby ( If I were walking through a park and saw a crazy foreigner running around with bladed weapons, I might take it upon myself to take a few steps to the side, rather than stop, stare, and then continue walking directly into the practice area….). I changed clothes midway through each practice to avoid catching cold from sweat-soaked shirts.

Liu Laoshi was quite worried about me catching cold. Beijingers, of course, had nothing to worry about because they had grown up in this climate. One day, a long-time student of Liu Laoshi’s dropped by. It was colder and windier that day. He started walking ba gua circles. A growl from Liu Laoshi and his stance got lower. Another growl and he paused to remove his coat and shirts. Liu Laoshi kept him circling several more minutes, until sweat was dripping and steam was rising – and still he circled. Maybe the lesson was for me after all. Once it was my turn again, I got down lower, swung out wider – and didn’t feel the cold.

I now recall another park, this one in Lincoln. Out by Holmes Lake, on the opposite side of town from all the usual university environs.

One night three of us went out for a dip. It had been a long night of practice – the kendo was exhausting on its own. Then there was about three minutes to change and get a swallow of water before the really exhausting workout began, karate. But those were the good old days when my energy was inexhaustible. Tell me what to do, and I did it.

So when, after karate one teacher asked me and a fellow brown belt friend to go out for a swim, neither of us hesitated. The dojo follows a pretty strict, traditional hierarchy and there is little interaction between those with and without dan ranks. The teachers were not elevated to cult status by any means, but this was clearly a special event, a chance to see something of the teacher outside the dojo, in the real world.

We drove across town quickly on the late night streets. In the car, everything was nice and toasty, though a small pit was growing in my stomach, wondering what was in store for us.

We arrived at the lake, got out of the car…and into the cold. Did I mention it was winter? And there was not exactly a lack of wind, if you know what I mean. Damn, it was xxxxing cold. A thin coating of ice ran around the edge of the lake – it hadn’t yet frozen over, but our first few steps into the water would have to break that thin layer.

I moved toward the water, trying to psyche myself up a bit, then hesitated. Of course we had all left our coats in the car – this was to be some special winter training, after all. I figured we might wade in up to our knees, or maybe really go after it and go waist-deep. But our teacher had just started – off came the top of his karate gi or uniform, then the trousers. Friend and I looked at each other, shrugged, and shucked. There was no way to back out in front of the teacher. Off came the last shred of protection from the wind. Now it was cold.

Our teacher shared none of my hesitation – he was already plowing through the water. Nothing to do but steel oneself. There was an instant of cold as my first foot entered the water. Another step, and another, as the cold rose up my legs. Then it was like the cold had turned to heat. NOW it was fucking cold.

Once in, why not go all the way? Leap up in the air, submerge totally, bounce off the sandy bottom and leap up again and feel the wind. A brief moment of exhileration, maybe even a second submerging and leaping. OK, wet in the wind, this is beyond cold. As expected, we ran through a few kata in the water, maybe chest deep, trying to appear oblivious to the cold. Whew, enough of that, plow through the water and out into the cold – which in the wind, seemed colder than it had been in the water.

And then NOT as expected, our teacher went back into the water. My friend and I looked at each other, shrugged again, and moved back into the water, trying not to betray any lack of enthusiasm. Was it colder the second time around? I don’t know. It was just damn cold, beyond comparison.

Another kata or two, then it was time to finish up, dry off, and shiver in front of the heaters going full blast. Hell yes we ran the heater on the way back – we weren’t, after all, masochists.

gasshuku (1)

gasshuku 合宿
Sept. 2008

Gasshuku is a Japanese word referring to a group of people stepping outside of normal lives and routines and going on a sort of retreat together. There are lots of happy group activities, practice, and, in the case of adults, much drinking. Having practiced Japanese martial arts here in Japan for about 13 years, I have had a good share of gasshuku experiences.
At the moment, I am taking a high-speed shinkansen train out of the endless sprawl that is Tokyo, headed into the semi-countryside for a 3-day gasshuku with xx University Kung Fu (sic) Club. I usually travel to gasshuku by bus - with the group of course – but I don’t know how well I fit into this group.
Almost all these kids are literally half my age. It would be easier if I were from the university, but I am not. I began joining their monthly special trainings (one-day or half-day affairs) a few years back. Then last year I was invited to join their gasshuku and it was fantastic. I look forward to another excellent experience.

My first gasshuku in Japan was kendo- and iaido-related. A group of us foreigners from my then-dojo took a trip into the countryside for a weekend with another kendo group. Ogino Sensei and his students welcomed us warmly and it was made better by the presence of many lively children.
On the last day, we all ate nagashi-somen outdoors. This is a traditional summer favorite in which a long slide made of split bamboo runs down a slope. Ice and water flow down from the top in order to bring cool and delicious noodles to those waiting below. We lined both sides of the trough and used chopsticks to quickly grab mouthfuls of noodles as they streamed down.
Inevitably, germs are spread with all the chopsticks going in and out of the oncoming noodles. And people at the bottom of the slope, like me, are left with the few strands of noodles which remain after everyone else has dipped in. But these are healthy young kendo kids and are not easily brought down by a few mere germs.
Not so the adults, it seems. A day or two later, my throat was painfully swollen and I could barely open my mouth or swallow. For three days, I ate nothing but watery rice gruel. おたふくかぜ. Yes, it seems that the mumps I had never had in my youth had finally caught up with me.
Even so, that remains one of my favorites gasshukus ever, and I look forward to another chance to study with Ogino Sensei someday. (Curiously, he is also a friend of with my iaido teacher. Last year, they were chatting and looking over pictures from Ogino Sensei’s mountain dojo when Kogawa Sensei spied my picture and just about spat his dentures out in surprise. “How the hell do you know that guy?”)

Then there is karate. Kenkojuku Shotokan (Okano-Ha) has an annual summer gasshuku which is completely oriented toward the 200 or so kids who jam onto one bus too few for a weekend of practice which culminates in a rank exam. I was lucky enough to join several times and one memory stands out in particular.
Adult black belts are strongly encouraged to attend but their role is primarily to teach and watch over the children (and to handle the massive job of orchestrating meals for these 200+ kids). We adults had one special practice each day and could of course practice on our own, but the real instruction was focused on the kids.
During the rank exam on the third day of the 1997 gasshuku, Okano Sensei waved me over and took me outside. I wondered what massive breach of protocol I had committed and was about to get busted for. Nothing of the sort. He had suddenly remembered that he had asked me the night before what kata I would like to work on the next day. So we went bit by bit through kankuu sho, which is rarely taught in the dojo. We drilled it carefully about seven times, going slowly and making sure I understood. He seldom taught kata like this, and it was the first time I had been taken so thoroughly through a kata in Japan, so that brief time outside the main gym remains special to me, one of my best Kenkojuku memories.

Then there is naginata (think of a long wooden handle with a curved blade on the end, something like a glaive in appearance). I used to spend much time practicing naginata and built a strong foundation. I attended numerous weekend seminars on top of 3 times a week practice and eventually passed the test to become a naginata referee, something only a handful of foreigners have done. Alas, my training time for naginata has diminished rapidly, though many good memories (and that foundation, I believe) remain.
One such memory takes us to Japan’s northernmost island, Hokkaido. Winters are snowy and cold, damn cold. And our gasshuku was in the heart of the snow and cold.
Naginata is one of the least popular budo or martial arts in Japan in terms of numbers. Also, it has been relegated in the public awareness as a woman’s martial art.
More on the history of that elsewhen. Though outside Japan more men than women practice naginata, men are still the overwhelming minority within the already small naginata world in Japan (less than 5% of the total). The naginata federation is making efforts to promote the presence and participation of men in naginata. One part of that effort is the annual men’s naginata gasshuku, which is held in a different part of Japan each year, in a move toward accessibility.
For whatever reason, someone decided to have one year’s gasshuku in Hokkaido in mid-winter. The snow was deep – streets were lined on each side with walls of snow more than three meters tall after the snowplows went through. And the cold was cold. Then another someone had the idea of taking our group picture outdoors in our uniforms.
The naginata uniform is not designed for cool climates. The legs are covered by a hakama, a sort of pleated skirt-like thing which is split into two legs and is usually made of a fairly heavy material. But the tops…thin white cotton, short sleeves…and the wind was blowing. And the cameraman was taking his time. I think I suggested going topless to show what we were really made of, but nobody warmed to the idea. Anyway, the mandatory group pictures were taken and we hustled back inside the unheated school gymnasium which suddenly seemed so much warmer.

Back in Nebraska, we trained hard in the university dojo. And we made several trips each year to Denver, where a senior teacher in karate, kendo, and iaido taught. We joined their special trainings and took rank exams there. We might skip some Friday classes, make the 7-8 hour drive and arrive just in time for Friday night training.
We felt the effect of the high altitude right away but energy remained high on the first day. Saturday was devoted to several sessions, sometimes in the mountains. The pain and fatigue of the second day was lessened over eats and drinks, but the third day was just plain hard. And time seemed to move so much more slowly. Somewhere in the afternoon it ended and we piled back into our cars for the long drive back to school. Each of these trips left us utterly exhausted as well as filled with new excitement and energy.
So tonight I have returned to the big city from my second gasshuku with this university group. Again, it was an excellent experience and very different in feeling or flavor from my gasshuku involving Japanese martial arts. I was not pushed to the point of utter exhaustion – nor did I need to be. We all left feeling that we had been pushed, challenged, and filled with new energy. So now it is back to everyday life and everyday training.
NOTE - The 5 characters in the picture refer to five virtues upheld by swordspeople. Our gasshuku was held in the kendojo and ping pong room of a community gymnasium, and the characters were brushed by a junior high school kendo student.The Japanese reading is jin-gi-rei-chi-shin. Anyone know if this same set of 5 virtues is commonly referred to among Chinese martials artists?

hungry, thirsty, and gotta piss

First complete day in Beijing and everything is good. Work is not terribly exciting yet, just driving around this vast and sprawling city, checking out various Olympic sites before the games open. 

The real story starts at 6 PM, when work is finished. I called Liu Laoshi and was surprised and happy to learn he would meet me this very night for our first practice. No time to waste, I sprinted toward the subway station.

Three subway transfers and a taxi ride later, I arrived a few minutes late and there he was, waiting for me as scheduled. My Chinese was put to the test but unnecessary - I was so glad to see him again after my solo visit to Beijing last November, few words were necessary. 70-something and still spry, he was just as usual - that growly Beijing version of Mandarin, using his two English words (yes and no) with great frequency, so eager to share his knowledge and experience.

Hearing that voice again is a great comfort. And I need some comfort. The hot water assuages thirst. But lunch was quite a while ago. Once I am in motion, though, I forget about the hunger instantly. That also solves the piss problem. Hot water does not help that but I can deal with it later, after the lesson. Work may interfere with practice at any time, and I need to get the most out of each class. 

730 PM means twilight and respite from the heat and humidity. My work schedule here in Beijing is extremely irregular but most days will be filled completely. He is quite willing to work around that schedule, to my relief. Even if it means going until 9 PM and later. This great flexibility of his (so different from many teachers of Japanese martial arts...) adds further comfort. 

745 PM, sit down and chat over hot water in the evening breeze as pink and orange fill the sky. We grab chairs and a table from the tea place he visits every day and passersby zoom in to check the conversation. We get up to stretch then get down to business and the passersby move along. 

Before coming to Beijing I had reviewed all my ba gua zhang well. But tonight he took me immediately into xing yi quan review. I was rusty but put in a good performance. He nailed me hard on the five basic fists but was relatively pleased with one of the forms (xing yi lian huan). 

We stopped a time or two for more water, a look at the stars, a listen to the leaves overhead. Then back into the motions, up and down the line. I wonder what it is like for those who live here in Beijing and study with him on a regular basis. True, my teacher in Tokyo is his student and maintains a very close relationship. I can move instantly from practicing with one to the other. But living far away, making a visit like this, adds a kind of magic to each meeting, a hunger to make the most of each moment. 

And that hunger is enough to overcome all the bodily needs crying out for attention. 

I recall nights going out to the outskirts of Tokyo  for karate in Hachioji- an almost two-hour commute each way after work. Same story - no time for dinner, no time for the toilet, but that forgotten once I put on the karate gi (uniform) before starting. Then, after practice, too tired to worry about food, only water was enough. But I have to confess, sometimes after practice as we sat kneeling in seiza and listening to various points, the urge to piss became almost overwhelming. While moving it was forgotten, but once still in seiza, my bladder began to scream with urgency, demanding attention and release. 

I also recall the glory days as a university student, spending more time in the dojo then on all my classes. 10 minutes to walk from morning class to the dojo for a daytime practice, eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the way. Two of those classes back to back, an hour each. Then ten minutes to shower, change, and walk to an afternoon class (eating peanut butter and jelly sandwich number two on the way). I didn't think anything of it at the time. Nor did I think anything of going on to night class four evenings a week (at least with a full stomach). 

No longer in my 30s, I lead a bit more comfortable and staid life. But nights like tonight remind me of what is important, what needs to be given up, and what can be gained.