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.

do budo-ka dream of eclectic sheep?

Had a dream a little while ago about the Toda Ha Buko Ryu Naginata group doing a demo – with shuriken throwing stars! It was in a crowded pub or something. The first guy stands up, nails it perfectly in the bullseye, sits down, perfect zanshin. Someone gasps at the table behind, draws stares and giggles.

The next two people hit the target but not the bullseye.

The next one is way off, misses the target and almost hits people at the next table on.

That’s about all I can recall. It stood out to me because I don’t have many martial arts dreams these days.

Why this dream? And why Toda Ha Buko Ryu, which I have never practiced in my life? Upon my arrival in Japan, I was shown one of their practices, met the headmaster, Nitta Sensei, and was of course impressed and tempted, but did not join. Nor do they have, to my knowledge, shuriken among their weapons. I was active in Ten Do Ryu Naginata for several years but am inactive lately.

So why not a Ten Do Ryu dream? Their motions are still latent in my body. I saw their demo at Meiji Shrine a couple months back (see picture of two members preparing beforehand). I joined an excellent all-day seminar recently and was surprised at how quickly the motions came back – and how far I had drifted.

I used to have karate dreams, move in my sleep. This was back in the university years when I was focused on one primary art and practiced it every day. I would frequently throw blocks and kicks in my sleep – to the consternation of others who might be in close proximity.

But no more – I am too spread out in my training and can no longer – on most days – practice four hours a day. Those were good times back then, good dreams and good nights.

spears

Met a friend for an afternoon workout and it was just what I needed – too much solo review lately. We focused on two weapons – spear and tai ji sword. The sword was basically drill and review and that was fine and good. The spear was drill and review and partner work.

No protection so we were going slow to half-speed but it was good – thrusting cutting poking occasionally blocking or grabbing the other guy’s spear and moving into close range. I am looking for much more of this kind of practice in the future. Of course the basics are always the foundation and the center of each practice. But at some point, I need to test it out - against an unwilling partner. And much as I love everything I am doing in the Chinese martial arts, the particular arts and practices I have chosen don’t have much of that.

I finished with only the tiniest scrape on one finger. As a long-term project, I want to find protective armor, pad the spear tips a bit, and turn it up another notch. It always comes down to the same problem – trying to find the best balance between combative realism and personal safety. I guess my pendulum has swung pretty far over into the safety range and I am feeling it is time to add a little risk and discomfort.

Another point of interest – I realized immediately what should already have been obvious. What with side-facing stances and long weapons, there is a very similar feeling to this Chinese spear work and the Japanese art of naginata (glaive), and I drew quickly upon those naginata techniques long familiar to me. On the other hand, one key difference between J and C arts is that the former tend to favor single, decisive blows, while the latter tend toward series of attacks. Hence the repeated short thrusts so typical of Chinese spear work, in contrast to the typical Japanese style.

Back home, I worked through a spear form, then switched to the sword and was slightly distracted or disoriented by the shortness and lightness of the weapon – suddenly it didn’t feel that I was using it properly at all and my form – though technically OK – felt quite disconnected.

So despite the excitement and pleasure of productive practice, I also had a streak of disappointment at my inability to shift quickly between two types of weapon. Time to quit blogging about it and get outside and get on it!

紙一枚

Kami ichi mai (紙一枚) : I hear a lot of references to this lately in kendo. Literally, “one sheet of paper”. That is how much progress we make in a practice. And we are piling up these sheets of paper, slowly. So we can’t really be aware of our own progress in the short space of a single practice. But over time, with many practices, many sheets of paper get piled up and the stack is noticeably larger. Part of the message is “don’t despair” – we might feel like we are not getting anywhere, not making any progress, but it is happening, just more slowly than we can see in an instant.

I heard it used in a very different way last week. I went to a local naginata tournament. Naginata is like kendo in that two people face each other in a match wearing armor called bogu which is worn to protect the spots that are targets to be hit. The naginata is about two meters long and has a curved blade on the end – one made of bamboo in the modern sport version of naginata.

But the body mechanics are completely different between kendo and naginata. In the latter, the body is turned sideways rather than front-facing (as in kendo). And the feet are not parallel but are turned out.

After the matches were over, the Sensei’s main comment was “kami ichi mai” – in this case referring to the need to keep the heels raised just off the floor, for maximum mobility. All of the participants suffered from a certain flat-footedness which slowed their speed, she said.

It had been a long time since I had seen most of the people in this group. The top fighters had grown quickly, more quickly than I had anticipated. Despite the teacher’s words, I saw clearly that I had been surpassed by people who used to be below me. When I go back for practice, I will have much to learn from them, be they flat-footed or otherwise. They have been adding those sheets, one by one, while I have been idling.

(photo above is of equipment used in Ten Do Ryu Naginata, one of the two main branches of koryu or old-style naginata still practiced in the Tokyo area. There are techniques for jo (really a naginata with the blade broken off in action), nito ryu (two swords style), kusarigama (go look it up) and other weapons. But in most of the practice, the senior student wields a bokuto or wooden sword against the wooden naginata used by the lower student).

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?