more reps of smaller bits

Have heard it many times before, but it resonated in a special way last night - do more reps of smaller portions of the routine. The subject was tai ji jian 32, but it could have been anything. It is the best way to learn, whether we are talking muscle memory or language work. And I tell my students the same thing frequently in language/ communication classes - don't listen to the whole CD once; do several reps of 5 minutes' worth of the CD. Don't watch the whole movie for language study - do reps of a 5-minute segment. And on and on - yet I have not applied this to my own practice well. I spend more time running routines from beginning to end than I do on repetitions of chunks. And it really clicked last night, for whatever reason.
Just the first few motions of this sword form, over and over, and I could really feel the difference. Moving the sword with the entire body, not just with the hand. Much more awareness of the joints moving in sequence, all of it. But even so, it is hard to stop midway. Just one more motion, just one more motion. Then the voice comes back in my head, reminding me: more reps, smaller chunks. And the temptation changes slightly - just one more time through this section, just one more rep before the dinner which is already sitting on the table, getting cold.

(picture from a Beijing subway station)

iaido, manners, rank testing, and more

Heard something I liked the other morning at iaido. (Iaido, for the uninitiated, is the Japanese art of drawing a katana or Japanese sword, performing a series of cuts as if against an actual opponent, removing blood from the blade, and replacing it in the scabbard. It is not a flashy art and has little to do with the crap seen in "samurai movies" or throwing aluminum fake blades up in the air and catching them, as seen in some American "martial arts" tournaments. More on what it actually is, elsewhere and elsewhen).
Back to the main story: somebody Sensei was talking about testing in iaido. At least in the Tokyo area, you go out in groups of five. Each person does the opening reiho (etiquette/bowing related to the sword), does 5 waza or techniques, does finishing reiho, and is done. Basically,everyone is focused on those five techniques. They are announced that morning and everyone does the same techniques for the test.
But this person's point was that there are really 7 waza in the exam, that the opening and closing reiho should be weighted equally with the 5 sword techniques. Apparently something like 50% of the people testing for 2-dan recently failed - and most of them because of improper reiho.
This is really unheard of, at least in Japan, as the first three ranks (shodan, nidan or 2dan, sandan or 3dan) were pretty much guaranteed in kendo, iaido, and jodo (they are all part of one federation). Even the initial test begins at ikkyu or first kyuu level, and it was of course pretty much guaranteed. The idea seemed to be to encourage people, to give positive reinforcement.
Then bang! Things suddenly get very demanding at 4dan level. I managed iaido 4-dan in one shot (the much-hallowed "ippatsu") but my kendo has been stuck for years at 3dan, and I have failed kendo 4dan about a dozen times, having lost count somewhere along the way.
This has always been puzzling to me, having started in the US. I practiced kendo for 5 years and reached the respectable rank of sankyuu or 3rd kyuu (the lower, kyuu ranks start from 10kyuu and count up to 1kyuu). For adults, 3kyuu does not even exist in Japan - everyone starts from 1kyuu and as long as you can hold a shinai (bamboo sword) correctly and swing it somewhat correctly, you have passed. I became a kendo 1kyuu overnight and passed the first, second and third dan levels bang bang bang. And am now stuck.
After about three years of iaido in the US, I had no rank but came to Japan and received first, second, third dans, bang bang bang. I practiced longer than the minimum time required (3 years after 3dan the minimum) and took 4dan on my first try. I started jodo (a staff about 4 feet long) in Japan, worked up to 3dan but left my dojo, end of jo career.
Along the way, I have had many reservations about the ease of attaining 3dan in Japan, after coming up through the ranks the hard way in the US. So when I heard about the recent toughening of standards at iaido exams in Tokyo, I thought it a good idea and one long overdue. Hell, I would re-institute the kyuu system and make people practice about five or seven years before attaning first dan/ shodan / "black belt" status (colored belts are not actually worn in kendo, iaido, or jodo, except for the purpose of holding one's sword in place).
The notion that so many people could fail for reiho - which is something I see as so basic and essential - was shocking to me. But take a look at the prior post re: decline of manners and general courtesy in Japan.
This is all doubly strange to me because I have been wrestling for years with the sense that far too much concern is paid to inane matters in Japanese budo, and that people fuss too much over external matters of little consequence. I think much of the recent over-focus on appearance is a mere by-product of living in a country with too much money to spend. Go tell Miyamoto Musashi he has to spend four thousand dollars on a set of kendo bogu (armor) before he is eligible to test for fourth dan...
I would rather go back to helping teach kendo in Wenzhou, China, ten years ago. We used the leftover and cast aside bogu and uniforms from Japan. Yes, we tied it properly and took good care of it - but external appearance was not what the key. It was the internal desire to find and express good kendo. Same at my university club before that - we students had miserable bogu, held together by duct tape, our skulls and wrists crushed with every blow because the padding had long since worn thin...I hesitate to say it, but I may have learned more about reiho outside Japan than in Japan. Our equipment looked horrendous - but I was thankful to use it each time and I believe we were evaluated upon our efforts to learn and show good kendo, not upon the length of the hakama trouser/skirt, or the number of stitches used in sewing one's equipment, or other such.
Don't get me wrong - I am all for caring for one's equipment, respecting the tools and uniform of one's trade - but I do think too much attention is sometimes paid to inconsequential things (i.e. external appearance) here in Japan. At the same time, I think more attention should be paid to things like reiho, which expresses inner qualities. It cannot be measured and is thus hard to judge, but I think it is far more relevant to budo/ the martial way. So I am all for a toughening of standards in this regard as has been seen recently in iaido.
I have written in Kendo World magazine about my experiences in testing for a referee qualification in naginata here in Japan, and that article touches on some of the above topics. I don't know how to upload a Word file onto this blog, so anyone who wants to read the article, please email me. Of course everyone should be familiar with the Kendo World website at www.kendo-world.com

Beijing leftovers (4): signs, manners

While in Beijing, I saw quite a few interesting signs, all related to campaigns to change manners before/during the Olympics (we'll leave aside the question of whether these changes will remain afterward). First up is a reminder to line up and board the subways courteously. At most stops, there did seem to be a change from the mob action of the past, pressing in from all sides before anyone could even get off the train, everybody trying to cut in front of somebody, etc. My first thought upon seeing this sign was that things have deteriorated in Tokyo and manners seem to be on the slide everywhere, especially regarding trains and subways. With Tokyo mayor Ishihara lobbying hard for a Tokyo Olympics in 2016, I think we'll need a serious manners campaign here in Japan as well.
I will never forget the day in 2006 or 7 when Liu Laoshi, Misters T and N and I were waiting for a train at the station. As it pulled in, Liu Laoshi cautioned us "排队" - paidui, line up for the train. I thought it so curious at the time that a Chinese person was telling us in Japan - the home of good manners - to line up properly to board the train. The images of mass chaos in the streets and at the stations from my time in China in 1999 were too fresh in my mind, my concept had not changed. But now I see these two switching roles, more quickly than I might ever had imagined.
Second picture: Drive in a civil manner. Not much more need be said. This campaign is also needed in Japan (just the past 2-3 years seemed to have undermined all concept of civility, courtesy, and harmony on the streets of this country) and my home country.
Third: This is one of my favorites. A too-literal translation might read "one small step forward for the toilet, one giant leap for culture". Basically, don't dribble on the floor in front of the urinal, guys. Recent years have seen signs like this popping up all over Tokyo, though the reference to elevated culture is eliminated - "take a step closer to the urinal, please".
The last picture isn't related to manners but serves as an excellent example of the difference between public signs in Japan and China. It is, as one can read in English, a subway map. However, absolutely none of the station names are given in English. The picture was taken inside one of the newer subways - inside the car, where you might be looking at the map to see where you were going. Granted, this is an extreme example, but it illustrates how un-foreigner-friendly Japan can be (don't forget 2016....). It is quite common to find train and subway signs with only the major stops given in English (also a perplexing phenomenon), but this one was too much. Why bother to put the words "subway map" in English?
While in Beijing, every subway sign I saw - on the platforms, in the trains, everywhere - was in both Chinese and English, 100%. Of course there was a massive campaign to get Beijing ready for the invasion of foreigners that would accompany the Olympics, but I do think this is emblematic of a long-term approach to welcoming non-Chinese as visitors. Tokyo has already had an Olympics, by the way, back in 1964, so there has been plenty of time to learn about making it easy for foreigners to navigate the city. Ishihara has few friends among the Chinese, but it might behoove him to study how well they carried off the Olympics.
One sign of hope is the private Odakyu train line, which features signs in Japanese, Chinese, Korean, and English.

Beijing leftovers (3)

Sometimes I think it is really impossible. I started too late, there is too much to learn, there is not enough time. And someday I have to start teaching....
First tai ji quan experience, age 18, first "real" or deep martial arts experience, maybe two years later, plunging into the university karate club. That filling my life for seven years before moving to Japan. But already a growing awareness that those who are destined to be really good are those who have already been training for ten years by the time they hit 20, 21...
Too much to learn? Don't even get me started on that. The more I learn - breadth or depth - the worse it gets. And the worse the agony over reviewing the old vs. seeking the new.
Not enough time? Don't even get me started on that. 40 this year, a rough year by all reckonings. How long to stay in Japan, how much to deepen and polish my skills before going back? New doors continue to open for me over here, yet the call to go home grows insistent. And I hear more stories about those who stayed too long in Japan, couldn't go back or couldn't get things going once they got back. And more stories about those who went home too early, trying to teach with almost-polished skills...

Yet there is nothing to do but plunge ahead. I started interviewing a teacher in Beijing in August, asked about difficult times for training in his life. Go take a look at the history of 20th Century China and you can guess some of the periods I am talking about. He stopped training when there was no food for 2, 3 years. He and so many others. He trained in secret during other times. He and so many others. And he is still going, 70-something and strong. What do we know of this in my home country??
I continued interviewing him in Tokyo in September. He studied deeply with one teacher, then another. He made the rounds of the parks, seeking any knowledge he could find from those practicing, had chance encounters which revolutionized his life and training. He traveled long distances by train to another city for short periods of training with one teacher. Tuition was high and his salary was not. He mastered the empty hand techniques of one teacher, wanted to study the spear techniques for which the teacher was really famous. But that teacher died and all was lost. Time was too short. Now he has plenty of time, some money, the trains are faster - but all those teachers are gone.
What can one do in the modern world? Books and DVDs everywhere, every teacher to be found on Youtube. Borders are crossed much more easily these days. Learning at the surface level can be had by anyone at their convenience. But what really matters is the one on one time, the personal connection, the sweat of endless repetitions and the reluctant grunt of tentative approval from the teacher - then everything is worthwhile. When you hear that, you start to think it may be possible, that you can go on and that all is not lost.

quote (1)

"Modern Wu Shu is a fine sport and is beautiful to watch, but it is misnamed; arts without fighting cannot by definition be considered martial arts." - from Tim Cartmell's website, shenwu.com

This seems incredibly obvious to me yet it also seems lost on many modern practitioners. At the same time, it condemns me equally. My years in Shotokan Karate were my start and my strongest foundation, and kumite free-fighting was an essential part of almost every practice. My karate has been on hold for several years now. I remain centered on my practice of Chinese arts, and I remain on fire, but I must confess, I do feel something is missing. There is a growing need in me to get back to the basics of sparring, of putting techniques (and spirits) to the test. As I have mentioned before, one of my long-term projects is to work on ways to incorporate semi- and free-sparring into the training I am focused on these days. More meditations on this to come...

sticks in the street (3)- bones

Sept. 23 (2008) on this side of the international dateline, a day marking the official beginning of autumn. Great weather for waking up early, working through Sha Family tai ji quan routines before starting the day's work (= cleaning).
I recall one of the best nights I spent in Wenzhou, China some ten years back. It was an autumn festival. We had an excellent kendo practice, typically small, just me and a handful of students in the dance studio we borrowed. Afterward, it was beer and eats as usual, but that night we sat by the river and really feasted, swapping stories and drinks under the brightest and fullest of moons. Tales were told and Tang Dynasty poems recited, though the last were lost on me. Was it before or after that night that a great typhoon swept southeastern China and flooded much of Wenzhou? Four of us from the same group went wading through the waist-deep water in the streets in the night and I knew then that Wenzhou would always be a special place for me.
My time in Beijing has been much too short for such experiences. But I did feel something special with the sticks in the street group and feel sure that I will get back to do more training with them. Nor have I had time yet to make deep, close friends as I had in Wenzhou, though I feel that is coming in the future.

Pix above: In addition to the clacking wooden instruments (kuai bar), Mr. Liu also plays a pair of instruments made from the shoulder bones of cows. Though I didn't have a chance to make music with them, he insisted on some photos. As with other items used by group members, it turned out they could also be used as weapons and fit together into various routines both musical and martial. I am not a big fan of posed pictures but these are what I have to work with for now, until I can engage in some serious study in the future.

Olympic leftovers (3)

August 10-15, 2008 and Sept. 2008

Two nights without a Liu Laoshi class, 13-plus hour days, a little taiji snuck inside 2f of the cabin – at least I have nice chunks of on-call time upstairs when everyone else is hunched over monitors and wires downstairs. It is way too hot and humid to practice outdoors while still at work, so the cabin is the perfect haven.

A day with practice, just Liu Laoshi and I in the park…he fans himself with a folding fan in the humid night. He has brought an extra fan for me and chastises me for not being able to open and close it with snappy flair. My gongfu is not yet developed, he says, and I must practice more.

Two more without a class, getting by with solo practice in the parking lot. It turns out to be much better than I had expected. A bright and full moon shining down from an uncommonly clear Beijing sky. The crowd filtering out from the last day of judo matches. The Chinese jubilant since Tong Wen won the gold in the womens’ division. But I remain hidden away in the shadows on the side, unseen.

There are people practicing taiji outside the hotel in the mornings, but their level does not seem especially high to me and I would rather review what I have learned most recently from Liu Laoshi. So I move a bed and other furniture in my room to clear a path and start down and back, working through the 12 animals of xing yi. There is a knock at the door – room service – and a suspicious eye is cast over my sweaty body and the room in disarray, but nothing is said. Sticks, staves, drying laundry and empty beer bottles strewn about the room do little to raise her estimation of me, but the cleaners should be used to it by now.

Her work is soon finished and her demeanor improves considerably when I venture some Chinese, commenting on the hotel’s measures for environmental protection and such. She is gone before long and I return to practice, unseen (though perhaps heard by those below).