"The calm center of ourselves, that place that Watches without judging, is the destination of our sword journey"
share
  • Home
  • First Annual Swordmoot
  • Writings on the Sword
  • Video
    • The Vocabulary of the Sword
    • Basics of position and the Rule
  • Our Instructors
  • The Manual of the Piercing Cloud Method
  • Contact Us

Toyama no Metsuke

9/1/2024

0 Comments

 
Toyama no Metsuke - – to gaze upon the distant mountains


In martial arts, specifically the Japanese sword arts, there has arisen a concept for the use of the eyes called ‘toyama no metsuke’ or ‘enzan no metsuke’ which is translated roughly as ‘to gaze upon the distant mountains’. Various schools interpret the subtleties of this saying in various ways, but generally it’s accepted that what is meant by the concept is that one’s gaze should be diffuse and generalized, rather than laser focused on a single part of the opponent. We use our gaze in the way that we might take in a distant mountain vista; receptive and generalized, taking in the whole scene, rather than trying to squint hard to see a particular tree. In the same way, we regard our opponent and their setting as a vista to be taken in receptively and holistically, rather than try to maintain a tight focus on the opponent alone, or a specific part of their body.

Why shouldn’t we focus hard on the opponent? After all, they’re dangerous to us! This whole thing about gazing and mountains sounds pretty woo-woo; does it really mean anything?

We fetishize the idea of focus in western society. Society’s emphasis on being productive workers encourages us to keep our mind on the task at hand. Often those tasks can be repetitive and dull, and we need to work to stay engaged with them. Focus is seen as work, and something that has an implication of effort, and even strain if the circumstances are difficult. Society looks down on those that are ‘unfocused’ as lazy or stupid. As with most things, however, looking at the approach that is opposite to the ‘common sense’ has real value, especially when considering the psychology of martial arts or any deeply studied path. I call this opposite approach the Rule of Xu, named after Xu Guoming, a great Master of Xingyi Liuhe, Taiji, and other arts. When asked how he developed his advanced skills, he replied, “I look at everyone else, and see that they are not that good, so I look at what they’re doing, and I do the opposite. That is how I got good.” The natural yin yang reversals of training reflect this approach. We often learn things as we advance that seem to contradict things that we learned earlier in our training. We spend time trying to become fast or strong, then as our appreciation and understanding broaden, we realize that speed is only an aspect of timing, or that strength is only one perspective on power. Advanced students will often spend time trying to remove power and intention from their movements, specifically so that real power can begin to move through the body uninhibited by our narrow ideas about power. They will try to appreciate the value of moving deliberately slowly in order to let a real appreciation and application of timing appear. Students of the spear and the sword, knowing well the advantages of longer weapons, will deliberately begin to work with shorter weapons so that a true study and appreciation of range can start to occur. When one focuses only on what seems important, one is missing a great deal of the big picture, not only because looking at a piece is not looking at the whole thing, but also because we often don’t have a complete understanding of the piece itself or the context that the piece we’re focusing on exists within.

As with everything, there is a time and place for focus, but it often works against us, especially in circumstances where unpredictable things can happen. Focused attention is a narrow flashlight beam in a dark room, defined as much by what it is excluding as what it is focused upon. We might have the brightest flashlight in the world, but we can still trip on something that is not included in the beam. When the stakes are high, as in the case of a martial encounter, focusing on the wrong thing can have disastrous consequence. It works the other way around too. Think about how poachers illegally hunt deer with spotlights. The powerful light provides something for the deer to focus utterly on, and that is what brings about their doom.

Much of a martial artist’s work is to convince the opponent to focus on the wrong thing, to draw their attention away from where an attack will occur, to draw their attacks to places that will put them at a disadvantage. If one is not particularly inclined to have their focus drawn or stuck to any one thing, they are less vulnerable to being fooled in this way. Think of the analogy of an army: if the general is at the front line, lost in the melee, they have no idea what is happening elsewhere on the battlefield, and are stuck in a particular spot regardless of how circumstances change. If, instead, that general is on a hill with an overview of the whole battlefield, they can see the bigger picture and better direct the forces they have available. They may need to send a messenger to a particular spot and issue orders appropriate to what is going on, but they do this with a wider appreciation of how all the pieces fit together, and their attention is able to shift to and appreciate the larger picture at any point. This is much the same in an individual encounter, even, and perhaps especially, against multiple opponents.

In the case of facing another swordsperson, it is commonly understood that if we look at their eyes, we can be tricked or emotionally manipulated. Looking at the hands or the sword makes us vulnerable to feints and misdirections, and also increases our cognitive load because we’re trying to track the fastest and furthest moving part of the opponent. In both of these cases, we are focusing on the small picture and excluding the big one. While various schools will have various places to look, and can articulate very important reasons for their particular ideas, the reality is that looking at any one spot is a potential trap for our attention; a sticky point that our mind can get stuck to and requires effort to remove our focus from. Ideally, we should be able to express the vocabulary of our skill appropriately in any circumstance, regardless of where we’re looking, or even if our eyes are closed.

We learn early in most quality training that the eyes have a great influence on the quality and direction of our techniques. Drifting eyes will often mean diffuse techniques that aren’t well directed. This is something easily observable in beginning students, and if not corrected, can be present in practitioners that have practiced for many years. The problem, however, is that focusing the eyes is only a training tool that helps reinforce larger lessons about directing our intentions and techniques appropriately. We start unfocused because we don’t know any better, then learn to focus and direct our gaze, then finally return to an unfocused gaze. Perhaps it might be better to call this final stage an ‘unformed’ gaze. As in the case of looking at the distant mountain vista, we look to appreciate what has appeared before our eyes, with no preconceived idea of what we’ll find there, only the receptivity of ‘taking it all in’. If we see a column of smoke near a peak, we might look closer for a moment, but the overall vista remains for us to scan and appreciate. Training ourselves to default to this formlessness gives us a greater ability to return to it if our attention is required somewhere else for a moment. Just like the physical position of our sword; if it is held in a central position without a particular shape or pose, it has less distance to travel to any other position or shape and can thus respond more quickly and appropriately to what the circumstance demands. A specific shape or pose is designed for a specific situation, and we don’t actually know what the situation is until the opponent makes their move, or we do. Therefore, by adopting a particular shape, we are less able to do things that aren’t that shape. The difference might be milliseconds, but that can be a vast gap when considering the speed of a sword in motion.

Martial arts are often seen as training for a duel, where 2 roughly equal opponents test their skill against one another. Almost every form of combat is unconsciously viewed and trained this way, especially sword arts. Even street fighters largely train for a one-on-one encounter. Much of this is because of portrayals of ‘fighting’ in the media we consume, not to mention combat sports, which overlap with fighting arts to a limited degree, present this exact scenario to us in nearly all cases. The word ‘martial’ is rooted in the word for war, and is drawn from the Latin maritalis, relating to Mars, the god of war. War was not an individual pursuit, but rather was a group activity, and one that seemingly evolved quite dramatically over time. On the battlefield, one had to keep one’s head up and aware of more than just the person in front of you, because there could be many other people intent on killing or capturing you. Situational awareness is our greatest ally in tough situations, and that is necessarily a generalized application of one’s attention. By being situationally aware, we are alert for things we don’t expect, from places we don’t expect. Focusing on a particular thing can be necessary but also antithetical to maintaining a robust situational awareness. When confronted by a single person, one must always be aware of the potential for others to involve themselves to your disadvantage. For this reason, we don’t want to become too focused on the obvious opponent, or we may miss the real danger that appears from some other angle.

Toyama no metsuke is not just about the eyes and the vision, it is also about our other senses. Again, if we become too focused on one sense, we risk excluding useful information from other senses (and don’t forget, we might not know what is useful either). Our goal is to cultivate the casting of a wide and receptive net of attention all around us, so that we might gather any information that is available. We can never do this perfectly and, we won’t gain supernatural powers by practicing this type of attention, but we can certainly be more perceptive than the average person. An excellent concept from the Chinese martial arts is Ting Jin, which translates roughly as “listening energy” or maybe even “listening power”. Listening energy is not something we do with our ears, but generally we do when we’re in physical contact with someone. We ‘listen’ into their body to ‘hear’ what they’re doing, without necessarily being able to see it happening. The use of ‘listening’ is well-chosen because there’s a certain change in our affect when we are trying to hear something faint and barely comprehensible. Our whole body changes a bit to better receive the information. We might focus on a particular sound, but if we don’t know the source, we open ourselves to hear everything around us. Like a deer grazing that hears a noise; its head pops up and the ears turn this way and that to hear the source of the unexpected sound. It is scanning the whole environment receptively, ready to respond instantly should a predator appear. This relates well to ‘gazing upon the distant mountains’ because it, too, is a receptive and generalized receiver of information; looking/listening/touching to see/hear/feel what is there, rather than searching for something specific that may or may not actually be there.

This approach is useful even in non-martial settings. Any conversation is an opportunity to practice what we’re talking about. Listen to the speaker and don’t get stuck on specific words or gestures, but rather take in the whole package and let yourself hear it all before judging what you’ve heard. By doing this, we gain a certain control over our responses, and, paradoxically, make those responses much more free, spontaneous and appropriate to the conversation. This approach also reduces the chance that we get distracted or triggered by particular words, and can set those words into a larger context that might better inform how we need to respond. We’ve stopped just waiting our turn to speak, and have begun to be engaged with the actual conversation as something that develops its own form as it happens. We can’t very easily pre-impose a form onto a conversation. This would be like writing a script for a conversation you’re going to have, then just sticking to the script, no matter what the other person says. They might have something completely different to say than you had imagined, but because you are following the script you are unable to appropriately respond, and the conversation quickly breaks down. In the martial setting, the metaphor of the conversation applies very well. By appreciating the whole picture (or as much of it as we can perceive), we are better able to respond in just the right way for the particular situation we face, and we are not limited by reactions and misunderstandings as easily.
Toyama no metsuke is something that can be practiced and applied at any stage in one’s training, and has many levels of application and understanding. Firstly, the basic interpretation can be taken as an instruction about how to look at the opponent. As mentioned previously, eyes, hands, and weapon are all less than ideal as a part of the opponent to look at. Instead, consider looking at the base of their throat, where their collarbones meet in the middle. Rather than focusing hard on this point, just look broadly at the opponent with this point as a soft anchor to which your eyes will return if left to wander. What this does is place your vision at the point where movement from the body propagates into the arms, and then the weapon. If someone is going to make a move, you will see that movement before it even makes it down the arms to the hands, because of where your gaze is sitting. If you are aware of the range of the weapon they’re holding, they can’t trick you with ‘hidden distance’ techniques to gain range, such as turning the shoulders, stepping, etc. All of these movements will move through or just plain move that area of the body and thus be perceptible.

It is interesting that we perceive and recognize people by more than just the features of their faces. How many times have you seen someone walking down the street from behind or from a distance and instantly recognized them by their overall shape and posture, or their gait. Our faculties of recognition can often involve some sort of ‘big picture’ aggregate of a lot of smaller data points. This big picture allows us to quickly and effectively identify people and even animals quickly without recourse to ‘higher’ executive analytical functions. We can instantly spot the difference between a raccoon and a cat, especially if they’re in motion, even if many of their other features are similar. Animals also perceive things in this way. If a cat is trying to run past you, it’s not tracking your hands or your eyes, it's taking in a ‘big picture’ snapshot of your body and where it’s going. We generally center our bodies behind our hands as we try to catch something low that is trying to get around us. This makes sense because then our legs are also in a position to block whatever is moving by. However, if you let your body move to one side or another, but trail a hand into the space you’ve allowed to open up, a cat will often run face-first into your hand, because it is going off the position of the bigger ‘you’ rather than watching for what your grabby bits are doing. This proprioceptive tendency can also be used effectively against people in the same way. Many martial ‘tricks’ involve sending the body one way, but allowing an attack to come from a different apparent direction.

 So, do our animal examples contradict what we have been talking about? Does looking at the bigger picture leave us unable to see the trees for the forest? I would argue that like anything, it can, but it doesn’t have to. Gazing upon the distant mountains can be less effective if we only look at one part of the vista available to us. The problem for the cat is that it’s seeing a bigger picture than a particular body part, but it’s not seeing a big enough picture to successfully get around the human. As humans, we need to expand the net even further, to take in the big picture of the opponent’s body, AND where their hands and weapon are in space. Fortunately, since hands are generally attached to bodies, and weapons to hands, this is not a difficult step to take in our cultivation of expanded perception. The ‘big picture’ aggregate of a body, by the very nature of there being a body involved, will always be in relationship to the hands/feet/weapon, and can only move independently to a limited degree. Training teaches us those limits and how to perceive and use them to our advantage.

At the most basic level, toyama no metsuke is trained by imagining facing someone holding a sword. The ‘near’ mountain is the tip of the sword pointing at you, the ‘valley’ is the hands, and the ‘distant’ mountain is the opponent’s body at the level where the arms join the torso, which is the middle point of their body between their shoulders. We keep our gaze generally there, instead of being distracted by the motion of the hands and the sword. This is the basic and literal version of toyama no metsuke as a technique.

Less literally, we just let our gaze be soft and receptive generally, ready to soak up any and all information that appears. As mentioned above, we softly anchor the gaze to the base of the throat, but not in a ‘sticky’ way. We just return there if our vision isn’t otherwise engaged. None of this precludes looking at their sword or their eyes, it just provides us the freedom to do so or not as we choose, and shows us the efficiency of other places to anchor our gaze. As we advance in our understanding, we become less dependent on looking anywhere in particular, and we can titrate the level of apparent engagement with an opponent by looking off to the side or somewhere else. We appear less dangerous as we appear less focused, but because of our training and understanding, this is an illusion that can be used to draw the opponent to attack.

Even less literally, we apply this approach to how we relate to the world generally, not just in our martial studies. Instead of getting stuck to things and caught up in this or that, we see everything around us as part of the larger vista of the ‘distant mountains’; not in the sense that we are separate and removed from these things, but that everything exists in relationship and context. The distant mountainside certainly has individual trees we could look at, and many other things we have no idea about, but they all exist as this larger relationship of the mountain range itself, which in turn is there in context with the valleys, the sky, the weather, etc. This web of relationships becomes literally universal and provides a sobering context to the petty dramas that we can get caught up in. By gazing upon the distant mountains, we get out of our own heads and into the world around us.
0 Comments

The Tao of the Sword

2/13/2019

0 Comments

 
​5
The Universe ignores hopes and dreams
Things just Are, Naturally
Ignore your own preconceptions
Things simply Are, Naturally
Anything can spring from Nothing
So why not Wait and see what’s actually there?

The famous tale of the empty cup goes something like this:
A senior student from another town, who was full of knowledge and opinions about the dharma, came to the local Master and asked about Zen.
As the Master prepared tea, the student talked at length about Zen and his many opinions on the subject.
At one point the Master re-filled his guest's teacup but did not stop pouring when the cup was full. Tea spilled out and ran over the table. "Stop! The cup is full!" said the student.
"Exactly," said the Master. "You are like this cup; you are full of ideas. You come and ask for teaching, but your cup is full; I can't put anything in. Before I can teach you, you'll have to empty your cup."

Our preconceptions often obscure the very basic reality right in front of us. Our ideas about things often completely take the place of observations of those actual things, creating confusion for us when the world doesn’t work like we think it should.  This mismatch between desire and reality is the root of human suffering in all of its forms, and forms the axiomatic basis upon which all of Buddhism is built. Only when we accept things as they actually are can we hope to understand things, or intelligently change them if they need to be changed.  This is one of the meanings of “emptying one’s cup”.
To make decisions about the world, we need data about the world, and the more accurate and truthful the data is, the better the decisions we can make.  Unfortunately, human psychology is such that we are very good at filtering the world to fit our preconceptions and rationalizing almost any behaviour if it fits our self-interest.  When learning, there is value in the perspectives and skills that can be linked to the new information, but there is also value in absorbing new information without reference to prior knowledge.  This not an all-or-nothing proposition; the reality of learning is the dynamic interplay of both, but in modern times, we are generally too attached to the subconsciously competitive need for perceived excellence in almost everything we do.  For this reason, we find it very difficult to approach a new situation as if it is actually new. We must always nod knowingly to ourselves, or re-explain things to ourselves, even as the information is presented to us. This is no less disrespectful than actually talking over the Master as he shares his experience with you.  
Psychologically, we habitually ‘talk’ over most new information in some way, even our own intuitive grasping of a situation.  Our cup is usually so full of our own imaginings, insecurities, and need for recognition that we are unable to truly and wholeheartedly learn except in the most base sense.  How many of us have been in the presence of a Master and had to bear the endless ‘clever questions’ asked by people that are not actually interested in learning from the Master, but are instead far more interested in being seen to speak with the Master?  Their questions are formed to display their own knowledge to the Master (and by extension all of those watching the exchange), rather than to elicit a genuine outpouring of the Master’s knowledge and experience. This situation is exactly analogous to how we psychologically approach new information in many situations.
In the realm of the sword, a full cup is a fatal proposition when faced with a truly skilled opponent.  There is not time to translate experience through the intellect and form correct actions. Even worse, the formation of correct actions in these conditions  is poisoned by preconception, anticipation, and insecurity. By filtering our experience through an untrained mind in this way, we operate entirely on the level of guessing.  
“Anything can spring from Nothing
So why not Wait and see what’s actually there?”
The usual ways of martial training are to make people into very good guessers, but ultimately a guess is something false, because it is based on something that hasn’t happened yet.  In the extreme situation of a sword match, we must cultivate the ability to act on real information rather than false information. Much of the ‘technique’ and ‘strategy’ of sword work is founded on various types of deception and misdirection, but ultimately the opponent is trying to cut or pierce us with their sword.  If we look beyond the deceptions and only act and respond based on the opponents ‘real’ intention (to cut or pierce us with the sword, or even more basically: to injure or kill us), we suddenly become almost immune to feints and tricks. But this is a difficult path to cultivate, because it involves courageously assuming deep risks, and reversing our normal perceptions of action and reaction.  
Most people will tell us that it is better to be proactive than reactive.  Proactivity is seen as positive, while reactivity carries a connotation of being slow to respond and unprepared.  Nothing could be further from the truth. Proactivity is the realm of guessing and potentially false information. Reactivity operates based on real information.  While one can become a good guesser, ultimately, proactivity is a course of action founded entirely on false data, or at least data that has not yet been observed.  Reactivity is based on observation of what is actually happening, and the creation of a course of action based on real events. Both course of action have risks and rewards, but as we’ll see, reaction is a profound path that pursues truth in all of its forms.
Let’s use an example in a sword context.  To start with, we’ll be purely defensive, only blocking an opponent’s strike.
The opponent attacks, swinging at our head.  Being proactive, as soon as we see them start the attack, we reach out and intercept their attack, stopping it before it can develop fully.  But now imagine that the opponent has feinted. Now our reaching out places us in mortal danger; to return to a position that allows us to protect ourselves becomes difficult now that we’ve reached out to the opponent.  By trying to get ahead of the opponent’s timing, we have ended up dangerously behind them in time. By committing to our proactivity, we have ended up almost irrecoverably out of position and right where the opponent wants us.  In this case, our guess was wrong and the results are potentially fatal. There are many reasons why this is problematic. Physically, it means that we’re constantly pouncing on what we predict will be the opponent’s actions, but as we’ve discussed, these predictions are ultimately guesses.  It also means that our mind is constantly grabbing onto courses of action that might or might not develop. When the mind attaches to a particular thing, it loses its freedom to process other things effectively. In sword work, we aspire to a particular freedom of action for the body and mind that allow them to move freely around without ‘getting stuck’ on any particular thing.
Now let’s imagine the same scenario, but with a reactive approach.  The opponent swings at our head, and instead of reaching for their attack, we wait until it is almost at its target.  By doing so, we accomplish at least two important objectives: we observe the opponent’s technique and can determine its actual intention, and we also remain in the best position from which we can respond to feints and changes in the opponent’s plan.  In addition, we draw a certain level of commitment from the opponent as their techniques are not being interfered with and seem to be succeeding. Because we are not interfering with their attack, they feel no need to change what they’re doing. We simply watch their technique approach and then respond efficiently at the last moment, when it’s too late for them to change course.  By Waiting in this way, the truth of the opponent’s technique reveals itself.
In terms of timing, this approach turns the conventional thinking upside down.  Usually, we are told we need to seize the initiative and always be ahead of our opponent.  With the empty cup approach, we allow them to have the initiative, allow them to commit to their actions, and act only when necessary.  By doing this, we end up ahead of the opponent in time when it really matters, and become much more resistant to feints and misdirection.

Practical exercises:
  1. Have a partner attack and practice blocking at different times.  Use the same attack for now, so that timing can be consistently applied.  Block as you usually do for awhile, then try to block as early as possible.  Once you’re ready, start trying to block as late as possible. Let their sword get as close as possible before you intervene.  
  2. Now have the opponent use a feinting technique followed by a genuine attack.  Try the 3 timings (‘normal’, early, and late) and observe the result. Is there a timing that makes it hard for them to successfully fake?
  3. Repeat the first 2 exercises but now add your own attack after your successful block.  Observe how effective this is at each of the 3 timings.
0 Comments

The Tao Teh Ching of the sword

11/24/2017

0 Comments

 
6

The mysterious Yin is always there
Like a Mother it births all things
Though it is nearly always hidden
It is always at hand

In swordsmanship, there are many levels of understanding.  The obvious aspects of the art are nearly overwhelming to consider: choreography of forms, flashing blades, dangerous and skilled opponents, etc.  Even if we narrow our examination to the moment of conflict between opponents, it is compelling to focus on the swords, their movements, and the strategic positioning of the wielders.  But as discussed in Chapter 2, each of these circumstances has both Yin and Yang aspects.  If we pay attention only to the obvious aspects, we are missing a lot of what it going on. These Yin (or less obvious) aspects of the sword are every bit as important as the more obvious Yang aspects.  They can actually have physical effects that are actually able to be perceived and used by the serious student of the sword. By looking beyond the surface appearances, we gain a deeper understanding of what is going on.
For the sword to move to one place, it necessarily must move away from another.  If we could view the blade moving through the air and perceive the changes in air pressure, we would see the air pressure increase in front of the blade, and decrease behind it as it vacates that space.  Nature naturally and seamlessly fills a vacuum.  Areas of low pressure are filled, while areas of high pressure are dispersed, all without deliberation or hesitation.  By appreciating even the very basic nature of the sword moving through air in this fashion, we begin to understand a very basic operation of the universe, and get a very clear demonstration of Yin Yang in dynamic interplay.
The Taoist ideal is one of accord with Nature, so that we do what is natural without struggling and fighting against the world.  Like being in a river with a strong current, we can’t change the current or swim against it directly; rather we need to understand how the currents are flowing and work with the current.  Nature is what ‘does itself’, is ‘self so’, or ‘self arising’.  As serious students of the sword, we also aspire to this conception of what is natural.  The highest expression of sword skill is when the techniques seem to ‘do themselves’, or when they ‘just happen’.  If we accept this idea, then we begin to try and return our movements with the sword to those that are as Natural as possible.  The problem is, of course, how to identify ways to be Natural.  After all, if we deliberately make a movement, is it Natural anymore?  
Let’s return to the sword moving through the air, and the pressure changes that it creates.  If we observe how nature operates under these conditions, we see that it fills the vacated spaces.  If we take this example as inspiration and attempt to do the same, to fill the spaces vacated by the opponent’s sword, new realms of potential techniques are instantly available to us.  
If we think of flowing into areas that are empty, we are almost physically drawn into those places. In the example of the sword moving through the air, the air that fills the area of low pressure behind the blade as it moves is actually sucked into that spot.  By participating in this basic physical phenomenon that is already happening, the opponent’s movements will naturally draw us into the empty spaces, the yin spaces, and put us exactly where they don’t want us to be.  
If we think of the act of the opponent cutting at us with a sword, the opponent’s mind is completely occupied by the front edge of the sword.  They have no thought or even knowledge of the dynamic relationships forming at the back of their blade.  For them, it’s all about the edge, and trying to get it to contact our body.  If we ignore this obvious (yang) aspect of their attack, and instead appreciate the equally important ‘hidden’ (yin) aspects of the attack, we begin to be able to work with the opponent in ways that they don’t even know exist, much less can hope to understand in the quick time frame of a sword contest. More importantly, we also begin to appreciate the inseparability of yin and yang.   There is no way to move the sword toward something without moving it away from somewhere else.  By creating yang, we create yin.  If we move to there, we move from here.  While this doesn’t necessarily require changing our techniques and forms, it widens our appreciation of how those forms and techniques might actually be working.  

Practical Exercises:
  1. Perform your usual paired drills or forms.  After warming up and being comfortable with the choreography, start to work through the same drill or form but try to avoid the opponent’s sword without changing any other aspect of your techniques.  Even in the case of strong blocks, examine how they can lead to entering the yin areas left open by the movements of the opponent.
  2. Imagine the air currents made by every move the opponent makes.   Working slowly at first, start to explore how those currents might draw you into the opponent’s openings.  Instead of leaping into their openings, calmly ride the current.
  3. Occasionally, rather than trying to be powerful, fast and skilled, imagine yourself like smoke, which fills all available spaces, needing no power to do so.  Observe the results.  Light a stick of incense in a still room near a sunny window.  Pass your sword through the smoke and observe the relationships that appear..
0 Comments

The Swordsman's Tao Teh Ching

11/3/2017

0 Comments

 
1
It IS, whether named or not
And no name can fully describe it, though we call it Tao
Without names it is the Whole, the formless
Named, it is the ten thousand things, the forms
Form and formless, neither and both,
Mystery upon mystery, the gate of perception.

“It IS, whether named or not”
The nature of swordsmanship can only ever be partially described.  Only those who have inquired deeply have felt all words drop away and felt the inadequacy of the usual distinctions applied to the sword and its use.  Even the preference of the object we call a sword is a limiting distinction that leaves us at a disadvantage when circumstance calls for a bow, or spear, or perhaps even a kind word to serve whatever the situation presents to us.   If we had no idea of style or fixed techniques, some would still excel with the sword, because swordsmanship does not necessarily arise from styles and fixed techniques.  Those are only tools to help perceive the principles of swordsmanship in action (and in fact, the principles of the Universe itself), and are meant to be means not ends.  Too often, we confuse our descriptions of reality with the actual reality we are an inextricable participant in, and are correspondingly frustrated when what actually happens doesn’t match what we told ourselves should happen.  Only by accepting the indescribability of what is actually real and being comfortable not having to describe it to ourselves, can we escape the compelling trap of seeing only a self-flattering ghost of the world.  Once we let go and surrender our poorly informed ideas about the world and really look at it for what it Is, without judging what we see, we can become a real part of reality as it happens and begin to see deeply into What’s Going On.  We stop building walls to protect ourselves and instead can reach out and truly Learn what’s around us.  This attitude is critical to the deeper pursuit of swordsmanship.

“And no name can fully describe it, though we call it Tao”

Words are only pale, thin images of the reality of swordsmanship.  A list of techniques can hardly be confused with the deepest mysteries of sword, but still people get stuck in certain forms and expressions of swordsmanship.  A description of a sword fight can hardly reflect the real workings of one’s mind and body when life and death are finely balanced.  Even a well-trained practical knowledge of the entire body of technique found in any of the venerable lineages is no guarantee of Understanding.  What arises from that empty moment before the first strike comes is something much greater than mere technique, and yet it is far more simple and quiet than the most refined forms of the Masters.  Those styles that keep secret techniques and forms for their highest levels of achievement have fundamentally misunderstood the progression towards embodied principles.  The adept should be actively dropping and abandoning the study of fixed technique as they progress, beginning finally to trust what they’ve learned and letting the principles express themselves spontaneously and appropriately to the situation.

“Without names it is the Whole, the formless
Named, it is the ten thousand things, the forms”

If we watch a true Master in action, it is immediately apparent to most that they have penetrated the mysteries of their craft.  We need know nothing of the particulars of their style or method to recognize true understanding of principles being expressed.  In this case we see the completeness of what they’re doing, precisely because we are not blinded by various details and distinctions, which give rise to our own petty judgements.  In a Master, Technique and Principle are in proper relationship with each other; the understanding of Principles generating Techniques appropriate to the particular situation.  To compare this process with speech, long training in technique provides the vocabulary, but deep understanding of principle is the expression of ideas with that vocabulary in a fashion that communicates something more than just words.  

In this case, the “names” are not just labels, but the actual fixed body of techniques and forms that a style uses to distinguish itself from other styles.  By separating ourselves from others, we retreat from Completeness.  If the reality of the universe is Oneness, by pursuing Separateness we are committing to an unnatural course of action, and by doing so, we fight the very fabric of the universe itself with our every action.  Following this course of Separation, we are literally swimming against the current in a swiftly flowing river, which is generally exhausting and frustrating.
​

It should be remembered, however, that without technique of some sort, Principle has nothing with which it can be expressed.  While the Whole of swordsmanship is in reality only what happens at any given moment, to truly excel, one must have developed a vocabulary to effectively express whatever ideas are demanded by the present circumstance.  Principle is useless without the ability to take perceptible action in the world, and that ability is provided by technique.  
To return to our analogy of the conversation, we can express certain ideas with formless sounds, grunts, pointing, or in other non-verbal ways, but this is generally quite a limited way to communicate, especially when the message to be communicated is complex or difficult.  Only with a thorough grasp of our language and the words it uses, can we create poetry, or communicate fine details or nuances.  But we must never forget that our goal in doing so is Communication.  Any language can do that very effectively, though each guides the minds of its speakers accordingly.  We would be fools to think that somehow our language was the only one that Communicates, or that our words are somehow deeper or more meaningful than those of others.  For us, they may be, but not for everyone.  Sometimes we can drop our language entirely and just point at the moon without having to say a thing.  We all know what we’re looking at in that moment, even if our words differ profoundly.

Practical exercise:
  1. Contrast using known techniques against standard attacks with allowing spontaneous responses to arise.  Work slowly.  Use known partner drills but don’t begin a technique, even in your mind, until the attack actually develops.  Pretend your partner’s techniques will be brand new, and that you’ve never seen them before.  What does your body want to do?  What does your training tell you to do?  Is there something else you can try?

  1. Start with closed eyes.  When you open your eyes, have your partner attack immediately without giving you a chance to think.  Try to empty your mind of predictions and planning.  Do not respond with a pre-selected technique; instead try to come up with a fresh response directly related to the attack as it happens in real time.  Trust yourself to open your eyes, see what attack is coming, and respond  appropriately.  Don’t anticipate, but rather be completely open to what your eyes see as they open.  See what techniques create themselves.  See what techniques arise that you have trained extensively.
0 Comments

Choosing a sword

4/11/2017

0 Comments

 
Picture
When choosing a sword, avoid precious or important weapons with a distinguished history or attractive fittings.  Choose the sword that won’t let you forget its purpose; choose the sword that can be carried and used without worry or undue attachment.  Respect the swords as a tool applicable to all levels of your life, but never let it dominate your mind for any reason.  A precious or valuable sword, while providing a certain type of satisfaction, risks becoming an obstacle to one’s expression of swordsmanship and the cultivation of one’s virtue.  Often, valuable or precious swords are kept in order to cultivate favorable opinions in others, rather than for reasons that are relevant to our swordsmanship.  Given two similar swords, invariably most will choose the one owned by someone famous, or the one that is older, or more beautifully adorned.  Why is this the case?  We want to associate ourselves with the deeds of others, but these are not our deeds.  We want to have a sword that impresses others, but those are not our impressions. Such motivations are selfish and work against our path of cultivation.  It is often said that the sword of a superior swordsman must itself be superior, but a superior swordsman is comfortable with any weapon, or even none.  To fixate upon ‘favorite’ weapons is a recipe for disaster, since it adds yet another attachment to the vast sea of attachments we already drown in.  It is difficult enough to let go without adding to the problem with mere objects.  A sword is a functional tool for the purpose of efficiently killing, nothing more, and only when we can truly see it as such does it become a transcendent object of cultivation as well.  The only possible exception to this is when a Teacher has given you a sword for the correct reasons.  A perceptive Teacher will give you a sword that has a particular purpose for you, and it is your job to find the lessons that it has to give.

0 Comments

Relationship of the Sword

12/28/2015

0 Comments

 
Picture
"It is said by the old Taoists (and consequently rediscovered by those that deeply inquire) that the ‘natural’ state is preferable to one that is contrived or artificial. To them, Mastery was defined by one’s proximity to a state of complete accord with the tasks one performs, which is to say everything occurring in the present moment. What is complete accord with the present moment? Simplistically, one might say that this accord is full participation in the reality of the moment without recourse to fantasy, projection, anticipation, regret, or any of the other things that take us from what is Now, and drown it out with the future or the past. In the present moment, fear and self-doubt don’t exist, there is only what IS. This is the reality of ‘nature’: the things that are happening by themselves at any given moment. All of these events are in relationship with each other by the simple virtue of being parts of the Universe itself, in other words the Tao or the Great Relationship."  Arrow Mountain Tengu

0 Comments

The Conversation of the Sword

3/15/2015

2 Comments

 
Picture
by Jason Deatherage

The problem with most sword training is that people approach it with fixed ideas of what a sword is and does.  They have a certain ‘look’ in mind, and the portrayals of the physical use of the sword in various media are generally not faithful to what happens when the swordsman is really trying to kill and not to be killed.  Unfortunately, these preconceptions are driven deep, and are passed to subsequent generations of students and teachers largely unexamined.  Preconceptions are understandable, as we no longer depend on our sword skills to survive in the world (and really, few ever did), so we have no place forced upon us in which our understandings of the sword are truly and deeply tested.  It is because of this lack of ‘reality’ that we must be especially careful about how we think when we train and how we think about what we train.  Even those of us who are involved in learning a sword art with a long, venerable lineage are vulnerable to ‘fixed ideas’ of the sword, and perhaps are in an even more dangerous position because of the authority with which we accept the teachings of those who have come before us in our art. 

Why are fixed ideas bad? Don’t we have to learn specific things to be able to do specific things? After all, we know that it is essential to learn a vocabulary in order to be able to well spoken with a language.  We start with meaningless sounds, learn words, then sentences, then the more comprehensive rules of language, all the while talking to people and attempting to communicate with them.  And if we really pay attention to the process, we learn a few very interesting things that are entirely relevant to our study of the sword.

The problem lies in the identification of the true goal of such learning.  In the case of language, we don’t learn a language to have the largest possible vocabulary of words that are pronounced with exacting precision, we learn a language in order to express ideas to each other clearly and transparently.  In a conversation between people, exceedingly complicated words and fussy pronunciation is often a barrier to communication rather than a vehicle for it.  We run the risk of sacrificing the central goal of language by becoming lost in the forms of language.  Of course we can take pleasure in the learning and doing of language, but we must always remember that the whole point is to communicate.  All other goals are secondary.  We know this because there are so many layers of communication between people: facial expression, tone of voice, gestures, body posture, and so much more.  This is speaking without speaking, and if we only focus on the actual language, we lose a great depth of ability to communicate.  Sometimes we don’t know the word for something but we can point to an object, and the idea has been fully and completely expressed without language at all, even to people who don’t speak or speak a different language entirely.  Of course, just grunting and pointing at things gives us some difficulty in expressing more complex ideas, so we have some obligation to learn the forms of language to some extent if we are truly interested in communicating with people.

How does this compare to sword training?  With the sword, we must learn basic postures and techniques, eventually stringing them together into forms or kata, applying these techniques in choreographed drills to illuminate various concepts, and finally, though more rarely, expressing our ideas to each other through free sparring or in actual combat.  Much like language, swordsmanship is a tool for the expression of ideas, and exactly like language, we must be careful that our central goal remains clear (more on this later).   By viewing our swordsmanship as a form of communication, we can start to penetrate into the deepest potentials of the sword.

What is communication?  Dictionary definitions aside, communication is when an idea is successfully passed between people, intent and content intact.  In order to truly communicate with someone, to converse with them, there is a connotation of positive engagement, of willing participation; we have to want to accomplish something together.  To have a difficult but important conversation that one might rather avoid is a courageous act that requires a certain open-hearted acceptance of whatever might arise.  To enter a conversation with everything one might say already pre-planned and ready is not true communication, but rather just two people reading scripts at each other.  To truly converse, we must be prepared to truly listen, not just wait our turn to talk.  The difference may seem subtle, but this quality of putting aside our preconceived notions and opening ourselves to information so that it seems new is a critical part of both communication and swordsmanship. If a close loved one said to you, “We really have to talk.  I have something very important to tell you,” you might start to imagine a million things the message could be.  You might think of cancer, or divorce, or winning lottery tickets, or the death of a child, but you really don’t know, and when they start to speak, you open yourself completely to be sure you hear what they are going to say as fully as possible.  This quality of listening is critical to be able to truly communicate, and it is critical to the use of the sword. If your mind is full of what this conversation might be about rather than listening to what is actually being said, little true communication can take place, and your responses will be based on your conjectures rather than actual reality. 

In swordsmanship, this quality of listening is immensely important. Swordsmanship is a deeply intimate form of communication in that if one fails to listen effectively or speak clearly, the consequences are injury or death.  Obviously, this listening is not done (only) with the ears, but rather with the body.  That quality of opening the mind to what’s actually right in front of you without preconception or judgment, just like in a deep conversation, must also be present.

How does one listen with the body?  In Chinese, there is a concept called 听劲, which is pronounced ting jin, and roughly means ‘listening energy’ (literally the characters mean "the listening using the connected work/function of a whole body's tissues").  While some might get carried away and think this is some sort of actual energy that you cultivate, it is rather a form of paying attention with your whole body and mind.  It is just ‘being there’ (or rather here) instead of off in our imagination, trying to anticipate and strategize.  Let’s look at a practical example with swords in our hands.

One of the ways that a swordsperson can be cut is if the opponent successfully feints, drawing a response that creates an opening that they can enter and strike with their sword.  This is a false attack designed to take advantage of our reactions, but in reality it takes advantage of the exact opposite of a reaction; it takes advantage of an anticipation.  If the fake works at all, it means that we moved too early and based our understanding of the situation on information that had not fully developed. In other words, we didn’t listen to what the opponent had to say and we started to speak over them before they were finished speaking, assuming wrongly that we knew what they were going to say.  On the other hand, if we treat this encounter as a conversation, we really want to know what they are trying to say to us so that we might formulate a truly appropriate response, a response that takes into account everything they shared with us and the true intent of their statement.  To put this into the language of sword, we must be able to know exactly the full intent and nature of their attack, so that we can properly meet and neutralize it (or ignore it entirely) then press our own attack if necessary.  To do this effectively, we need to be able to courageously observe their attack until the last possible moment.  We need to listen to the situation until they have spoken their piece, and then respond with exactly what the situation requires, nothing more, nothing less.

Understanding the critical nature of what communication with the sword really is brings us back to the central goals mentioned before.  Just as the goal of language is not speaking for the pleasure of hearing ourselves, the goal of swordsmanship is not clean and beautiful technique strung together in beautiful forms.  The goal of using a sword is to kill an opponent, or at the very least stop them from killing us.  Even though we are not truly interested in killing, and will be unlikely to find ourselves in true combat with a sword, if we hope to learn the way of the sword, we must have deep respect for what the tool is designed for.  This design principle has been the root of everything that followed from the very first sword to the one in our hand right now.  Furthermore, the point of swordsmanship is not even the actual sword, but is again to kill the opponent or at least not be killed by them.  Similarly, it doesn’t matter what language one uses as long as one can communicate ideas and information.  In many arts, the sword has become a tool of higher expression, a way to shine a light on the deeper principles of the art, but the danger is that the real goals and principles become too mundane and obvious and are therefore more completely neglected.

The stark reality is that the sword was made because it’s easier to kill someone with a sharp blade than it is to do so with a stick or a fist.  It is designed not only to kill, but also to do it efficiently, with less effort than other methods. If we aren’t constantly cross-referencing our techniques with these central goals and principles of the sword, respecting its inherent properties of edge and point (among others), then we are engaged in an empty practice with a low and impenetrable ceiling of understanding and skill. 

Just as someone only interested in killing with the sword is damaged and unsavory, those only interested in cultivation are equally imbalanced and limited.  They are not well-spoken people that can hold interesting conversations because they are not interested in communicating.  A truly satisfying conversation is a free thing that has pleasant unpredictibilities in it, and new turns of phrase can be created by the circumstances and interactions between the participants.  The use of language in such a conversation is not inhibited by preconception, it flows freely to serve the goal of expressing ideas.  The physical reality of swordsmanship is just like this; trying to choose just one aspect or another of the sword (killing or cultivating) is ultimately inhibitory to the use of the sword.  Circumstance picks what is needed, because that what is real.  Your ideas of what should or might happen are not real at all, and while you might be able to force them onto the situation, by doing so you are separating yourself from the free and natural use of the sword.  If we really want to kill or to cultivate, we must be as free and natural as we can be.  Do want to argue with or smugly ignore our opponent, or do we want a free and natural conversation with them that leads to true resolution of the conflict?

All of our vocabulary, our clever phrasing, and our ability to hear and listen must serve the central goal or our swordsmanship becomes a clever recitation of a pre-written script rather than a living conversation.  The dead and stilted result of this sort of approach becomes glaringly obvious if we attempt to have a spoken conversation with someone in this manner.  Try to write out a whole conversation with someone, imagining what they are going to say and formulating your responses, then actually go talk to them and stick only with your script.  Very shortly the conversation will break down into something that is most definitely not communication.  Why do we see swordsmanship as any different?

When we look at how swordsmanship is generally taught and understood, we realize that this scripted approach is exactly how most people are trying to learn and teach the use of the sword.  There is no reality, only imagination and guessing; no listening, only speaking over; no communication or conversation, only much sound and fury signifying nothing.  Instead of seeing separation and conflict, if we open-heartedly welcome our opponent into the conversation of the sword, we can begin to approach mastery of the sword and mastery of our relationship with the whole world.


2 Comments

The Danger of Predictability

12/6/2014

0 Comments

 
Picture
The Danger of Predictability

The Arrow Mountain Tengu

It has been already been written in previous discourses that one must have some form of danger present in one’s training in order to have a chance at true learning and improvement with the sword.  Without the conditions that give rise to true fear, we cannot hope to properly accord our Minds to fear and learn its true role in our use of the sword.  Fear must be lightly grasped in our mind and allowed to combine with all of the other aspects of our training to create spontaneous expression with the sword, both in the realm of the actual clash of blades, and also in one’s larger strategies and approaches to conflict itself.  But danger in our practice is not enough, because it is usually limited to direct physical use of the sword, and can easily be neutered by the insidious influence of predictability.

Predictability is a deeply human pursuit.  Nearly all of our activities seek to increase the predictability of our surroundings.  We eat at certain times of day, live and work on flat floors, navigate, keep time, record history, speak languages, reproduce, ad infinitum.  Each of these activities understandably attempts to ensure the continuation of past or present events into the future but, while many are unavoidably necessary, they are in fact resistances to Change itself.  We carry on thinking that we know what is going to happen based on guesses drawn from our memories of past events, and if we are perceptive and diligent we can often make very accurate predictions.  However, in many cases we are not acting on the basis of the actual reality in front of us; rather we are acting based on suppositions and inferences.  We begin to operate on wishful thinking rather than actual circumstance.  While this type of prediction allows for powerful organizations of human effort, it does not truly prepare one for the reality and inseparability of life and death.  Sadly, predictability is most often used as a way to pretend that we are not in fact impermanent, that we have control over the future, that we are somehow separate from everything else.  In the realm of the sword as in a full life, this type of self-delusion is dangerous and counterproductive.

When training the sword, one must take seriously the spirit of the discipline they study.  They must realize that they study the art of killing people who will do all they can to kill in turn.  As any serious student knows, this focus on death is absolutely critical to having any hope of using the sword to preserve and protect life.  However, only by becoming proficient at the methods of killing can we make not-killing a true and deliberate choice, rather than being condemned to one path or the other.  By having true choice, we have the opportunity to create a true peace around us in which violence has no power.  It must never be forgotten, however, that the dark heart of this peace is the ability to face any opponent and cut them down without hesitation, regardless of their skill or style.  This ability certainly includes the physical skills of violence, but more importantly it requires certain attitudes of the mind.

It is one thing to train with one’s Brothers and Sisters, refining our techniques, building skill and power with choreographed drills and exchanges in which we can begin to fully express the techniques shown to us by our Teachers.  In this context, we can have the necessary danger by pushing the envelope of speed and power.  We can also avoid ‘safe’ weapons, instead choosing weapons capable of causing real injury should a mistake occur.  Much progress can be made in Schools of this sort, but there is a flaw in their training that hinders further Learning and Improvement.  Their ceiling of Understanding is lower than it might otherwise be due to the almost complete absence of Unpredictability.  They forget the reality that their art was designed to be able to face a real person with a real blade, even if this opponent will never more than theoretical.  To train with this end point in mind brings real Quality to the pursuit of one’s art.  Training without it leaves our art drifting and aimless, prone to error and misunderstanding.

When one faces a real opponent, one often does not know their true capabilities.  This opponent is a person who has not been training with one for years, learning the same techniques, agreeing with the same Teacher, or following the invisible rules of one’s style.  One doesn’t know what they’re going to do (or not do), and one must now realize that one’s training has not in any way accounted for this incredibly basic reality of swordsmanship.  One may have tricks and positions that help protect one from many possible attacks, but the fact is that one’s mind has rarely, if ever, been truly tested with things that one doesn’t at least subconsciously expect.  Even the most ferocious choreographed drill, done at full speed and power, is completely predictable to the mind and thus the mind limited to this sort of practice never has to experience the fear of the unknown.  In many cases, the very reason choreography is done is to reduce the fear inherent in unpredictability and create a safe context in which to practice one’s techniques.  Of course controlled training of this sort has a vital place in the cultivation of our basic skills and technique, but what are those techniques for, if not to serve one spontaneously and correctly in circumstances that are emergent and dangerous?  If they were predictable, they wouldn’t be an emergency. 

The goal of our training is to create a Mind that is calm in all circumstances, from the most tender caress of a lover to the very moment of our death, and all points in between.  It should be obvious, however, that we can never specifically train all circumstances and assign them certain techniques, living our lives by mental and physical muscle memory.   Why then do we train our martial arts as if this were the case?  Instead, we must begin to accept that Change is the only reality, and learn to accord ourselves seamlessly with it.  If our minds and bodies are not trained with acceptance of this reality, we are fundamentally unable to respond naturally and properly to what is right in front of us.  While there is certainly a place for choreography to refine the fundamental vocabulary of the beginning student, we must not lose the courage to step into the unknown with our explorations of our art as our skill deepens.  We must be able to push the boat away from shore and get ourselves safely across the river, rather than stay on the shore rehearsing some imagined version of the crossing.  Only by feeling real winds, currents and waves can we learn to guide a boat.  Of course we don’t start (or even have to end) in a hurricane on the ocean, but even a calm pond in the forest has immensely more to teach the person in the boat than the shore does.  Sadly, most arts pay only lip service to this level of training, never having the courage to progress into and beyond it.

How, then, does one begin to explore this unpredictability in the context of their own training, perhaps even under a Teacher who doesn’t understand the importance of the Unknown?  Firstly, one can begin to empty themselves of expectation and anticipation, even during choreography.  It is important to properly Wait for an attack to actually happen before performing the correct response.  Too often, students learn a complicated set of movements and begin to anticipate the next move, even subtly, thus draining the real essence of the exercise without even knowing it.  A student interested in inquiring deeply into this Waiting can wait more and more, exploring the element of time and keen observation even while practicing their techniques.  Much can be learned by those who seriously inquire, even in this relatively limited fashion. In this way, one can begin to respectfully explore and test their art, while staying entirely within the usual curriculum and instruction from their Teacher.

Another method is to let the choreography operate for a few moves, then leave the next move completely open for the attacker to decide.  The receiving partner will have to truly wait and see what comes, learning undeniably that if they anticipate, will be very vulnerable to feints and missed blocks.  The attacking partner will learn much as well about the reactions that expectation can create, among other things.  It doesn’t profit the reader to have these things laid out in specifics, when personal experimentation will yield a far more valuable direct experience.  This sort of work might require an understanding Teacher, so be careful how you approach it.

Eventually, by not projecting our fears and expectations upon our opponents, we begin to see them very clearly.  Their techniques become transparent to us and we are much better able to deal with their attacks.  Their tricks become obvious and futile in the face of our unshakeable Calm.  We begin to be able to see the roots of conflict itself in just the same way, allowing us to stop it from growing and consuming us.  We begin to see difficult circumstances with curiosity and openness rather than avoidance and fear.  We welcome our opponents into the Conversation of the Sword and use our power and skill to protect us both.


0 Comments

Wu Wei and the Sword

10/21/2014

0 Comments

 
Picture
Wu Wei and the Sword

In swordsmanship, one sees the common hackers attacking one another with abandon, fighting sword against sword with little understanding of the deeper principles that will forever be obscure to their cluttered minds.  Even those who do not fight are like magpies, collecting shiny forms, practicing poorly and excessively, coveting expensive weapons and costumes, and chattering at each other from the treetops, trying to establish some sort of false dominance over one another.  This disgraceful state of affairs is inevitable when the mind is focused only on the Yang, the obvious, the distracting.  The foolish are always focused on ‘doing’ something, ‘making’ something happen, being ‘proactive’, ‘taking’ initiative, and being in control of their false view of actual reality that they insist on filtering through their expectations and desires.  It is no surprise that they are doomed to remain at low levels of skill and understanding, because their cups are full, with no room to receive the nourishing tea of true reality, of Now.

If one makes the choice to follow nature’s example, to adapt and flow with circumstance as if one is cast into the middle of a wide and powerful river with no hope of reaching shore, then one has a chance to truly begin to Learn and Improve in their pursuit of the essence of swordsmanship.  Only by letting go of our desires and expectations can we hope to truly enter the moment that is right here, right now.  Since we are a part of reality, we are subject to it in every moment.  This reality cannot be changed, only accepted, though do not mistake this for helplessness.  If we are in a great river, being swept inevitably downstream, our choices are not simple to swim directly upstream or float helplessly downstream; rather we are best served by working with the current in all of its subtle eddies, undertows, rapids, and calm depths.  Only by surrendering to the reality of the river can we begin to understand how we can use its power to assist our movements; we have stopped fighting and ‘doing’ things, and begun to let the river move us, guided by the strategic overview of our mind.  In this way we ‘do nothing’ and yet things are accomplished with power and efficiency, leaving no trace behind.  In the words of the old Taoists, this is Wu Wei.

In the realm of the sword, when faced with an opponent bent on killing, it is critical that we operate in this state of Wu Wei, ‘doing’ nothing that is unnecessary, allowing the opponent to dictate the movements of our sword and body.  The lower level hackers and slashers will sneer derisively at this ‘reactive’ approach, but they fail to understand that this reactivity is in response to true reality itself, rather than their proactivity, which is also essentially reactive but only in response to their projections, fantasies, conjectures and guesses about reality.  While one can develop strong predictive powers with training and observation, one must understand that one is always working with false information, and if the guess is wrong, the result is catastrophic.  The reactive swordsman can never be faked, while the proactive swordsman is easy to draw into all sorts of terrible positions and cut down with ease.  It requires true courage to follow this path, which requires that one Wait and See what the opponent is actually doing rather than guessing at what they might do.  By doing this, we are not interfering with reality, but are rather adapting ourselves to it utterly, and using its currents to accomplish our own ends.  In this way, one must only Wait, and the proper course of action will become immediately clear, assuming one has trained their martial vocabulary diligently.  Only by Waiting, just as the universe itself waited to be born out of the Big Bang, can this unlimited potential give rise to the correct action spontaneously and naturally. 

This natural spontaneity was the central pursuit of the old Taoists, before their philosophies were hijacked and twisted by the alchemists, priests, and magicians.  Their pursuit was the direct opposite of the immortality that later ‘Taoists’ became known for coveting; it was instead the immediate and direct experience of each moment, naturally and spontaneously, which is the mirror image of immortality.  Their Way meant that each moment was a whole incarnation unto itself, and each choice lead to the next incarnation in the next moment, in constant succession until one’s death, which was accepted with no more or less joy or sorrow than life itself.

By seeing what is desirable and obvious, we can see that there must be another side to things.  By operating in these dark spaces between things, the swordsman begins to be able to swim with the river by flowing with Yin.  By using what is not-sword, one begins to have fine and subtle mastery over what is-sword.  By not doing what others do, we begin to be able to do what they cannot, precisely because they are trying to do it so hard.


0 Comments

The Rule

9/27/2014

2 Comments

 
Picture
The Rule

To diligently study the Way of Swordsmanship requires that one listen not only to one’s Teacher, but also to one’s sword and the Natural lessons it teaches to the perceptive.  Because the root goal of our study is one of removing all impediments to Natural action, we must likewise be perceptive of the demands of circumstance, and seamlessly change with the changes that surround us.  Only Natural action can function in all circumstances; only Natural action is the true evidence of a truly Calm mind. 

What is meant by Natural action?  Natural action is action that is truly in accord with the demands of circumstance, and doesn’t seek to impose conditions which are not appropriate to the moment.  Ideally, long and serious training builds a deep vocabulary of technique and a flexibility of mind that can adapt and change those techniques according to the requirements of the moment.  Unfortunately in these days of lifeless adherence to the rigid forms of the past in order to convince the gullible of one’s ‘traditional’ credibility, the study of the sword has fallen into technical tricks or spiritual fantasy, having neither true completeness nor ability to truly cultivate and effectively fight.  The other Schools seek to force their long preserved techniques upon the circumstances that confront them, acting from fond memory or wishful thinking rather from what is Here and Now.  Their actions can never be Natural because they are unchanging.  It is self evident that Nature is nothing other than Change, occurring with no guiding hand except the relationships of the inherent virtues of its constituent beings.  If we refuse to listen to and understand the essence of Nature, thus rejecting our inevitable part in this grand Relationship, we can only participate by forcing our way in from the outside destructively, and are severely limited in the scope of action available to us.  Much like swimming in a river, if we refuse to listen and adapt to the current, we are doomed to a futile attempt to resist the river’s power - to swim upstream - and are soon exhausted and drowned. 

While the ancient Masters no doubt had great skill and understanding, we will not achieve those same skills and understandings by copying only their methods.  We must rather seek understanding in the way that they sought it, as if their heads were on fire, chasing down and examining each insight without bias or preference.  Those Masters did not learn the styles that are attributed to them; rather, they created them anew from their own understandings and previous vocabularies.  Even a student of the most venerated ryu-ha never truly learns until they are reinventing the traditional forms for themselves, comparing them to reality, changing them subtly to suit the demands of circumstance or finally understanding the mechanisms for change that lurk within the seemingly unchanging forms. 

At this point, the principles that are the true message of one’s style begin to surface for the inquiring student, and can be pursued in and of themselves, stepping beyond mere technique and form, but still standing upon a firm foundation of technique and form.  It is only at this point that one can even aspire to pursuing truly Natural action, as one’s whole body of knowledge has been entirely artificial up to this point.  Just learning the techniques is not enough, though it is essential to further progress.  For most, at this point in a student’s progress, their ‘style’ changes from a guidepost on the Path of Swordsmanship to an endless maze of distraction and misunderstanding.  The very tool of learning that brought them to this point becomes the most dangerous and invisible obstacle to further learning and improvement.  When this point has been reached, if one wishes to penetrate further, one must begin to seek deeply for principles with little thought for the traditional forms of their styles.  One must be willing to begin to destructively test their own lessons in order to find their true value.  One must begin to look into even their own teacher’s authority on the matter and see if principle is operating consistently there, invisibly testing the validity of their lessons at every moment.  This approach requires much of the serious student of the sword.  One cannot allow even a moment of self-congratulation or self-delusion; only deeply intense honesty, devoid of self-interest, can be used to further penetrate to the heart of the matter.  The most deceptive and hostile force resisting this honesty is one’s own self-interest.  Our desire to improve, to be better, to learn, can all be turned completely against our own efforts if we remain unduly attached to those desires. 

The use of principle, once properly identified, is much like the use of a map by a skilled traveller.  When travelling, one gets nowhere unless they actually put one foot in front of another and travel over the land.  This is the form of travelling.  With a map, one can look ahead along one’s route, and even change one’s route based on the information on the map, making the most out of every footstep.  By combining diligent, persistent walking with careful understanding and use of the map, one can travel most efficiently.  The Sword is no different.  Our inquiries in the truth of the matter must be combined intelligently with our physical practice to create a complete method of learning the sword.

Once we begin to penetrate into the real principles of Swordsmanship, we begin to identify very simple rules that govern our chances of success and failure.  In this discourse, we will examine what is known to the Piercing Cloud Method as “The Rule”.  It is easily demonstrable that if even a beginning student of the Sword adheres to this rule, they can readily defeat a great many opponents of greater skill if those opponents do not know this principle. 

This rule is simply that one must keep one’s sword between themselves and their opponent. While the logic of such positioning might seem exceedingly obvious, it is not consistently present in much of the sword work done these days.  The absence of conscious understanding of such a fundamental principle in other Schools seems to indicate the dangers of relying on form and tradition as one’s only path of learning. 

Of course one must not be too literal in their implementation of the Rule, because, naturally, there are many ways to define what is our opponent.  In the case of an incoming blow, we may need to place our sword between their blade and ourselves.  Our opponent in this case is their weapon and direction of their intent.  If our opponent is out of position, and their sword can’t reach us, we might ignore their sword entirely and press the attack inwards toward their body.  Our opponent in this case is actually the body of the opponent.  If we are to work on the level of the opponent’s mind, it is extremely effective to allow our sword to interfere with their perceptions of us and the larger situation we share.  The very idea of the sword is a compelling distraction to most, so it is quite sensible to play upon this weakness in the opponent in various ways.

No matter what school or style the serious student of the sword is a part of, a deep understanding of the Rule will greatly increase their understanding of the use of the sword.  Study the Rule diligently.


2 Comments
<<Previous

    Piercing Cloud

    occasional writings on the nature of swordsmanship by various members of the Piercing Cloud clan.

    Archives

    September 2024
    February 2019
    November 2017
    April 2017
    December 2015
    March 2015
    December 2014
    October 2014
    September 2014
    May 2014
    November 2013
    October 2013

    Categories

    All

    RSS Feed

    Up Closer To The Sky
    Up Closer To T...
    poems from a mounta...
    By Jason Deatherage
    Photo book
    Book Preview