Friday, 27 February 2015

Spirit Forging II - Endurance, Misogi, and the Ichikukai

Practice at the Ichikukai Dojo, date unknown.
Courtesy of http://ichikukai.com/eindex.html


Another form of extreme training that I remembered having come across many years ago was a form of misogi involving continuous ringing of a bell. When I looked into it a bit further, I found that this, too came to be adopted as an adjunct to martial training prior to WWII; interestingly, it also has a connection to Yamaoka Tesshu, and seems closely related to his thoughts on training.

This type of training is chiefly represented by the Ichikukai dojo, which is still inexistence, and is quite widely known for the role it played in the martial development of Tohei Koichi, the famous aikido master.

Ogura Tetsuju
Courtesy of http://ichikukai.com/eindex.html

Founded in 1922, by Ogura Tetsuju, a student of Tesshu (he was known as Watanabe Isaburo while training under Tesshu), Ichikukai teaches misogi and Zen. Ogura Tetsuju was a Zen priest, but the misogi he practised came not from his days with Tesshu, but from a fellow Zen practitioner, Mitamura Engyo (a scholar of literature). There was obviously something in this additional practice that appealed to Tetsuju, and one cannot help but thinking he found within it a corollary to the hard training he had endured in his youth under Tesshu. Despite the fact that misogi is a Shinto practice, there seems to have been no conflict between the simultaneous practice of both disciplines.

The particular type of misogi that Ogura taught, misogi no kokyu no ho, appears very simple. It combines continuous loud chanting coordinated with the rigorous ringing of a hand bell, all the while sitting in seiza. This requires the regulation of the practitioner’s breathing and body movements. This might be hard enough in itself, but the sessions at Ichikukai lasted for many hours a day, for three or four days straight. (The practice, in a far less severe form, has been incorporated into some Aikido dojos in the west).

Ogura introduced this to the university students who came to study Zen at the temple where he was living, someway outside Tokyo, with the challenge that this was practice not for the faint-hearted. The students took to it with the kind of ferocious enthusiasm common to young men and their previously failing rowing team quickly went on to victory. So enamoured were they of this practice, that they persuaded Ogura to relocate and open a dojo in Tokyo. This was what became the Ichikukai Dojo (the 1-9 society), so named because the original meetings were held on the 19th of each month, or because the 19th was the anniversary of Yamaoka Tesshu’s death (or perhaps both).

Of course, in the pre-war period, the combination of hard training and the kudos of practicing under one of Yamaoka Tesshu’s senior students, as well as the open nature of practices – one didn’t have to be a regular member of the dojo to practice – made it an attractive proposition for many serious martial arts students:

            Sensei explained that misogi practice with the suzu bell had been much, much harder at the dojo where he had trained, its special session lasting for three continuous days, with students getting little sleep and only a few raw vegetables for nutrition. In addition, misogi had been carried out by the senior members of the dojo, some of whom were assigned to be kagura, or assistants. The kagura stalked through the rows of seated bell ringers, battering those who lost their rhythm with lengths of bamboo. At the end of three days, Sensei recalled, his back was beaten to a bruised pulp, he could hardly speak beyond a hoarse whisper from the hours of chanting, and he was emotionally drained. But he described the gruelling episode as one in which he had experienced a dramatic breakthrough in his own maturation as a bugeisha.
            “Too tired just to use muscles, too tired to think to keep rhythm. Body finished, then spirit takes over. In misogi, you find spirit is stronger. It can take you farther then your mind or your body. After misogi, I saw that just living on the physical level, the mental level, that’s no good. Man, woman, we are meant to live on a spiritual level.”
            (Autumn Lightning: Education of an American Samurai, D. Lowry)

There is some evidence to suggest that the combination of the gung-ho attitude of the Tokyo University rowing club students who originally encouraged Ogura to open the Ichikukai in Tokyo and the influence of Zen changed the original practice to a fiercer, more outwardly forceful one. Tohei Koichi mentions in his writings how he was told after the war by an older generation practitioner of the Ichikukai that the way they practiced had changed, and the use of the stick to encourage practitioners certainly bears a similarity to Zen practices.
 
Inoue Masakane
Mitamura’s misogi was, in fact, a religious practice that came from the Misogi-kyo of Inoue Masakane (1790-1849), a ‘new’ school of Shinto, that emphasised chanting practices and breath control to achieve purification and connection with the gods. It also included three day training sessions, including lengthy chanting sessions, designed to lead to realisation of ‘true mind’ (makoto no kokoro) and gratitude to the kami (divine spirits). It was also believed that chanting and breathing practices were effective for dealing with personal problems and troubles, and that by aligning oneself with the divine, such problems could be solved. Descriptions of breathing in Masakane’s writing also supports Tohei Koichi’s viewpoint about the change in breathing practices.

In fact, Masakane taught that the breathing was a way to unite oneself with the gods[1], and that the words of the chant were kotodama; that is to say that they had particular power in and of themselves. This was quite unlike the misogi carried out in the Ichikukai; it may be fair, given the style in which it was practised to regard Ogura Tatsuju’s use of it as being an extension of his Zen instruction, rather than a continuation of Masakane’s original aims. Thus, despite its Shinto origins, it seems, in certain ways, quite similar to the training of Yamaoka Tesshu and Yamada Jirokichi, aimed at developing spirit, or mind, and divorced from its religious origins.

As noted previously, the ‘endurance’ style of training seems to have arisen at a time when shinai sparring was becoming the primary form of practice in swordsmanship. Martial artists seemed to have felt a need for some kind of additional training to replicate the intensity of life and death contests. These types of training were certainly intense, but they were not a part of older traditions of swordsmanship, as far as I am aware. Despite their appeal as ‘samurai’ style training, they were actually ‘post samurai’ for the most part; an attempt by martial artists to find further meaning in the arts they were committed to, and thus a part of the new budo disciplines, rather than the bugei they looked back to.

In the case of misogi, its popularity seems to have been part of a broader search for martial abilities that were present in some teachers (the founder of aikido, Ueshiba Morihei, for example) but weren’t being clearly passed down to students, or abilities that had been possessed by masters of the past but were lost to the present generation. (Yes, it’s true that Tohei visited Ichikukai before training with Ueshiba, but the subsequent adoption of misogi derived practices into his aikido teaching speaks to their perceived relevance).

While I wouldn’t argue that such training certainly required a fearsome intensity and commitment, and I am sure the men who undertook such training were not to be trifled with, I view such practices as somewhat removed from the training of bushi prior to the Meiji Period.

It is true that feats of incredible endurance and intensity were performed during previous centuries, but to put this into some kind of perspective,  it is interesting to note how these were viwed at the time.
 
Wasa Daihachiro engaged in his record breaking feat
Perhaps no examples of martial endurance were more remarkable than the toshiya or feats of archery performed at Sansusangendo Temple in Kyoto. This temple features a particularly long veranda which became the venue for some quite distinctive archery contests. Although they consisted of various types, the endurance shooting is perhaps the most impressive. The record for this, set by Wasa Daihachiro in 1688 was for 8,133 hits out of 13,065 arrows shot in a 24 hour period. Although he took a break of several hours, and had to have blood let from his engorged right hand when he resumed shooting, this averages out to 9 arrows a minute for the entire period! Almost as impressive a record was set by 13 year old Noro Masaaki, competing in the ‘junior’ competition, who shot 11,715 arrows in 12 hours.
 
A more recent example of toshiya courtesy of the Sanjusangendo site.
However, Hinatsu Shigetaka, writing in the Honchō Bugei Shōden (1716), criticises the whole phenomenon as emphasizing strength and stamina at the expense of skill, and not being the true way of archery. Of course, looking at present day practices and criticising them in comparison with the past is a common enough phenomenon, but in this case, it is interesting to compare the views of a bushi writing in the heyday of the samurai, when warfare was still a common occurrence, and the bushi still viewed themselves primarily as fighting men.
 
Hojo Yasutoki from a woodblock print by Utagawa Yoshikazu
Hōjō Yasutoki (1183-1242) served both a general and a leading member of the administration of his day (he was eventually to become regent); writing to a relative he recommended making a minimum of three ‘dry shots’ (suhiki) when not at war or actively practising. (He was, of course, addressing a fully trained bushi who had spent years training in archery and fighting in battles.) This may seem a surprisingly small number – certainly, it does not fit the image of men engaged in relentless practice. But we should remember that the warriors of this era had not only spent long hours developing their skills, but that they were also busy people who did not have the time to spend all day in training for an indefinite period.

Hojo Yasutoki from a woodblock print by Tsukioka Yoshitoshi

He goes on to stress the importance of the mental, not the physical element of practice.
“…Every time he releases an arrow, he must think that this very arrow is the last one and that, if it misses the target, in the absence of the second arrow, he will be shot by his enemy or torn to pieces by an animal.”

This is particualrly interesting in that it suggests that he covers both the mental and physical aspects of training, but in a way very different from the model offered by the misogi practices detailed above and the severe training described in the last post, in which repetition was felt to the point of exhaustion was felt to be the way to achieve a mental breakthrough.



[1] Practical Pursuits: Religion, Politics, and Personal Cultivation in Nineteenth-Century
Japanese Religions
  Janine Anderson Sawada 2004, University of Hawaii

Thursday, 12 February 2015

Spirit Forging – the ‘hard training’ of Meiji swordsmen.

Kendo c.1925 (Courtesy of kenshi 247.net)

One of the distinguishing features of serious martial arts training in the minds of many practitioners, is its severity. This is particularly so in the case of Japanese martial arts, and it reaches some of its most extreme forms in the case of swordsmen from the Meiji period onwards.

That warriors training to develop arts used in life and death struggles should train hard seems beyond question, and the ability to do so raises them in esteem in our eyes. Elite units in the modern military often use extreme training as part of the selection process, and much of this is designed to push people beyond their normal limits, both mentally and physically. There is a darker side as well, with instances of hazing rituals and abuse of power, where the pupose is to establish hierarchy and unthinking obedience rather than to develop individual potential.

This latter aspect became an unfortunate part of Japanese budo in the early of the twentieth century, part and parcel of military recruitment and the rise of nationalism, and has been retained in the regimented nature of these disciplines, which dovetailed naturally with the sempai-kohai (senior-junior) relationship promoted in schools, universities and companies to this day.

Of course, it should be stressed that not all clubs and dojos share these negative characteristics, but it seems that there was a major change in the style of teaching and learning that occurred at much the same time as ‘budo’ (represented by judo, kendo, and somewhat later but similar in spirit, karate-do) was being formed as a set of practices distinct from their forbears.

The transformation to the modern disciplines of budo was not a simple process, but it seems that somewhere within it, the concept of mental strength born of a combination of determination, single-mindedness, and an unwillingness to give up became firmly entrenched as a principle feature of budo. To what degree this was present prior to this transformation is difficult to determine – it certainly didn’t appear from nowhere, and there are enough tales of this kind of spirit to show that it was an attribute that was strongly admired, but admiration for a character trait and placing that trait at the centre of  a style of training are different things.

Training in bugei involves the development of skills that require precision and attention to detail. Repetition for its own sake and far less, mass drilling, are not generally a part of this. It seems that karate, of all the budo, perhaps because it is farthest from what are seen to be (however innaccurately) its samurai forebears, tries the hardest to embody these aspects into its training – slots on the News in early January regularly show members of karate clubs training in snow or thigh-high in freezing water, pumping out repetitious punches during their kangeiko (winter training) – but aikido is also notable for its use of aspects of this kind of training.

In fact, it puts one in mind of the religious austerities practised by some groups, rather than traditional bugei training, which is perhaps not as surprising as it might first sound, as the promoters of such training during the Meiji and Taisho Periods had purposely combined their training with some of the attributes of religion.

Budo as 'religion'
It was during the Meiji Period, when the immediate practical use of the sword was called into question, that several influential swordsmen pursued the study of the sword as a method of self development. It was the legacy of these men, more than anything else, that led to the mistaken belief that the study of the sword was inseperable from the study of Zen.

Interestingly, the dojos of both of these instructors were characterised not only by the severe nature of their regular training, but both of them also instituted periods of particularly severe specialised training.

It was also worth noting that in both these cases, the styles were early adopters of shinai sparring, with the consequent loss of teachings requiring the severity of precision and control associated with older styles. The arguments for and against sparring with shinai and bogu not withstanding, it seems that these severe training sessions were aimed at achieving a breakthrough to a different understanding of both mental and physical aspects of martial training; something that normal training did not provide.

Yamaoka Tesshu (1836-1888)

Yamaoka Tesshu’s seigan training has become quite well-known in the English speaking martial arts world thanks to John Stevens’ book, The Sword of No-Sword.

Tesshu’s “basic” examination required 1,000 days of consecutive practice, completed by 200 consecutive contests in a single day with other students of the Itto Shoden Muto Ryu.

The second level examination consisted of 600 matches over a three-day period. The highest level examination was a seven day ordeal with 1,400 matches.

Several of his students left accounts of their experiences. This is one:

Yanagita Ganjiro completed the two-hundred-match seigan on the final day of his thousand-day training period. He then practiced five hundred more days in a row and undertook the three-day, six-hundred-match seigan. Blows received from the short, thick Muto Ryu bamboo sword (shinai) were extremely painful. Yanagita recalled: "After the first day my head was full of lumps and my body covered with bruises, but I did not feel weak. On the second day I began to suffer. I thought I would have to give up halfway. I managed to continue and near the end of the day I experienced 'selflessness' - I naturally blended with my opponent and moved in unhindered freedom. Although my spirit was strong my body was weak. My urine was dark red and I had no appetite. Nevertheless, I passed the final day's contests with a clear mind; I felt as if I was floating among the clouds."
            (The Sword of No-Sword, J. Stevens)

Tesshu not only viewed swordsmanship as a way of disciplining the mind; he was also a practitioner of Zen and a master of calligraphy. Only his swordsmanship was passed down directly; the ‘spirit’ of his calligraphy was revived, (and is carried on by the Hitsuzendo) but perhaps it is better to say that it was by his example and spirit that he has most influenced modern disciplines.

Yamada Jirokichi (1863-1930)


Yamada Jirokichi did not study Zen formally, as Tesshu did, but he also regarded kendo training as a means of developing the self. ‘By understanding this Way, man can learn the Great Way of the Universe; one’s character can become complete,’ he once wrote.

Probably the foremost student of Sakakibara Kenkichi, headmaster of the Jikishinkage ryu (who never named a formal successor), he was also famous for pushing his students to extremes. Among his students was Omori Sogen (1904-1994), who later became an influential Zen teacher. Sogen not only studied the sword, but also calligraphy in what may be considered Tesshu’s tradition – he was, in fact, something of a Tesshu enthusiast, lived in Tesshu's old house and was founder of the Tesshukai (Tesshu association). He has also left an account of a training experience that appears quite similar the training instituted by Tesshu.

Omori Sogen


            Onishi Hidetaka, who was captain of the Kendo Club of Hitosubashi University, and I, were told by Yamada Sensei, “In our style, after completing the hyappon keiko (one hyndred time practice) one is able to receive the final certificate.” It was decided that at the end of July, we would be confined to a mountain temple in Yamanashi prefecture. After twenty days of preparation we began the hyappon keiko.
            We got up at 4:00 in the morning, went down the mountain, and bathed in a river. Before breakfast we did the Hojo 15 times. After that we rested awhile then practised 30 more times. After lunch we rested and did the Hojo 55 more times until dusk. We did zazen in the evenings.
            By the third day I could shout more loudly and powerfully during practice, but my voice was so hoarse I could not speak at all. At night my body was so hot that I couldn’t sleep. Food would not go down my throat; Ihad only water and raw eggs. My urine was the color of blood. The arms that held the wooden sword could not be raised. We were resigned to death. I couldn’t go before Yamada Sensei and say, “I failed.” Onishi and I got out our notes and letters and burned them all as we prepared to die.
            On the fourth day, a strange thing happened. The same arms that had difficulty in even holding the wooden sword went up smoothly over my head. As my arms went down, I felt a strength that was not physical coming out of both arms. It felt as if this downward cut extended to the other end of the world.
            For seven days, we practiced the Hojo a hundred times daily in this manner. We finally finished at the beginning of September. Later Yamada Sensei praised me saying, “That is the Muso (No-thought) Style.” I was able to cultivate mental strength entirely because of this Hojo.
                          (Omori Sogen: Life of a Zen Master, Hosokawa Dogen)


Omori Sogen is perhaps more responsible than anyone else for the conflation of Zen and swordsmanship; he believed that they were closely linked, and promoted this philosophy in his writing, such as his well-known work Ken to Zen. As a highly experienced practitioner of both Zen and kendo, his experiences cannot be ignored, but at the same time, it should be recognized that the sword art he practiced was quite far removed from that practiced when during the Sengoku and early Tokugawa periods. 

I believe that his combination of the two disciplines, inspired by the example of Tesshu and the leanings of his own master, was a search for something that was missing in the kendo of his time, something that was taught more explicitly in previous generations, but taking Zen as a model could (he believed), only be intuited through hard practice which allowed a practitioner to break through the boundaries established by the normal, conscious control of the body.

A similar approach was adopted by budoka using another discipline, the bell ringing misogi practices taught by, not entirely coincidentally, a student of Yamaoka Tesshu (and, again, Zen) in the Ichikukai, which I shall deal with in my next post.


Wednesday, 31 December 2014

2015 Year of the Sheep – no, Goat – no, Sheep – 羊


Zhao Mengfu ca1300 Courtesy of the Freer Sackler Galleries
The inscription out of shot on the left runs:
"I have painted horses before, but have never painted sheep [or goats]. So when Zhongxin requested a painting, I playfully drew these for him from life. Though I cannot get close to the ancient masters, I have managed somewhat to capture their essential spirit."

The New Year rolls around again and here in Japan 2015 is the Year of the Sheep, or perhaps the goat. Neither sheep nor goats have a long history in Japan, so as the same character, [羊] which is used for sheep, was used for goats in the past, there is obviously some confusion. Older sources quite clearly depict goats, but in the present day, sheep are more popular.

As the animals of the zodiac were adopted from China, and with no real chance for first-hand observation, it is not surprising that the goat has no strong associations in Japanese culture. Nor is it easy to find much visual imagery, particularly in association with the culture of the bush. Even among the weird and wonderful kawari kabuto (outré helmets), where horns and animal references abound, I could see no trace of sheep or goats.

Occasionally, they would appear as images in tsuba or other sword furniture, but they are rare. These two examples are from the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.
Soami School 

Nakahara Yukimitsu - Choshu School


A few painters, such as Maruyama Okyo  depicted them directly (see below), but this was quite rare.


Of course, they do appear in various depiction of the 12 animals (junishi) of the zodiac, and it is in this connection that they appear in both purely animal and anthropomorphic form.

The earliest example of the anthropomorphic goat that I have seen is in the Battle of the Twelve Animals Picture Scroll (Juniruikassen Emaki), the earliest version of which dates from the early Muromachi Period (Prince Fushimi Sadafusa apparently saw it in 1438). Possibly a political allegory, it tells the story of the sneaky tanuki who, after some dispute about who is to be judge for a poetry competition among the twelve animals, gathers his cohort (of bad animals, of course) who attack the noble 12 animals, only to be beaten and chased off to the mountains where he renounces the world and enters a monastery.
















The goat acquits himself well in the battle, it would seem, and escapes injury, unlike some of his compatriots.

Some 400 years later, Utagawa Kuniyoshi gives us more pictures of goats going about their everyday life,













as does another artist in this calendar from 1859:



















This is not so very far from an image somewhat closer to home, the Wise Old Goat in the Rupert Bear stories…













Anyway, Happy New Year for 2015!

Sunday, 30 November 2014

Autumn – change and loneliness

Kyoto, November 2014
















Autumn in Japan is characterised by its mild temperature and the brilliant colours of the foliage that tinges the hills with russets and brilliant reds, and the occasional burst or brilliance dotted throughout the cities. However, in literature and art, the season has strong links with feelings of desolation, loss and longing, which in western literature are more often associated with winter. Indeed, the ‘withering wind’ (kogarashi) is so intimately associated with autumn, that its mention alone is sufficient to conjure up the season.

Such phrases used in poetry are known as kigo, and among the educated, they had strong associations. Indeed, it with such a phrase that Yagyu Sekishusai began his collection of 100 verses:
One autumn evening, to while away the hours, I went to visit old friends in Yamato, but found some of those old men had already passed away, while others had gone, I know not where.

In fact, the term yugure (evening) which he uses doesn’t strictly refer to autumn, but since the late Heian period it has had particularly strong associations with the season, being mentioned by Sei Shonagon in her Pillow Book as being the exemplary time of day for that season. Given the generally sparse tone he takes, it would not seem out of place to translate it as autumn evening, rather than simply evening.

 
Autumn grasses in the Moonlight - Shibata Zesshin
Other common symbols of autumn include deer, the full moon, flying geese, the seven grasses of autumn (nanagusa) and, of course, momiji or scarlet maple leaves.

Despite the strong seasonal associations, there is less specific mention of such symbolism in traditional martial arts than might be imagined. This may partly be owing to the strength of these cultural associations – loneliness and loss, though all fine and good in everyday life, are quite far from the kind of feelings that are normally encouraged in the training and practice of bugei.

There are some connections, however. I have discussed Musashi’s use of the autumn monkey (also here)(stretching for the reflection of the full moon) before; likewise his momiji uchi (falling leaves strike) which cuts downwards, knocking an opponent’s sword away. 

Hiza-guruma - a technique of the Kito-ryu

Occasional references also occur in other ryu-ha – both the Mujuushin Kenpo of Harigaya Sekiun and the Kito Ryu school of jujutsu contain what is substantially the same verse extolling the virtues of flexibility:
Autumn wind, deep in the mountains, fiercely sways and shakes the leaves of the oak, while barely moving the pampas grasses

Rarer is the example provided by the Jikishinkage ryu, which includes a foundation kata named Hōjō no kata, based on the energies ascribed to the four seasons in the Chinese theory of the five elements. Autumn, in this case, emphasizes varied tempo and cutting to left and right, illustrating change. This specific linkage to elements seems unusual in Japanese bujutsu - although the basic principles illustrated by the Hōjō no kata are said to have been transmitted by Matsumoto Bizen no Kami, the school's founder, it is possible that they were later reorganized and matched to the four seasons.

Still on the subject of the five elements, there is another set of verses which is worth mentioning, although this is from the Chinese art of Xinyi, and is attributed to the founder Dai Fengzhong:

Red Maples have forgotten the six alignments
Tranquility will reveal the Five Elements
The first verse points to the naturalness and spontaneous nature of advanced technique, while also
suggesting (at least to me) the spirit of forging oneself – the bright leaves can certainly look like hot 
coals or heated metal, and I feel the specific choice of maple leaves must be saying something about the redness.
Kyoto, November 2014
This particular aspect was also used by Hikita Bungoro in momiji no metsuke (gaze of red leaves) in his Hikita Kage Ryu. Yagyu Jubei mentions this in his Tsuki no Sho, describing it as an important concept of the school, a technique of the mind to effect the opponent’s mind and movements from a distance, as if ‘viewing red leaves on yonder mountain.’ Jubei, on describing the technique in his own school describes it as ‘dying the opponent’s movements with the blood red intentions of your own mind.’
This symbolism might also be read into Hojo Ujimasa"s death poem:

The blossoms of spring do not resent the spring wind
For the red leaves of autumn are still to come
In this case, the blossoms would be the Hojo family, defeated by Toyotomi Hideyoshi's spring wind, while the red leaves would, perhaps, be future generations of the Hojo.
Uesugi Kenshin, by Utagawa Yoshitoshi
Although autumn symbolism may not have featured strongly in the bugei as a whole, bushi seemed to use it often enough when they turned their hands to artistic pursuits. One example of this is a poem by Uesugi Kenshin:

Frost Fills the Camp and the Autumn Air is Still
Lines of Returning Geese Cross the Moon of the Third Hour

Another of his poems runs:

The warrior makes
Of his armor a pillow
For his head alone
The first wild geese cry nearby
…which returns us to the theme of loneliness. 
Personally, however, my own feelings are closer to Keats and his
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness