Everyday Training the Samurai Way

All study and no (sword)play... what is a bushi to do?

It is sometimes tempting to think of the practice and training of martial arts in pre-modern times in monolithic terms, as if there was an ideal model, perhaps followed by a master in retreat at some secluded temple or shrine. On closer inspection, this seems unlikely as social conditions and the role of the warrior changed as the times moved from a period of perpetual war to one of relative peace, not to mention the varying requirements dictated by different roles and relative professional positions, even within the warrior class in Japan.

Having given that caveat, it must be conceded that traditions of martial practice in Japan enjoyed far greater continuity than those of Western Europe, even if it is generally acknowledged that the techniques that have reached us today are very likely not the same as those practiced by the founders of those traditions. One aspect that must have been of great concern at all periods was how to develop and refine skill.

 

There was, of course, the demanding, often repetitive physical training that must have formed the basis of most trainees’ experience. This is likely to have been intense, and yet quite unlike the military style drill common in some more modern disciplines, a development that seems to have gone hand-in-hand with the rise of militarism in the early 20th century.  

Omori Sogen performing a kata

There were other sides to practice, too. Omori Sogen (1904-1994), a 20th century Zen priest and practitioner of the Jikishinkage ryu who had clearly put plenty of time and energy into his physical practice (this was a style which includes strong elements of both kata and sparring (in the style of kendo) in its curriculum), spoke of his approach to the practice of kendo in his younger years. He explained that he developed the attitude that life itself was a perpetual series of contests. Every encounter or situation in life could be seen as a clash with an opponent in which any negative reactions he felt meant the situation had scored a point over him.

 

As he matured, he saw the mind that could be developed during kendo practice as being the same as that developed by the practice of Zen:

 “For example, a person who practices Kendo holds his bamboo sword and faces his opponent. If he forgets his opponent and his ego, enters samadhi, and truly experiences this state, then even when he puts his bamboo sword down, he must be able to maintain this frame of mind. Usually, however, it is a different world when he puts his bamboo sword down.”

(Omori Sogen: The Art of a Zen Master by Hosokawa Dogen)

 

 

A kendo dojo from a postcard dated 1915

This might be seen as typical of the Zen inspired approach of the later C19th and early C20th, a time when a measure of social freedom combined with the idea that personal efforts could reshape the world (efforts that were often centered around violence, it must be said). It seemed to have a particular appeal to young men, and was a direct factor in Japan’s road to war, both with the wave of assassinations that removed some of the less militaristic politicians from office in the 1920’s and 30’s, as well as the precipitating event in the invasion of China. It must also be said that Sogen was closely involved with groups advocating such methods, (to the point of being hunted for by the police) although his own account stresses that he felt the time was not right for assassination. (He also attempted to persuade Prince Konoe to appoint a less hawkish minister of war, so it is difficult to categorize him in political terms).

This approach, to life as well as martial arts, stresses the power of intention and the strength of will over technique. To be sure, this is always a major factor in confrontation, but one that has inherent weaknesses (exemplified in aspects of Japanese military doctrine in WWII, not to mention the unfortunate tendency to veer towards extremism). Older martial disciplines were shaped by the greater range of resources, technical, psychological and social, from which they drew the elements of their curricula.

Detail from a painting by Noguchi Tetsuya

 

While Sogen pursued mastery in Zen, swordsmanship and calligraphy, seeing commonalities in them all, Matsura Seizan (1760-1841), writing some 150 years earlier, presents an interesting contrast. A man of wide learning, he is known principally for his literary accomplishments, in particular his multiple volume collection of essays, Kasshi Yawa (Nighttime Tales of The Year of the Rat). He came from a very different social background – he was the daimyo of Hirado, a small island just off the coast of northwest Kyushu (where the English sailor, Will Adams, landed) – and although he retired at the age of 46, prior to that he set up a school for academic and martial studies, the Ishinkan, and a library that eventually had some 10,000 volumes (Rakusaikan Bunko). He was also a noted swordsman and author of several works on that topic.

It is clear from his writings that he considered sword use far more broadly than Sogen did, which is unsurprising, as swords were routinely carried by bushi until 1876. What may be more significant is that he stresses care and attention to surroundings rather than Sogen’s emphasis on single-minded determination, as a key to understanding the deeper teachings of the art, a reflection both of the more complex demands of Seizan’s social position, as well as the perspective of swordsmanship as training for use (in protection and for ceremonial uses as well as, potentially, for war), rather than primarily for personal and spiritual development. (It may added that it is entirely possible that Sogen did not receive the deeper teachings of his style – Sogen says his teacher did not consider any of his students to be his successor.) The flavor of his writing may be seen here:

“…for those who are recommended to accompany their father, older brother, or master, it is necessary to be familiar with etiquette. Because this spirit of etiquette stems from the spirit of vigilance, if you perform this duty well, it will carry over to the heart of swordsmanship. Those who feel they cannot understand this roundabout explanation do not have the real spirit of swordsmanship. But when it is time to impart the himitsu ken (lit. the secret sword) from the inner teachings of our school, those who have resolved to maintain this excellent spirit of caution in daily life will already have the necessary attitude and approach.” 

(From Joseishi Kendan in The Samurai Mind by Christopher Hellman, p.54)

Training in calligraphy started young for a well-brought up samurai.

 

To take this a step further, Seizan’s insights may also reflect another aspect of many traditional ryu-ha. These schools possessed great depth and breadth of teachings, some of which were reserved for those of the requisite social or professional standing. They might include teachings on strategy and generalship, as well as more esoteric subjects such as divination. Students who were generals or daimyo were likely to be exposed to more than simply fighting techniques and tactics, and though Seizan’s writings give no direct evidence of specific teachings, it is very likely that his social position would have had some influence on the teaching he received.

While Sogen saw kendo as a way to achieve the same state of mind that was sought through seated Zen meditation, Seizan’s approach was rooted in everyday experience:

“The master always said, you should go beyond the importance of winning contests in the practice hall. On the contrary, your normal state is of primary importance.”… (here he uses the example of maintaining a serious demeanor at a mourning ceremony to show that a superior man does not show his true feelings in his countenance.) “…for those who value courtesy, we might put the analogy forcefully and say this is the essence of swordsmanship…The wise certainly took care not to lower their guard. Swordsmen also think like this.”

(The Samurai Mind, pp 92-3)

I will leave the last word (almost, anyway) to Miyamoto Musashi from Alexander Bennett’s translation of Gorin no Sho:

“The mindset in the Way of combat must be no different from one’s normal state of mind. In the course of your daily life, and when engaged in strategy, there should be no change whatsoever in your outlook.”

Miyamoto Musashi exhibiting heijo-shin.

 

(Actually, this is Mifune Toshiro in one of the films in Inagaki Hiroshi's Samurai Trilogy)

This is what Musashi terms heijo-shin (everyday mind); however, it is not everybody’s ‘everyday mind’. As Hidy Ochiai (A Way to Victory: The Annotated Book of Five Rings) comments, “The everyday mind of an ordinary person is not called heijo-shin, for it is not based on the true inner strength that can be attained only through a hard and authentic training.”

And that is something I’m sure both Omori Sogen and Matsura Seizan would agree on.

For more about Omori Sogen: 

http://ichijoji.blogspot.com/2015/02/spirit-forging-hard-training-of-meiji.html

For more about Matsura Seizan - I spelt his family name wrong – it should have a single rather than double u – at the time I was translating his work I took the pronunciation to be the same as the nearby Matsuura City (written with the same character).

http://ichijoji.blogspot.com/2010/08/matsuura-seizan-swordsman-and-scholar.html

 

The Confucian Swordsman II

Confucius, from the recent film of the same name

It's difficult to generalise about neo-Confucian writings on the sword - they need to be read, and then pondered over. Their rationalist approach has a certain clarity, but it also demands some work on the part of the reader - all the more so as the idiom in which they are written is unlikely to be familiar to most readers nowadays.

Part of the difficulty lies in the use of terms in unfamiliar ways: 'principle', 'virtue' and 'filial piety' are all terms we recognise, but they also seem strangely out of place in a work about swordsmanship. Obviously there is a moral dimension to learning and teaching martial arts, but it has become almost second nature to reject formulations that promise success to the virtuous and doom for the unjust as unrealistic.

For these to make sense, the reader has to be able to perceive the way they correlate to the practical concerns of sword use. The ability to do this is partly dependent upon ones own experience in these arts, but this is part of what makes the writing valuable.

Fact or Fantasy?

The danger of this approach is that it can fall in to the trap of wish-fulfilment or creative imagination, somewhat in the manner in which authors have taken famous Chinese/Japanese texts, comparing and combining various translations of the originals to give new versions, supposedly more relevant 'for our times'. While there may be some merit in this approach, I doubt it gets us any closer to the meaning of the originals, which is what interests me.

The neo-Confucian texts were not meant to be coded, secretive works which would reveal their knowledge only to chosen initiates (and even Yagyu Munenori's Heihokadensho, which has a good deal of neo-Confucian content as well as the more often noted Zen aspects, makes a point of pointing out which terms are coded) - they were meant for a far wider readership. This means they should be accessible to readers today.

This, in turn, requires a little knowledge of the conventions of the genre. Some of the works are fairly self-explanatory, (e.g. Joseishi Kendan) while others use terms that were actually key concepts in a wider discourse, and thus have additional connotations which might not be immediately obvious.

Filial Piety

The latitude allowed for interpretation of these concepts can be found in the writings of some of the major thinkers of neo-Confucianism in both China and Japan. A good example is ‘filial piety’ – certainly a concept that seems more at home in a moral text than one about swordsmanship. When a writer says something like:

You should simply adopt an underlying attitude of loyalty and filial respect.  - Kimura Kyuho

are we justified in applying it in a wider context? One of the early figures of Japanese neo-Confucianism, Nakae Toju (1608-1648), had this to say about it:

What gives birth to Heaven, to earth, to human existence, and to all things is nothing but this filial piety.

Nakae Toju

(Even as basic an education as those offered in the village school, the terakoya, taught: “…it is the beginning of filial piety to take care and preserve yourself from injury.”)

Clearly it means more than just taking care of your parents – in the abstract, it is a statement of relationships. Seeing it in such broad terms enables us to apply this kind of reading to these works across the board.

Interestingly, there have been some voices in the field of Confucian studies (e.g. Robert Eno) that recognise that earlier Confucian writers (Confucius and Mencius, for example) were referring to something like this in their writings - 'right' was a psycho-physical state as much as an ethical construct. the insistence on the importance of doing things the right way was to entrain this state, rather than to enforce conformity.

Wild beasts

Another concept that appears intermittently, and somewhat confusingly, is that of ‘wild beasts’. It can be found both in Tengu Geijutsuron and Kenjutsu Fushikihen, as well as the Kenpo Sekiun Sensei Soden, written by Odagiri Ichiun and seems somewhat out of place – it is used as a pejorative term for those schools of swordsmanship that emphasise techniques - until we realize that it was a metaphor used to describe those who engaged in all manner of activities without regard to ri. Of course, this has a moral dimension, but it also allows a practical interpretation to the term, depending on how we interpret ri in swordsmanship.

And in English…?

Although there were many, many works in the Japanese martial tradition that were shaped by the currents of neo-Confucian thought, very few are accessible to the English reading public. (It must also be said, that they have received, on the whole, little sustained interest in Japan, either… at least in recent years.)

For the interested reader, I recommend Tengu Geijutsuron, translated by W.S. Wilson in The Demon’s Sermon on the Martial Arts, and Joseishi Kendan and Kenjutsu Fushiki Hen, both of which are in my The Samurai Mind. As I mentioned earlier, I don’t regard Tengu Geijutsuron as terribly authoritative in the deeper areas of sword practice, but it does provide a philosophical justification of bugei practice along neo-Confucian lines. Kenjutsu Fushiki Hen provides a rebuttal to some of the points in Tengu Geijutsuron, and is written with knowledge of the earlier work. It is, importantly, claiming to represent authentic teachings of a swordmaster, and is thus a sort of companion to Tengu Geijutsuron – they both touch on many of the same points and the authors appear to have had a similar grounding in neo-Confucianism, though we do not know the extent of their learning.

Minagawa Kien

We are on firmer ground with Matsura Seizan, the writer of Joseishi Kendan. Seizan was the student of a well-known Confucian scholar, Minagawa Kien, and was himself known as a scholar as well as a swordsman. He embodied many aspects of neo-Confucian ideals in himself and his writing. Rather than explain a theory of how swordsmanship can embody the universal principle, he display in his writing several of the over-riding concerns of his schools of thought, such as education and the doctrine of kakubutsu chichi – the importance of investigating diverse areas to gain a greater understanding of the way in which the universal principle underlies everything.

His work includes passages on numerous aspects of daily life which he ties in to the discipline of swordsmanship. Though this might at first glance seem to be merely an intellectual exercise knowing that he was also a master of the sword requires us to assess it in a new light. The no-nonsense advice he gives further reinforces this – where he does directly refer to Confucianism, the impression he gives is very far from the empty theorizing of an armchair swordsman – which criticism is often leveled at Confucians, either explicitly or by implication.

There are also, as I mentioned above, neo-Confucian currents in Yagyu Munenori’s Heihokadensho, which has been translated by both Thomas Cleary and Wilson. It is an interesting exercise to read it with an eye to these, rather than the more often noted Zen aspects.

An underlying theory

Finally, neo-Confucian thinking gives us a theoretical justification for the study of martial arts: this is ri, the underlying principle (of life, the universe and everything). Because it is underlying, it is also connecting – the search and discovery of it in one area can affect our performance in other areas because they all share the same principles. This became a powerful (though unstated) component of the modern budo disciplines, and provides, at some level, an answer to the question, “How does this discipline make me a better person?”

Perhaps this is what separates this school of thought from other theoretical currents that informed the bugei. Neo-Confucianism is fundamentally concerned with life, with being a part of society, and pursuing one’s way within these boundaries. And that’s what makes it so rewarding to read.

The Confucian Swordsman I

Kano Eitoku - Scholars playing weiqi (go in Japanese)

Preamble
Confucianism often gets a bad rap - in its Japanese context it is characterised as a form of not so enlightened paternalism, intent on preserving the hierarchical authority and keeping women and peasants in their place.

The trouble is, that even as I read decidedly anti-Confucian works like the Tao of Pooh (or was it the Te of Piglet?), I couldn't help sympathising with the Confucians - the ideals ascribed to them, though a little outdated, seemed to me more attractive than the muddle-headed approach of the bear with very little brain. Nobility, loyalty, humanity - they don't sound too bad.

Meanwhile, Zen, of course, has received a lot of attention with regard to it's role in various arts and ways. Too much attention, many would say. This is not to deny that it did have influence in a number of fields, but perhaps not as much as its supporters would like to have us believe. Part of the problem is that many disciplines share the same vocabulary and related or analogous concepts. So, while Zen is cool, (Daoism even more so), Confucianism is straight-laced and conservative - anything that sounds interesting is habitually ascribed to Zen, and anything connected with hierarchy, paternalism or empty theorising, is blamed on Confucianism.

A little balance?
In terms of Japanese martial arts, Draeger had some interesting things to say about neo-Confucianism, chiefly dwelling on the role of the Wang Yangming school (O-Yomei in Japanese), with its emphasis on action, on the main figures of the anti-government movement which culminated in the overthrow of the Tokugawa government in the 1860s. For Draeger, an ex-marine, the philosophies of action seemed attractive (he was also a populariser of the theory of Zen influence in Japanese martial arts), but he didn't touch on the deeper influence of neo-Confucian thought in the disciplines themselves. However, even his description O-yomei neo-Confucian sounded suspiciously like a Zen substitute.

The first work available in English that did look at this issue on its own terms was a translation of the Tengu Geijutsuron (a translation from German into English, as it happens - although William Scott Wilson's far better version is now available). The title, Zen and Confucius in the Art of Swordmanship alerted the reader to the subject matter, although rather misleadingly, threw Zen into the mix- probably out of habit. Unfortunately, for the sake of our understanding, the original writer seems to have lacked the authority of a real master of the sword. An enthusiast he may have been, but he appears to have only partially understood some of the deeper aspects of the art. That his work was criticised by his near contemporaries, and on quite specific points, also attests to its popularity and influence on other writers.

It does, however, provide an interesting counterpoint to the better informed works, and can be usefully read with them.


So, why look at neo-Confucianism anyway?
Firstly, because it did influence classical Japanese martial arts, and this influence has stayed with them, in one way or another until the present day. Gaining an understanding of these influences can help us understand a little more of the arts themselves.

Secondly, Neo-Confucianism offers an interpretive framework that is firmly rooted in its own time, and yet is also fairly accessible to us in the present day. Its thinking is recognisably rational and, more-or-less, logical, rather than mystical or religious, and it seeks to explain with reference to the everyday. A number of writers used it as such, knew what they were doing, and so provided us with authentic perspectives of these martial arts when they were in a very different state than today. The terms and the analogies they use may be unfamiliar, but they are open to analysis and exploration, making the study of works written from this perspective to be quite rewarding. They appeal to our understanding, but the best of them stand as something more than theoretical interpretations.

Finally, due to their concern with life and living, they situate the practice and ideals of martial arts within daily life, providing a perspective on issues that are still very relevant to practitioners today.

Secrets in daily life - the Joseishi Kendan

A statue of Seizan in Hirado, his sometime domain, near Nagasaki.

This is the second of the works that I translated in The Samurai Mind, and it is one that is rather different from Neko No Myojutsu, and well worth taking a closer look at.

The Joseishi Kendan is a bit like a garage sale, but though it might be a bit messy and confusing, there's something for everyone. It consists of a host of assorted notes and mini-lectures arranged with apparent disregard for notions of order, but all of them concerned, to a lesser or greater degree, with swordsmanship.

It is not clear if Matsuura Seizan, the Joseishi of the title, wrote it himself or if it is an assembly of notes and assorted writings someone else (presumeably one of his students) put together at a later date. There is certainly evidence of some editing by someone other than Joseishi, but there is also enough written in the first person to believe that the editorial comments are later additions.

Seizan, was a man of many parts - a retired daimyo, Confucian scholar, educator, essayist, and swordsman, and about whom I have written  elsewhere. It is always interesting to gain insight into people's lives and the role their arts played within them. In the world of martial arts, there seems to be a tendency to laud the biggest and the baddest, with little regard to how they lived, and how their opinions and lifestyles relate to our own. Seizan is particularly interesting because of the depth and well-roundedness of his own life, and much of this is reflected in his writing.

As an enthusiast, he was concerned with the intersection of everyday life and swordsmanship - he is surprisingly modern in his use of examples from everyday life to illustrate his points, showing how insight could be obtained from a variety of sources. Along with this is an often recurring theme - he reminds his reader that although there are secrets, they are nothing special, but rather constitute a continuatio of the practices of everyday life. Some of his examples are easy to follow, others are more abstruse, but a single thread runs through them - the importance of attention and awareness.

His interest in the commonality of a variety of phenomena is also part of Neo-Confucian teachings of the Zhu-Xi school, which stressed that 'truth' or ri, the 'principle' (of life, the universe and everything) can be discovered through wide and varied study - the opposite of Zen and Wang Yangming Confucianism, which propose finding the truth within ourselves

To give you a flavor of the way he writes, here he is talking about kyo-jitsu. This is a complex notion that includes aspects of empty-full and false-true dichotomies, but like that other famous duality, yin and yang, it doesn't equate directly with bad and good. In the account given by Ota Chuubei about Yoshioka Seijiro's death, kyo and jitsu are used to explain the dynamics of the endgame of the fight, but they can be used in other ways, too, and are also important technical terms in the teaching of bujutsu.

In the past, once I heard someone say you should think of kyo-jitsu in terms of the opening and closing of doors or sliding screens. This is because the kind of person who throws them open and slams them shut is someone who is empty inside. However fast they go in and out, someone who opens and closes them carefully is full inside, he said. Accordingly I made up my mind to follow this injunction. Beyond that, I understood little of its benefit. Having reached my last years, thinking about this I see it has increasingly become an everyday part of my swordsmanship. I put this here as something I hope people will think about.