The flowers of Yagyu: coded language and layers of meaning

It is the beginning of April, and cherry blossom is just appearing. In a week or so, it will be falling, which brings to mind this verse from Yagyu Jubei’s Tsuki no Sho, a verse which, incidentally, Jubei credits to the priest Takuan.

The fine rain that dampens my clothes

Is invisible, yet I see it;

The blossom that falls earthwards

Is inaudible, yet I hear it.

This is part of the ‘secret’ teaching of the school – teaching which was revealed only to advanced students. Like most secrets, it means little if you don’t have some understanding of the concept it is illustrating. In this case, it is describing the kind of awareness necessary for performance of the more advanced techniques.

A Yagyu tsuba: hanaikada design (flower raft)

In modern times, intellectual understanding, the ability to talk about or explain, is common currency; even beginning students of martial arts can read up on information and often consider themselves to be (rightly or wrongly) as well or better read than their teachers (though whether this knowledge is accurate is another matter.)

In traditional ryu-ha in the pre-modern era, knowledge and skill, were far more closely connected.  Knowledge was closely guarded; not only was it given out with the care now reserved for industrial secrets, it was often hidden in code, some of which was simply obscure phrases that had no apparent meaning to outsiders (the waters of the West River from Yagyu Shinkage ryu is a good example) or using alternative characters or pronunciations to give yet more meanings. In addition, meanings could be layered, so that deeper meanings of concepts were taught the further one progressed in a ryu-ha.

Another way in which teachings were structured was to widen the scope of their application; Miyamoto Musashi’s writing on small scale and large scale strategy is comparatively well-known, but as information on traditional ryu-ha becomes more widely disseminated, it seems that this was the norm – many schools included higher level teachings on military tactics, strategy, and a range of other applications that extended beyond hand-to-hand combat. Very few of these would appear to exist in usable form nowadays, and the quality must have varied from school to school, even in those days. This kind of teaching was reserved for students of higher social and or military rank, as well as the most advanced students of the ryu-ha. (Many of these worked in advisory capacities, and thus while they would offer their services, their deeper teachings were kept secret).

It is likely that the nature of these advanced teachings also informed the lower levels of the curriculum, and may account for the somewhat arbitrary seeming nature of techniques at these lower levels.

Some of this language is jargon – professional language to refer to concepts that are out of the normal run of things; some is specifically meant to hide or obscure meanings from the uninitiated.

The Yagyu Shinkage ryu offers many examples of both types in its documents and teachings, but it seems particularly given to hiding meanings. (Compared to Miyamoto Musashi’s writings which, for the most part, are fairly straight-forward.) Perhaps the most well known are setsuninto and katsuninken – the killing sword and the living sword. Nowadays, these are generally given moral/philosophical implications connected with using a sword to kill or using non-lethal means to end a conflict. Indeed, Yagyu Munenori did refer to them in this way; the original and primary meaning, however, was technical, and (roughly speaking) referred to the extent to which one controlled the opponent’s technique or allowed it some freedom.

Other terms are introduced and explained in increasing detail in documents. One example in Tsuki no Sho is the concept of suigetsu, which merits a number of sections including ‘The true suigetsu’, denoting deeper levels of meaning regarding the concept.

The Yagyu Shinkage ryu also had specific ways of writing or pronouncing common terms. Heiho (兵法), commonly pronounced hyoho, and used to refer to bugei or martial arts in a general sense (as well as strategy and tactics), was written as平法(heiho) when it was used in reference to attacking with the sword; it was pronounced as iwato, which can be written with the characters for one, eight and ten. The strokes used to write these characters are the same as the lines of the strokes used for the principle attacking sword cuts:一八十Furthermore, the characters for heiho/hyoho兵法 could be pronounced yokehazusu, which meant to avoid/slip aside, as this was a major part of the strategy of the style.

Other ryu-ha might use the same terms, but with different connotations. The Tenshin Shoden Katori ryu also writes heiho using the characters 平法, but the meaning is ‘art of peace’ rather than ‘art of war’, denoting the philosophical stance of the school with regards to the use of  its teachings.

Confusing to say the least. The Yagyu Shinkage ryu was a very public one: as principal sword instructors of the shogun, as well as spymasters and advisors, their teachings were widely disseminated, and so the need for secrecy was likely greater than for many other schools, but it seems that ryu-ha with much lower profiles employed similar means to encode their secrets.

To take but one example, the Katayama Hoki ryu included among its teachings the short scroll entitled Heiso Jirinden Furoku, written by Katayama Hisayasu in 1647, which explicitly explains concepts of individual iai kata as they relate to issues of behaviour concerned with the administrative roles many bushi had. (https://archive.org/details/HeisoJirindenFurokuenglishVersion)

Other documents in the tradition also explain the meanings of kata name with respect to tactical and behavioral considerations, and make for interesting reading.

http://katayama-ryu.org/en/

Although I am wary of allowing such intellectual enquiry to effect my actual practice, it can allow us a deeper understanding of the thoughts and ideas of earlier generations of practitioners of bugei and the way they regarded their own arts.

Sendan no uchi – the sandalwood strike of the Shinkage ryu

A small branch of sendan, showing the way the leaves diverge from the
stem in pairs at each node.

Of course, it’s the cherry trees that garner most of the attention in Kyoto in spring, but it was another tree that caught my eye a few weeks ago as I strolled along the canal. Not a shoot or a sign of a bud, (and even now, at the end of April, when everything around it is a mass of new leaves, it is only tentatively putting forth a few green shoots) but the plaque tied around the thick trunk proclaimed the tree to be a ‘sendan’. I’d had an interest I this tree ever since I came across the somewhat cryptic references in Yagyu writings to the technique and concept of ‘sendan no uchi’.

A quick botanical note – sendan (Melia axderach) is also known as the bead tree or sandalwood; however, it is not the true sandalwood (byakudan) (of the incense type), although the word sendan is sometimes used to describe that tree, too. This may be the route of a well-known saying:

            sendan wa futaba yori kanbashi

The literal meaning if this is sendan is fragrant even in bud, and it is often used metaphorically to refer to the presence of a person’s talent from childhood.

I had come across sendan in the writings of Yagyu Jyubei, and while his style is fairly clear in itself, it is ­– like most of the writings of the period – meant for initiates of the style. His father, Yagyu Munenori, also mentioned the technique, and in both cases the references left me wondering how they related to the sendan tree.

This was obviously also a problem for translators of Munenori’s works into English. In the notes Wilson included in his translation of The Life Giving Sword it says:

“The meaning of Bead Tree (Melia axderach) is obscure, but it may be an allusion to the “Bead Tree Board” or sendan no ita… (a piece of armour) protecting the lacing connecting the chest armour to the back.”

Although, in this case, I don’t believe it has anything to do with the sendan no ita, Wilson’s understanding of the term itself (“This seems to have been a way to avoid striking and being struck at the same time”) is correct as far as it goes ­– unlike Thomas Cleary, who gets it the wrong way round (“The sandalwood state of mind is a code term for slashing twice in exactly the same line.”)

Yagyu Toshinaga

I was hoping Yagyu Toshinaga (20^th headmaster of the (Yagyu) Shinkage ryu) would make things clearer: he wrote that sendan no uchi (the sendan strike) was a reminder not to fall victim to aiuchi – the situation in which you are hit at the same time as you hit the enemy. Instead, one strike is just slightly always ahead of the other.  I must admit that, to me, the reference was not altogether clear on this: from what he wrote it could be inferred that sendan no uchi is aiuchi, which is clearly different from what the early generations of the Yagyu had written –  a similar reference occurs in writings from the Eishin ryu attributed to Oe Masaji, a noted headmaster of that school in the mid 1800s, who quite clearly says that sendan no uchi is, indeed, the same as aiuchi.

 

Oe Masaji (with his daughter)

It also seemed that the both Munenori and Jubei’s understanding of the term is broader. But in all cases, the key feature is that it refers to two of something. In the case of aiuchi, it is two swords both striking. In the case of Munenori and Jubei, the meaning appears to be that of two diverging sword trajectories.

In either case, the meaning derives from the saying mentioned above:

            sendan wa futaba yori kanbashi

The key to the meaning is in the word futaba (bud), which is written with the characters for ‘two’ and ‘leaves’. The character for leaf, ‘ha’ (or ba) has the same pronunciation as that of blade, and thus futaba can be taken to mean two swords.

In this sense, it is, as Cleary stated, a code term related to two actions.Whilst by the 20^th century, it seems to have become a term that referred to aiuchi, Munenori and Jyubei both expressly state otherwise (which we will get to later). In both cases the connection with two swords is clear.

It would have been a little disappointing if the symbolism went no further than the saying (although that seems to be the primary source for it), so I was especially interested to see an actual sendan tree.

What I saw, in the pre-bud stage, suggested that the shape of the tree might have played some role in the adoption of this saying by the Yagyu family. It is also interesting to note that this is attributed to Hikita Bungoro (by Munenori, I believe) who perhaps had an affinity for trees… he seems to have been a bit of a wanderer, and Jyubei mentions another of his teachings that features tree symbolism, koyo metsuke (the red maple leaf gaze).

Hikita Bungoro. He was a student of
Kamiizumi Nobutsuna, and senior to Yagyu Sekishusai, and thus
 the generation above Yagyu Munenori.

So, the question remains, how does the symbolism of two relate to the technique Munenori and Jyubei are talking about? What is key, I think is the way that the shoots diverge. Looking at the pictures, what struck me first, on seeing the tree, was how sword-like the bare branches looked. This was especially noticeable with the amount of blossom and new leaves on all the surrounding trees; in addition, each new branch has its opposite, which diverges at an angle from the main branch. To my mind, this suggests the idea of alternative angles/paths of attack, and this is what may have been in the mind of the Hikita Bungoro when he named the concept (if, indeed, it was actually he who did so).

Jyubei says:

My father said the true meaning of sendan no uchi was to be found in the state of mind known as futaba. Although it is bad to strike and step together, it is valid to do so, to avoid the tip of the enemy’s sword and strike his hands. To slip off the line of the enemy’s attack is called sendan (with ‘sen’ being written as tip)….

As two shoots share a single source, the equivalent of that source is the hands. It is a strike to separate the hands from the body.

The concept of angling is key in the teachings of the Shinkage ryu, and seems to be a key element in this technique/concept. Whereas the + is the key shape for syuji shuriken techniques, with sendan, I think it is the V , with the point of the V being the opponent's hands, one line being the line of the opponent's sword, and the other the line of your own sword. It is a technique which enables you to slip off-line and strike the enemy, (so avoiding aiuchi). Both Jyubei and Munenori mention its use against a spear (a very difficult thing in itself) and the possibility of using it as a one-handed technique, but overall, it seems to receive less treatment than syuji shuriken with which it has certain similarities.

Finally, the term kanbashi has another meaning: to be preferred or superior. Thus sendan wa futaba yori kanbashi could also be rendered as 'avoiding the path of the opponent's sword is preferable to aiuchi', a sentiment with which we can probably all agree.

More on Musashi's Monkey

Not by Musashi, but by a contemporay; Kano Sansetsu (1589-1651) indulges
 his humorous side with this monkey.

I have written a little on Musashi's monkey design (& Part 2) before, but seeing Kano Sansetsu's version of the theme was too good an opportunity to miss. It reminded me of the mention Musashi makes of the shuko, or Autumn monkey. 

The admonition he gives in the sections in both Gorin no Sho and Hyoho 35 Gokajo (35 Articles on Strategy) is not to stretch out the arms in striking, and so the natural assumption (and one followed by the first few translators of A Book of Five Rings) is that it referred to the a short-armed monkey, such as the native Japanese macaque. 

I thought so too, but the puzzling question was the use of the term 'Autumn monkey', and several theories have been advanced as to the reason for this. None of them are entirely convincing, but as it was obviously a reference to a short-armed monkey, that didn't seem to matter all that much.

But when it comes to symbolism, all is not as it seems. Although there is a rich tradition of monkey lore in Japan, much of this is related to Shinto traditions, and is quite explicitly attached to specific deities enshrined in particular locations.  Given Musashi's links with aspects of culture related to Buddhism, and especially Zen, it seems more likely that he would be drawing from this tradition. His paintings at Toji Temple in Kyoto date from quite early in his career, long before his time in Kumamoto, and it is possible that he had seen or at least heard of the paintings by Hasegawa Tohaku.

Tohaku's 'Monkey Reaching for the Moon'
in Konchi-in

There are several similar versions of these works, held by different paintings around Kyoto. The only one still in situ is in Konchi-in in the Nanzenji temple complex, and it was moved there some time after the painter's death.  Others are owned by Ryosen-an and Shokokuji. 

The fur of the monkey was painted with a brush with split bamboo 'hairs' to create the scratchy, fuzzy appearance, and in this we can see his indebtedness to the work of Mu Qi (Mokkei), the Chinese painter, whose works had been brought to Japan (and kept at Daitokuji Temple in Kyoto) some two hundred+ years previously.

Mu Qi

Hasegawa Tohaku

We have evidence of Musashi using the image of a gibbon reaching for the moon in his art (in the fittings for a sword), so it seems possible that this is the shuko, rather than the short-armed type. Given the fate of the monkey that stretched out for the moon (it came to an unhappy end) this can clearly serve as a warning of the dangers of so doing. But still, the use of the term Autumn monkey was puzzling. Why Autumn? The answer is, of course, obvious if you think a little more widely. If any season was associated with the moon, it would be Autumn; after all, this was when the yearly moon viewing festival was held. In some circles, the viewers, like the monkey, would view the moon's reflection in the surface of a pond. It makes far more sense to associate the Autumn of Musashi's Autumn monkey with the moon, than with seasonal aspects of monkey behavior.

This suggests that a broader reading of symbols is important if we are to understand the range of meanings they hold. Much of the creativity in Japanese art is to be found in the way in which well-known motifs are reinterpreted, and the richness and layering of meaning is one of the pleasures of art – however limited one's knowledge may be, there is a little thrill when you identify the origins of an image. Oblique references are common and are part of the way knowledge and experience are presented – being able to unpack references enriches the experience of art, offering new and alternative meanings, additional subtleties, and allows the receiver room for creative interpretation.

Traditionally, in Japan, clothes, accessories, plates and bowls, hanging scrolls etc. are all matched with the time of year, according to the motifs of the season – season being not just the major four seasons, but specific times of year, such as cherry blossom time or Boys Day. This is a well-recognized aspect of haiku, for example, but still features in everyday life as well as more artistic pursuits. Unlike the heavy-handed approach we see with festivals such as Halloween and Christmas, when it comes to seasonal decoration, these motifs were seen as the proper work of serious artists, and the cleverness and skill with which they used well-known motifs is a source of enjoyment throughout the year. Even at a simple level, this use of natural motifs is something that Japanese culture is attuned to in a way that western culture is not.

Sansetsu's monkey is also reaching for the
moon, but it is just out of the picture here.

So, for Musashi, using the image of a monkey as a teaching aid would have been the re-stating of a well-known image to students/readers who were used to seeing just such symbols in various guises. The majority of western readers have little familiarity with the original image – (although, indeed, the same assumptions have been made by Japanese commentators on this passage)... so sometimes the helpful gloss by the translator may not be so helpful after all. 

 

A Deeper Reading of Musashi's Painting

I always say, if anyone asks me, that in order to appreciate art, you should try and see work in the flesh. It took me quite a while to come to this conclusion, until after my time at university anyway, when I started travelling to a few different countries and seeing what had, until then, been simply pictures in a book. The difference is startling - some works really grew in stature, others diminished. The most disappointing are those which look exactly like their reproductions. You wonder why you bothered to come to a museum to see them. Then there is the problem of over familiarity. If you have stared at an image for long enough, it can sometimes be quite difficult to see anything new in it.  There are also certain venues which add an incredible amount to the whole experience.

Of course, this is not limited to any one genre or regional style of art, and I dare say that every type benefits in its own way.

Japanese sumi-e painting benefits immensely from seeing it for real. It has its own atmosphere and sense of physicality which rarely comes across in reproductions. Although it's only ink on paper, it has texture and three-dimensionality (which is occasionally lacking in heavily restored works where the original paper is little more than a thin veneer on the backing paper).



One of Hakuin's
gibbons. It's not really
possible to tell from this
if the arms were painted in
one stroke or not.



One aspect I find particularly interesting is seeing the way the artist used the brush. It is not all that difficult, once you are tuned into it, to see the different kinds of strokes, and find where the stroke was broken or paused, and which strokes were laid over which. naturally, this has far greater relevance if you are practicing the same kind of art yourself.

Sumi-e suffers from a fair amount of nonsense being written about it. Perhaps most common is the idea of a single stroke. This is very far from the truth. Even (or perhaps especially?) an old Zen hand such as Hakuin often painted in pale ink before going over it in darker, stronger strokes, and the longer strokes are usually made up of a series of smaller ones. In one of his paintings of the monkey reaching for the moon which I saw recently, the long arms of the gibbon were each clearly painted in several strokes.

The same is true of Musashi's paintings. I was lucky enough to see his triptych of Bodhidarma flanked by a couple of ducks at an exhibition of the Matsui Collection just over a week ago. They are striking paintings, and if you let your mind wander over the possibilities, I think it is very likely that Musashi was  playing some quite complex visual games. Many painters, especially those towards the literati end of the spectrum included layers of meaning and reference in their work. Some of these were symbolic, while others were connected with the technical means employed by an artist within a work.

The type of stroke an artist uses - wet or dry, for example - can be linked to the subject. A wet stroke might be suggestive of spring or summer, while dry one might be used to indicate autumn or winter. Although the idea is simple, the nuances can be extremely sophisticated and are often linked to a deeper awareness of the subject, especially in further cultural and literary references. Likewise, a broader, wetter stroke can indicate ease and fullness, while a drier one suggests astringency and sensitivity. Some of this is aesthetic, but some of it is linked to an appreciation of the physical qualities, especially those concerning fluidity, of the medium.

In the case of Musashi's ducks, several of these kinds of references can be observed. It it exhibits the tensile, energetic strength so characteristic of his mature work, while using the brush and ink in several distinct ways.

Looking at the composition of the picture, there is a dynamic contrast between the tall figure of Daruma, and the ducks who are low down, close to the water-line. Daruma is painted as light and insubstantial (as befits someone balancing on a floating reed), his robes swirling around an empty centre, while the ducks are solid and assured in their duckiness. Wet, as well, which also suits their affinity to the water; and while they look happy, Daruma is all scowls and worry, his life's work many years from completion.

And these ducks are supposed to look happy - the one on the right features in another painting, together with the following verse:

It's soaring flight

Forgotten,

The duck

Delights in the ripples

Of a mountain stream.

It is hard not to see evidence of a personal comment on Musashi's life in this work. He had, after all, finally settled down in a position of relative ease and favour as a guest of Lord Hosokawa Tadatoshi in Kumamoto after a life of hard work and wandering. Perhaps he saw himself as being in the same position as the ducks, thoughts of his former life forgotten, perfectly adapted to his new role. At the same time, a student of the bugei, not to mention someone who had gained such a degree of mastery as Musashi, is inevitably marked by the long years of hard training. That hard seriousness is not negotiable - it is part of the personality that training has forged.

Although it may not be possible to offer a precise interpretation with any assurance of its accuracy, I think it is safe to say that the paintings are concerned with these issues, and thus help us to see deeper into the character of this man than his most famous work, the sharp-eyed shrike, will allow.

Momiji - Autumn Leaves and their symbolism

This is the season of momiji or koyo - the brilliant autumn leaves of the maples.

It is one of the principal images of autumn in Japan - appearing in plays, poems and paintings. In fact now is the peak of the maple leaf viewing season in Kyoto - the popular sites are heaving with crowds of tourists engaged in momijigari - maple leaf hunting.

Momiji Uchi - The red leaves cut
Those interested in swordsmanship will probably be aware of its use in Miyamoto Musashi's Gorin no Sho - in the Water chapter is a section describing the Red Leaves Cut. As noted by Victor Harris in his translation, "Presumably Musashi is alluding here to falling, dying leaves." As the technique refers to knocking down the enemy's sword, knocking it out of his hands in fact, this seems very likely.

It seems that Musashi was not the only person to use this term to denote a technique. According to the respected researcher and historian Watatani Kiyoshi, it was used in the Kyo-hachi-ryu... a term that is generally thought to refer to the 8 principle schools taught in the Kyoto area during the Muromachi period, and probably including the Yoshioka school, which, as we know, Musashi and his father both had dealings with. In fact, Watatani identifies it as being specific to the Kyoto area - as Musashi spent some time in the city, this makes it quite likely that he adopted a term already in use.

This is fairly common practice - many schools share terms for similar and sometimes quite different techniques. Some of these clearly share a common origin, while in others, the connection is not so clear.
However, the common name suggests the possibility that the name itself shared a common referent, and possibly included an additional layer of symbolism.

Momiji Kasane - the art of layering

                                                              

For us, the connotation of autumn leaves might very well be that they will fall from the trees - my image of autumn leaves strongly features piles of them lying on the ground. In Japan, I have the feeling that the primary image is of them being on the trees. The striking colours of their foliage are best seen before they fall, and artistic and poetic images consistently depict them in this way. Indeed, they are far more arresting, and the eye barely glances at the dried, fallen leaves on the ground while the bright reds, oranges and yellows are still on the trees.

Momiji-gasane... the colours are pretty close
to the photo at the top of the page

This was reflected in their use as a symbol for layering. A prime example of this is the multiple layers of kimono that were worn by women in the court. These had a variety of names, depending on the colour combinations, but several of them were referred to by the term momiji gasane.

This term is also used in Heki-ryu kyudo, where it refers to the te no uchi or grip of the left hand, which holds the bow. More specifically, it refers to the way the grip is formed, with the fingers layered on top of each other, moving independently to form the ideal grip (presumeably combining strength and pliability). Interestingly, this school also had its roots in Kyoto, so it is possible that it shares the meaning of the term with sword schools.

Forming the grip - momiji kasane - in Kyudo.
From the Il bersaglio di paglia blog (which is well-worth
checking out, if you have even the slightest interest in kyudo).

This suggests the possibility that the use of momiji in sword teachings may have an additional meaning, beyond that of knocking the sword down - it could refer to the way the sword is 'layered' on top of the opponent's weapon in the same way that the beauty of the autumn leaves is enhanced by the layers of different colours.

Then again, I may be grasping at straws, but even so, I was struck by the use of the same symbol in several different ryu.

Musashi's Monkey design Part 2

Recently, I found this picture of Musashi's monkey, which has finally allowed me to understand what the piece looked like.

It is actually an origane (soritsuno, kaeritsuno are some of the alternative names) - a small hook that fastened onto the underside of the obi (sash) and kept the sword from moving around too much. They were not used universally - presumably to the owner's taste, and were more common on wakizashi than on longer swords. 

Unfortunately, the photo is not very high quality (it looks like it's from an old auction catalogue), but it is still possible to see the overall design. At last, here was Musashi's monkey!!

What I had originally seen was this:

From Victor Harris's Go Rin no Sho
Left: the origane; right: kurigata. Note the crescent moon just visible at the bottom

From the picture below you can see how the two parts were fitted on the saya - and from this angle, would appear as in the above photo, with the monkey reaching towards the left.

A wakizashi showing positioning of the kurigata and origane (as it appears
to be made of horn, a kaeritsuno in this case). (Original source)

Being an origane, it is only small to start with, and consistent with its purpose, which is to slide over the bottom of the obi, its contours are smoothed out - perhaps this is what suggested to Musashi the form of a sinuous, long-armed monkey. From the top view in Victor Harris's book, it was not possible to see the long, relaxed curve of the monkey's arm, but the side view shows this very nicely. One might be tempted to read something into this about the importance of certain attributes in swordsmanship. After all, his tsuba also portray creatures known for their smoothness and suppleness, and the gibbon is, of course, particularly noted for the liquid quality of its movement.

Despite the function of the proverb in Zen, which is to illustrate the folly of the monkey's action (thus making it the only motif I can think of, off the top of my head, used in sword fittings which depicts an animal not to be admired), I am sure Musashi would have depicted it as embodying the qualities he found so important in swordsmanship.

The Autumn Monkey

Musashi also made a well-known written reference to monkeys.

In both Heihosanjugokajo and Gorin no Sho, Musashi writes of the 'shuko', which is written as 'Autumn monkey' and clearly refers to a monkey that does not stretch out its arms.
"Te wo dasanu kokoro nari"... 'Do not stretch out your arms', he says.

A Japanese macaque, by the painter and gifted lacquer
artist Shibata Zesshin (1807-1891)

Clearly he is not talking about gibbons, but the native Japanese monkey, which is a kind of macaque. Compared to the gibbon, these are, indeed, short-armed. The term, autumn monkey is still a little puzzling. Philology is an inexact discipline, so I am not sure there is really an answer to this. I have read one theory that suggests it refers to the behavior of the pregnant or nursing female during the autumn - normally monkeys dash forward and snatch food at arms length, but during this time, females are more cautious and only take food that doesn't necessitate such smash-and-grab tactics.

It certainly seems reasonable, but I don't know enough about the habits of the Japanese macaque to confirm this. It does have a seasonable mating period (unlike the gibbon) so there may be some truth to this.

Japanese macaques are widespread across Japan, and Musashi would undoubtably have been familiar with them, and probably have observed them at fairly close quarters. I have seen them on the outskirts of Kyoto myself. It is quite clear to an observer, that when they move, they move with the whole body - they rarely sit and stretch their arms out for food, but move their whole body to get it. Their arms retain a characteristically greater degree of curve than a human's. It may be this that made them so characteristically 'short-armed' rather than any peculiarities of the mating season. Philologically speaking, it seems just as likely that autumn was the period when they were most likely to show up in the fields to steal the ripening fruit from the farmers, or an allusion to their red faces.

Whatever the reason, it seems likely that it's usefulness as an example is strengthened by an awareness of the symbolism of 'the monkey reaching for the moon'. If reaching out gets you dead, then you shouldn't reach out. I imagine this meaning was uppermost for Musashi and those associated with him, while later generations took it primarily at face value, as suggested by the Zen story, as a warning against striving for illusory goals and earthly pleasures.

The monkey(gibbon) reaching for the moon as a motif
The use of this theme in art seems to have been comparatively well-established in Musashi's time - it is difficult to date when it was first adopted as a motif for the bushi class. Works featuring this motif have been attributed to Sesshu (1420-1506), and certainly Sesson (1504-1589) used it in several major works. The tsuba maker Kaneie may have been the first to have adopted it for sword furniture. The name Kaneie was, in fact, used by a line of famous tsuba makers rather than a single person, the first generations of whom established a new pictorial style of tsuba decoration, which included the use of designs inspired by famous painters, such as Sesshu.

Tsuba by 2nd generation Kaneie

This particular Kaneie was the 2nd generation of the line. Rumor has it that he was also a student of the sword, and also possibly a student of Musashi, (although I have seen no proof of this). He was originally based in Fushimi, later moving to Higo (present day Kumamoto) where Musashi lived in his later years, so it is certainly possible that he studied with Musashi. This is the kind of oral lore that is passed down through sword lineages and makes up much of the colour and breadth of traditional teaching.

It is an interesting connection, and certainly made me look a little harder at his tsuba - despite the delicacy of the designs, they have a robust quality which I think a swordsman would value. Fushimi was the one-time residence and administrative centre of Toyotomi Hideyoshi's rule, with many of the most important men of the realm gathered there (and Kyoto just a few kilometres up the river). Hideyoshi's promotion of the arts would have meant that Kaneie was in the right place to see plenty of fine examples of the finest painters of the time, including the Kano family and Hasegawa Tohaku.

The motif was not uncommon on swords during the Edo era, but by then it was, I presume, used without any particular reference to swordsmanship. Here is a nice example from this website:

Finally, I couldn't finish without including this contemporary painting by Enoki Toshiyuki entitled 'Autumn Monkey' in which he combines the autumn theme and the monkey reaching for the moon.