Neko No Myojutsu - The Mysterious Skills of the Old Cat

The Cornered Rat Attacks the Cat - Ogata Gekko (1892)

Neko no Myojutsu is a story that many people will be familiar with. I first came across it as a student in DT Suzuki's Zen and Japanese Culture, an important but somewhat flawed book in this field, and subsequently it was the first text on swordsmanship that I read in Japanese, being already familiar with the story. It was also the genesis of my book The Samurai Mind. Originally I had envisaged an illustrated version of this story, done in sumi-e, and this was the proposal I sent to several publishers. Stonebridge Press picked it up and asked to see the complete series of illustrations. They liked them, and everything looked set... until their parent company got into trouble and placed a moratorium on new acquisitions. Subsequently Tuttle contacted me and said they were interested in the text, but not the illustrations, and the rest is history.

The importance of Neko no Myojutsu
The fact that it has been translated several times suggests that not only is this an appealing story, but that it might have something interesting to say. Although the author, Issai Chozan, disavowed his own skill as a swordsman, he clearly had a well-developed understanding, and was able to give a very helpful impressionistic view of the inner factors involved higher levels of the art. It is commonly included in Japanese collections of works on swordsmanship, and was, at one time, held as an inner text of the Itto-ryu.

In the context of my book, I regard it as a key to understanding these inner elements of bujutsu.

Overview
It is a fable, and this is part of its attraction and why it is so accessible. A samurai named Shoken (his name means 'Victorious Sword' or something along those lines) finds a large rat running about his house. His own cat runs away in fright and he has no luck when he tries to kill it himself. the three experienced rat-catching cats in the area have no luck either, so it is left to an old cat in a neighboring part of town to take care of things. That night, the cats have a little celebration, and ask the old cat to explain why he was so successful. He offers critiques of their methods and goes on to explain his own approach. Shoken has been listening in and interjects his own question, which the old cat answers, expanding on his original answer.

What makes it a key text?
The critiques of the old cat are important in that they compare the different methods of the three cats, each one of which uses an approach focused on one aspect of combat. Actually, each one of these approaches is fairly specific, and anyone with a broad background in martial arts that includes some knowledge about different styles and approaches, and the arguments that surround them will probably find this quite familiar. They are particularly apposite in terms of swordsmanship - from this and other writings, it seems there was some dispute about which was the most effective approach to swordsmanship, both in terms of training and tactical usage during the period in which he was writing... and later, too.

Readers will probably understand these different approaches without too much difficulty. The explanations offered by the cat on why each approach is flawed require a little more care with the translation, and I must admit that some of the translations I have read didn't supply the reader with the clarity and logic present in the original.

The cat's explanation of his myojutsu (marvellous technique) is the heart of the piece, and consequently it is here that a firm understanding of the concepts described, on the part of the translator, is most important to get a real sense of what it all means and why it works. 'It', in this case, refers to these inner factors, often referred to by terms such as shinpo or shinjutsu, that form an important part of the advanced techniques of bujutsu. The most well-known example is probably mushin, which is often treated as an exclusively Zen concept. This story is interesting in that it offers, as I noted before, an impressionistic description and explanation of this area of bujutsu, as well as describing related areas, such as mental domination and harmonizing with the opponent, and explaining why they are different and their relative superiority.

Wrapped up in a story about cats, it makes for a compelling and practical introduction to this area.

Hopefully readers will find my translation in The Samurai Mind leaves them in a better position to understand and appreciate the other works in the collection, which I will be discussing over the next few posts.

The Inner secrets - Questioning Old Manuals

Issun saki wa yami - an inch ahead is darkness
Of course, here,  the disastrous events of the 11th are on everyone's mind.
With a rising death toll and thousands missing, even for those not directly involved, it serves as a reminder of just how precarious life can be. This is something that has formed a continuous theme in many expressions of Japanese culture, artistic and literary, and has colored many aspects of life here. Perhaps it is why a premium has been put on keeping orderly records of so many things - a surprising number of which still survive despite their frailty.

Scrolls from the Chikubushima Ryu of bojutsu

Preserving Knowledge
The type of knowledge handed developed and handed down by schools of bujutsu was primarily transmitted person to person in a close and trusted relationship between master and student, and learned through long, intense application. Over the years, much of this knowledge has been lost - schools and styles have died out and the teachings seem less relevant with changes in society and technology. Although the passing on of this kind of knowledge and skill was primarily a person to person affair, written texts did play a role as well. And a surprising number of them exist till this day.

As the translator of a collection of old works on swordsmanship, the question of what can we actually learn from these kinds of works is close to my heart. Of course, they have an intrinsic value for those with historical bent, but what we can learn beyond that, whether they contain anything that we can utilise in our own lives and practice is one that, I suspect, is at the back of many readers' minds.

Some of the works in this, and related, genre have certainly stood the test of time and achieved a canonical status. Sun Tzu's The Art of War, in particular has been read widely - for perhaps two thousand years, in fact, and in the late twentieth century, Miyamoto Musashi's Gorin no Sho achieved a wide international readership. This is despite (or perhaps because of) the vagueness or lack of precise detail that allows a variety of interpretations. Though these kinds of works conjure up a feeling, an image of knowledge,  they do not always deliver on their promise, remaining tantalizingly vague and frequently obscure.

So to rephrase the question above, perhaps what we should be asking is whether they contain more than these vague and attractive generalisations, some core of 'deep' knowledge?

If the answer to this is 'yes', we should then ask if we can access that knowledge. With a work like Sun Tzu, the range of notes and interpretations, stretching back a very long way, tell us that not only have many seen it as a valuable work, but that it is one that invites, and perhaps requires, explanation.

The same questions may also be asked of other works. One of the enduring attractions of Musashi's Gorin no sho is the fact that he was a superlative swordsman. The practical value of his work may depend on our ability to interpret it, but Musashi's ability seems to stand as surety of the riches it contains, making it worth the effort to study what he wrote.


We might expand our enquiry to give us the following questions:

    1) Does the original work contain 'deep' knowledge?
        i. Who was the writer? How much did he know?
        ii. To what degree was the writer able to accurately put his knowledge into written form?
        iii. How much did the writer want to reveal?
       
    2) Is the meaning accessible?   


Who was the writer?
Sometimes this is how we come to the work in the first place - we hear about someone and then find out they have written something. Often, it is the other way round - the written work is what makes the writer famous. How many of Sun Tzu's contemporaries were equal or superior to him?

Of course, a 'track record' is a good reason for reading something in this genre. The notes on Sun Tzu written by Cao Cao, or Zhuge Liang's book on The Art of War, or in the west, Julius Caesar or Napoleon's own works suggest knowledge and understanding that come direct from a master. Whether or not they were concerned with explaining their tactical insights or doing a PR job (as in Caesar's case) might have further bearing on how interesting their writing is.

Sometimes, however, we know little about the writer save what he has written, and it is from this that we must judge his skills. Though it may be unwise to judge prematurely, it is usually possible to gauge something of a writer's skill through the way he writes, the tone he takes, what he mentions and what he doesn't.

To what degree was the writer able to accurately put his knowledge into written form?
There are so many variables in this field, that this question may be almost impossible to answer, relevant as it is. Some, such as Julius Caesar, are recognised as good writers, but this is not always the case. Sometimes a less practised writer may be able to convey the essence of meaning more effectively than  one who is more stylistically accomplished. In any case, although it should be borne in mind that the most skilled practitioner in a field may not be the best writer, it is also true that in this field, authentic knowledge and skill is generally held to be of paramount importance - this is the way these arts were taught and this attitude extends to primary sources in the field. We want to hear what the masters had to say.

How much did the writer want to reveal?
Often these kinds of works were written for a small inner circle of initiates or students of a tradition, sometimes just for one person, and so include references and jargon that only someone already privy to those teachings can readily understand. The Heiho Kadensho, written by Yagyu Munenori, expressly states that it was just for members of the family. Many of the terms used are opaque and not easily understood by outsiders to the Yagyu school of swordsmanship - in fact there is even acknowledgment of this within the text.

Other works give even less information - they are just lists of names of techniques or diagrams that serve to indicate relative importance of particular issues. If Heiho Kadensho is difficult to understand, these might be considered truly impenetrable for outsiders.

There are yet others which use 'coded language'. They might, in fact be quite didactic and even intended for a relatively large audience, but still held something back. Many Taoist work seem to fall into this category, with short-hand or jargon inserted for particular concepts that would only have been explained orally. Works in many other genre fall into this category as well - secrets were valued and well kept in these societies. Though some of them may seem to us to be of little direct value, and others are easily dismissed as being 'merely' this or that, in a world where such things could mean the difference between success and failure, riches and poverty, and ultimately life and death, it ill becomes us to belittle them. In the medieval realm of poetry, one of the most powerful and influential families, the Reizei family, kept secrets that were an important part of its position and power. They included, in this world of hand-copied manuscripts and long memories, copies of poetry collections held by almost no-one else and knowledge of the correct pronunciation of certain words.

Not all writings were meant for such a restricted audience, however, and it is from these that we can expect to gain a greater understanding of the meaning as the writer intended.

Translation
Of course, for works in other languages, this is an important consideration. As well as understanding the straight-forward meaning, the technical terms and the specific nuances as they relate to the subject are extremely important; to a practitioner the differences can be small but important, and transform a sentence from a general statement into something with weight and authenticity. In particular, it should allow a seasoned practitioner to be able to understand the intent of the writer, which can be a somewhat different thing from merely transposing the words into fluent English. This is particularly important in the case of terminology for which there is no exact English equivalent, (ki, i, & kokoro spring to mind) and when an inexact choice of words can render a concept devoid of all practical meaning... although sounding fine in English.

And the secrets?
After all that, I must say that I find these works endlessly fascinating. The most interesting of these works are rich in experience and knowledge, sometimes well hidden, and sometimes clearly explained. As with any art or field of study, the advanced teachings are built upon a foundation - the lay person may find them difficult to understand at first, but with a growing familiarity with the concepts and approaches on which they are built, the deeper meanings can become clear. Which is not to claim that I understand everything myself, merely that much of what seems obscure was not meant to be so, and much that is deep, and useful, was not necessarily hidden or secret.

Ishikawa Idayuu - the unknown swordsman

Ishikawa Idayuu (1825-1894)

Occasionally a name or an incident will crop up that will make you want to stop and find out more. Names of people long dead continue to resonate, and some of these, though well-known  in their own day are all but forgotten now.

One such is Ishikawa Idayuu, a swordsman of the Shounai Domain, who was famous enough in his day to be known as one of the three notable masters of the domain (Shounai san meibutsu). The others were a jujutsu master of the Shibukawa-ryu called Akashi Jiemon, and Sagara Judayuu, master of the Mukyoku-ryu of sojutsu, both of whom lived a century or so before Ishikawa.

(The term meibutsu is nowadays used mainly for famous products with which each prefecture is associated – an early government marketing ploy to help local businesses and tourism. Typically, each prefecture has one meibutsu, many of which are taught to school children, who will be able to recite Ehime – mikan (tangerines), Aomori – apples… to name two of the most famous.

The style Ishikawa practised was the Shinkyu-ryu, (新九流) of which little is known nowadays. It was popular both in Shounai and neighboring Aizu, but as both were hold outs against the new Meiji government during the Boshin War, it is not surprising that many of the martial practices in the area would have been supressed. In fact, both Ishikawa and some of his students were active in that war, commanding military units of various sizes, and were afterwards removed from their official positions and subject to other punitive measures.

Ishikawa was born as the 3rd son and adopted as heir into another branch of the same family, who were the hereditary teachers of Shinkyu-ryu heihou. He excelled at this and eventually inherited the position both of head of the style and of the family.

I came across Ishikawa in Matsuura Seizan’s work Joseishi Kendan, where he is the subject of a rather interesting episode. Seizan is interesting as a swordsman in his own right, and as a one-time daimyo was able to travel comparatively freely. Although he does not say so, it seems most likely that he met Ishikawa in Edo – as the chief instructor for swordsmanship for the domain, it is not unlikely that he would have travelled to Edo with his lord, or on other han business and Seizan, too would have spent some time there. Shounai later became responsible for managing security for the city of Edo, and the Shinchogumi – the Edo version of the Shinsengumi – was under the control of Shounai. It was, incidentally, set up by Kiyokawa Hachirou, who was a ronin from Shounai.

The story is related as if Ishikawa is the senior, though in fact Seizan was both older and of higher social status. Seizan did, in fact, study widely, even after being awarded mastery in swordsmanship, and even quite late in life, so it seems he was happy to learn where he could, and from whom he could. He notes how although Ishikawa always talked about swordsmanship (and this was a day and age where it was soon to become, yet again, a very real survival skill), on one occasion he had become very drunk and was stumbling all over the place on his way home. Seizan, who was with him, was thinking to himself that surely Ishikawa was now in a pretty vulnerable condition. When they got back, Ishikawa, who had obviously been faking, said he knew what Seizan had been thinking, but he shouldn’t be too sure of his initial assessment. It was only when he had discovered what someone was hiding that he should be content.

Like many stories from this period, it gives us a glimpse of some of the concerns of swordsmen in those days, and shows us that their art and knowledge went beyond the use of the sword in the dojo. This was knowledge that was tested in the Bakumatsu period – as it happens Kiyokawa Hachiro, a skilled swordsman himself, was killed in the street after being heavily plied with food and drink. (Although he was from Shounai, he was not one of Ishikawa’s students).

Sakai Noritsuge

Students

Sakai Noritsuge (1842-1876), son of an important domain official,  and nick-named ‘Oni-Genba’, was personally involved in the round up of the remnants of the Mito Tengu Insurrection, and there is an account of his skill in using a single sword thrust to bring down a sword wielding opponent. He was also well versed in chinese poetry and playing the flute. Later he became a batallion commander in the Boshin War, and was involved in some fierce fighting, as were both Ishikawa himself and another of Ishikawa’s students, Nakamura Shichiroemon (1843–1907), who became the next head of the Shinkyu-ryu. Lest you have the image of a totally outmoded army of swordsmen facing modern weapons, it must be noted that Nakamura commanded a rifle unit. Nakamura was actually connected to the Sakai family by marriage, and performed as kaishaku at the seppuku of Sakai Noritsuge’s uncle, Ukyou, a leader of han reformers, in 1867.

Ishikawa Shizumasa's portrait of Saigo

The connection with Saigo Takamori

Not 'The Last Samurai', perhaps, but there is an interesting connection with Saigo Takamori, who led the Imperial forces against Shounai and its allies in the Boshin War. After the war, Saigo settled very lenient terms with Shounai, and through this approach won the admiration of many former opponents. The official ‘Records of the Shounai Domain’ reflect this attitude with laudatory comments concerning Saigo’s magnaminity. Prior to this, one of the domain elders, Suge Sanehida, travelled to meet Saigo. He was accompanied by a painter, who later painted this portrait of Saigo. The painter was Ishikawa Shizumasa (1848-1925), the son of Ishikawa Idayuu.

The story of the fishermen

There is one other story of Ishikawa that bears repeating. As well as being famous as a swordsman, he was a famous for his yawara (or jujutsu) – probably as a part of the Shinkyu-ryu teachings. Three young fishermen came to him asking him to teach them yawara for protection in case they were attacked by robbers. Ishikawa accepted them as pupils and for six months had them running up and down the beach as basic training.  Eventually they asked him when he was going to teach them yawara.

“This is your yawara” he replied. “You have a very important job. If you start getting into yawara, you’ll neglect your fishing, which is crucial. So, if anyone attacks you, run! Escape! By losing, you win. Escaping is your victory!”

Afternoon tea and tsuba

After a hard day's shopping in downtown Osaka, there is always the vexed question of where to go for a bit of a rest and refreshment. This is particularly true at the weekend, when everywhere you try seems to have been invaded by an army of jaded shoppers. If you are inclined to spend a little on your luxuries, you can't do much better than the St. Regis Hotel, Honmachi, just a few minutes walk from the busy Shinsaibashi area.

Skip the enticing tearoom on the ground floor, and head straight for the St. Regis Bar on the 12th. Don't be put off by the atmosphere of refined opulence as you pass through the lobby, or the sequestered hush as you approach the imposing entrance to the bar, with its air of a gentleman's club - it makes a very nice place to spend a while over a pot of tea.

But why is this of any interest to you?

Well, the theme of the bar is Momoyama Japan, and for anyone with a passing interest in Japanese swords or related themes, it should prove quite an interesting experience. There are no actual swords or tsuba on display, but the stylish decor is all planned with this theme in mind. Some of the elements are quite well-hidden, but come as a pleasant surprise as you notice them.

One thing you will notice, however, is the large painting behind the bar, which is by the contemporary painter Yamaguchi Akira.  He is an artist who certainly deserves his recognition - he combines fine draughtsmanship with a quirky but sensitive humour (in the manner of W. Heath Robinson) with an interest and appreciation of historical themes, while using western materials (water colour and oils) to mimic traditional Japanese painting styles. He did some nice illustrations for the 'Duelling Geniuses' show at the Tokyo National Museum a few years back, which was organised on an 'X vs Y' theme.
This is a screen shot from their promotional website:

Kano Eitoku vs Hasegawa Tohaku

I was thinking of him recently: he had an exhibition at Oyamazaki Sanso (a small, 1920's villa between Kyoto and Osaka) last year - he completed most of his works at the villa, which also happens to be very close to the site of the Battle of Yamazaki, in which Hideyoshi defeated Akechi Mitsuhide, (who had killed Oda Nobunaga shortly before). The current year-long Taiga drama has just dealt with this episode, and as I was passing on the train, my mind ran back to the exhibition. What should I see that very same day, but this work by him. Actually, seeing works by particular artists can be a bit of a hit and miss thing in Japan: there are few standing public collections with permanent exhibitions, and private museums often suffer from a lack of space, so they are perpetually showing different portions of their collections. Being able to see the work of a contemporary artist is even more difficult, so this was a nice opportunity, and it's nice to know it's there all the time.

A close up of the painting behind the bar, showing the Tsutenkaku

The theme is Osaka no Ran - the Seige of Osaka Castle, in the common semi-panoramic style employed for cityscapes in the Momoyama and Edo periods, complete with gold leaf clouds for spacial transitions, but it also features a number of motifs from the modern city, including the instantly recognizable Tsutenkaku - the much loved (so I am told) tower at Tennoji.

The rest of the bar, including the high ceiling, are in keeping with this theme - less symbolism than motif, of course. Here is one of the door handles:

..and here is one of the mirrors.

And lets not forget the karesansui rock garden, complete with strolling path and a view over the city.


Very nice and highly recommended.

Knowledge management - kata and memory

The movie Seppuku is constructed around the strategic management of knowledge and memory .

Where do you put your learning?
Learning in the field of martial arts is an intensely personal process, and in the field of traditional martial arts it is based on the very important relationship between the teacher and student. Having said that, much of the actual learning is something that has to happen alone.

My own experience (leaving aside the continuing and very real frustration that is also an important part of the process) is of a succession of insights of varying importance - sometimes minor adjustments in the way I see things; at other times major discoveries that necessitate a total reassessment of what I have learned. Some of these insights stay with me, at other times, they fade slowly away, leaving only a vague memory of something important.

Kata as a means of storing knowledge
In-depth study in any field, involves not only coming to grips with the material being studied itself, but also organizing and storing that knowledge so it can be accessed later. The growing field of knowledge management attests to the necessity of addressing this problem in some kind of rational way. In traditional bugei, very little of the knowledge was written down in detail. It was learnt and retained in the body, drilled to such a degree that the body habitually moved in ways that were consistent with the teachings, which themselves were contained and passed on in series of choreographed sets of movements generally known as kata.

Of course, kata were not unique to martial arts, but were and continue to be used in a number of disciplines. Like remembering lines of a song,  they are an efficient way of storing sequences of movement through memorizing set routines.

They have been the subject of much debate - how effective can pre-arranged drills be in preparing anyone for something as unpredictable as fighting- and not just in the present day... in Japan there were arguments about this two hundred years ago. In Kenjutsu no Fushikihen (On Ignorance in Swordsmanship), written by Kimura Kyuhou in 1764, the writer talks of his teacher, who went to spy on other schools in his area:

"All of them employed paired kata and there were none who had achieved outstanding skill. Among those who showed little understanding were those orthodox teachers who created and taught choreographed patterns. Although it is said this makes it easy to understand and refine the principles of the style, the results should bear this out. They are unable to lead anyone to realization of the principle."

The strong feelings on both sides of the argument attest to both the value and the potential short-comings of the method. However, kata serve other purposes than simply training one through repetition of the movements.

Kata as a memory palace
One of the less noted, but nonetheless important functions of kata is as a focus for the recall of memories. You get out of kata what you put into them, and this is not just the sweat and hard work that is a necessary part of their learning and practice. The process of learning imbues a kata with knowledge directly related to the learning and practice of that kata: nuances of the movements, the principles it embodies, the applications it represents. It also serves as a means of storage for insights that have been gained by a student through personal practice. These may stem directly from practice of elements of the kata, or from other sources which can be applied to the kata.

The performance of a particular movement by your teacher may throw your mind back to some particular point he made when you were learning it, or some other understanding you gained while seeing him perform it. Or when practicing some movement you recall the time your teacher used it to explain some deeper, more far reaching principal or your art. Practicing yourself, as well as watching others practice can bring up whole chains of association, refreshing and reinforcing your knowledge.

The nature of learning a traditional art is such that what you learn from your teacher takes precedence over what you have learned from other sources; indeed subsequent knowledge is filtered and assessed in terms of what was passed on to you from your teacher. In this sense, the reiteration and consolidation of that knowledge is part of the ongoing process of continuing that connection, both with your teacher in particular, and your tradition, the flow of knowledge from past generations. In this sense they form a defense against the ephemeral, the trendy and personal whims.

This is also the reason that symbols are so particular within a particular traditional, or even to a particular teacher within that tradition. The value of a symbol lies in the way it can be tied to your learning - borrowing without understanding this aspect is of little value. Similarly, study of old texts is of limited value for your own practice unless they can be understood and absorbed. However, the additional value gained from reinforcing your own learning through seeing it from alternative viewpoints can be an interesting and worthwhile exercise. This rarely applies to the mokuroku and similar documents of other schools, which are meant, at one level, to unlock these insights. Just the name of a technique, written with all the weight of tradition, and the respect due to one's teacher, could serve as a very powerful adjunct to learning, adding an additional sense of legitimacy to conglomerate of knowledge it represented.

There is nothing particularly unusual in this - leafing through the family photo album produces something of the same effect - but it is a valuable tool for storing knowledge and learning. Unfortunately, this mechanism is no respecter of merit, and could just as easily apply to any series of movements learned in similar circumstances, regardless of their value in terms of the art they purport to be part of.

But that's another story.

Saya no Uchi - principle and practice

From Ratti & Westbrook's Secrets of the Samurai

One of the attractions of the Japanese martial arts are the esoteric sounding concepts it contains. One such is saya no uchi, which literally means 'within the saya' and is a shortening of a phrase which can be translated as 'victory is obtained while the sword is in the saya'.

It is an interesting concept, but like many others, it is open to a variety of interpretations. The principle differences in this case lie on either side of the line separating the classical martial arts and the more modern disciplines. Whatever we call them, we can see quite a large difference between the older disciplines which claim their primary focus is combat, and the more modern ones, especially those that have positioned themselves as modern budo. Their aims and philosophies also colour their interpretations of concepts such as saya no uchi. The differences are sometimes slight, but they are telling.

If we look at the mindsets at the two extremes of these positions, the differences are quite clear. This is a description of the aims of modern iaido:

"Iaido does not actually mean overcoming an enemy, but overcoming one's own self. The only and the most dangerous opponent in iaido is the practitioner himself. Victory in iaido consists of a forgiving heart and avoidance of fight. Iaido means training toward human perfection. In it there is never a murderous intention to kill another human being. It is said that with endless practice the practitioner learns to understand his place in the universe."

(From a Musoshinden-ryu site)

 

Contrast this with the opening line of Hirayama Shiryu's Kensetsu (Sword Theory), written at the beginning of the 19th century:  

  My swordsmanship is for slaying the enemy brutally. 

With such different perspectives, it is no wonder that concepts contained in both arts are interpreted differently. In iaido, the normal interpretation of saya no uchi is that it means winning without drawing the sword; a victory of the spirit. It is held out as a kind of ultimate goal. How exactly this is to be achieved is not clear, but it is sometimes held to be a kind of moral position - the ability to win without fighting.

This is in sharp distinction to the stance taken by combat oriented arts, in which it refers to the positioning that puts one in a winning position prior to the fight. Rather than winning without fighting, it is attaining victory before fighting. On an individual level, this might involve extremely subtle movements, but could easily be extrapolated to large scale conflicts involving armies. Sun Tzu expressed just this concept when he wrote:

Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win.

We might be justified in regarding it as a strategic or tactical principle, in fact. However, in the classical martial arts, such principles were not left as theories, but were taught through concrete techniques and applications, though often ones in which the mental aspect was also vital. Matsuura Seizan, writing in the early 19th century, alludes to this in his Joseishi Kendan:

I will tell you the key to learning this: the potential of drawing the sword and cutting down the opponent is present while the sword is still sheathed. Even as you glimpse an opportunity as the opponent moves, that cut is already present in the sheathed sword. 

Which is to say, the sword is in operation even though it is still in the saya. The technicalities of this are another thing entirely, but those who are familiar with this from personal experience will recognize the truth of Seizan's explanation.

That is not to reject the value of resolving conflicts without fighting. In fact Seizan gives an example of this from his first meeting with the man who was to become his teacher in Confucianism, Minagawa Kien. This was a man not particularly known for his swordsmanship, a scholar, in fact, but who wore two swords as men of his class did in those days. Seizan, who was young and serious about his swordsmanship, made fun of Kien for wearing swords despite his scholarly demeanor. "What would you do if I attacked you now?" he asked. Kien was not in the least perturbed, but replied that every time he picked up his swords he did so with the resolution to use them, and so he was perfectly prepared to use them now, if necessary. If Seizan wanted proof, he had only to attack him and he would show him. Seizan backed down and was forced to admit that he had been defeated by the strength and sincerity of Kien's commitment. This is much closer to the saya no uchi of budo, but Seizan doesn't comment on whether he regarded it as an example of the concept or not. I rather think he didn't, although he does say how impressed he was with Kien.

I will take this chance to recommend my book 'The Samurai Mind', published by Tuttle and due out next month, which includes translations of Seizan's Joseishi Kendan and Hirayama Shiryu's Kensetsu. It is by me, of course, which is another good reason to check it out.

Plum Blossom Lore

Yamamoto Baiitsu (1783-1856)

Although it's only the first week of February, the last few days have seemed quite spring-like.. despite the snow that is still visible on the mountains to the north of Kyoto, and the dead grass that covers the banks of the Kamo River. It should have been no surprise to find that February 4th is the day known as Rishun, which marks the start of spring in the old Japanese calendar. This early spring period runs through the 18th of the month, and is closely associated with plum blossom.

The ume - more properly an apricot, it seems, but generally known as plum - is just coming into flower during this period, though it won't come into full bloom until near the end of the month. I associate it particularly strongly with China and Japan, and it often appears in literature and art here, not to mention as a favorite plant in gardens. The sweet scent of a plum orchard in flower is quite strong, and if you go to a plum bonsai exhibition, such as the one held in Nagahama every year, almost unbelievably concentrated and quite beautiful, even - I would think- for non-flower lovers.

The plum tree itself is quite striking, with its delicate flowers, characteristically a mix of full blossom and new buds set against the angular and harshly pruned branches, making it a popular motif in visual art, both in China and Japan. (If I had to make a generalisation, I would say Chinese paintings tend to emphasise profusion, and Japanese ones, sparseness in their depictions.)

The particular angularity of the plum is also the subject of a proverb:
                     Sakura kiru baka; ume kiranu baka
It's stupid to prune a cherry tree - and stupid not to prune a plum - a comment on the failings of a 'one size fits all' policy.

The plum is also included among 'The three friends of winter' and 'The four gentlemen' (as the translations usually go) - traditional groupings of plants that often appear in art. The three friends, sho-chiku-bai, are pine, bamboo and plum, which all have positive associations connected with strength and endurance during the cold months of winter. The four gentlemen, shikunshi, is a closely related theme that was popular in Chinese art and later adopted in Japan. The plants - plum, orchid, bamboo and chrysanthemum, each represent one of the seasons, as well as noble virtues. In fact the word kun (jun Ch.) is one of those untranslatable words with connotations of nobility and virtue, but which tends to sound a bit hokey in English. It is Confucius's 'virtuous man'.

The four gentlemen also form part of the foundation of the art of ink painting - especially in the literati (and now hobbyist) style. As well as their symbolic nature, they also serve as a bridge for  well-practiced brush wielding scholars to move from the field of calligraphy into picture-making, using the same brush strokes they had been using for years, but in a more graphic role.

In Japan, there seems to have been little direct relation with the martial world, other than that provided by the cultural associations common to society at large. By way of contrast, the connections in the Chinese martial arts world are many and varied - and include a famous style of Northern boxing, Meihua quan (Plum Flower Fist/Boxing) and its off-shoots, as well as a number of forms in different styles that bear its name.

Nevertheless, there are several stories that feature plum blossom, with their own, uniquely Japanese, atmosphere.

Oshukubai - The plum where the nightingale dwells (bai is another reading of the character for plum)

By Tsuchiya Koitsu - from the Ohmi Gallery Website

This tale concerns the old plum tree of the emperor, which stood on one side of the entrance to the imperial palace, the Sakon no Ume, or plum of the left, along with its counterpart, Ukon no Tachibana, sweet orange of the right (sa and u are alternative readings for the characters left and right). Seeking a replacement, his courtiers found one in the garden of Ki no Tsurayuki (872-945), the famous poet. Before they carted it off (tree transplanting was a well developed art), Tsurayuki's daughter wrote the following poem, which she hung from its branches:

Choku nareba itomo kashiko shi uguisu no yado wa to towaba ikaga kotaemu
Since my lord commands, I can but obey.
but what shall I tell the nightingale when it cannot find its nest?

The emperor Murakami was obviously touched by this, and returned the tree, planting a cherry tree in its place. The nightingale (otoguisu or bush warbler, to be more exact), is often paired with the plum blossom in art - in fact Keats is said to have composed the first draft of 'Ode to a Nightingale' while sitting under a plum tree.

(Interestingly, Tsurayuki's poem in the famous collection Hyakunin Isshu (number 35) is about the plum blossom, where he compares its reliability to the changeability of the human heart.)

 Abe no Muneto
A more amusing anecdote concerns the aftermath of a rebellion by Abe no Sadato, who was beaten and slain after a protracted series of campaigns by Minamoto Yoriyoshi and his son. Yoshiie, Sadato's younger brother, Muneto, was brought back to court and condemned to exile. While he was waiting for the sentence to be carried out, a courtier, curious about this semi barbarian from the northern provinces, brings a branch of flowering plum and asks, "What do you call this?"
Muneto replied:
In my country, where I saw it often
we call it ume,
But for the true name,
we need a courtier to tell us.

Genda Kagesuye (by Kuniyoshi)

Kajiwara Genda Kagesuye
This fierce warrior fought at the battle of Ikuta (in the Gempei War, on the side of the Minamoto) with a branch of plum blossom thrust into his quiver (ebira), a reminder of his love  and was the inspiration for the noh drama of that name. During the battle, he lost his helmet, and the motif of a helmet with a branch of plum blossom was sometimes used in art.
There is a lot more to be said about him, but that will have to wait for another time. The same is also true of....

...Maeda Toshiie
Finally, I couldn't miss out the famous general Maeda Toshiie, who fought under Oda Nobunaga and Toyotomi Hideyoshi, and whose crest was the plum blossom, as you can see here:

Late 19th century print showing Maeda Toshiie in action - he was famous for his use of the spear