Suffering As Catharsis in the Bujutsu
By Brian Barnes, Hontai Yoshin Ryu
To those of us who have trained in any serious physical endeavor, the rewards of this activity are more or less self-evident. For starters, the acquisition of skills, the toning and strengthening of the body, improved reflexes, balance, and concentration… ah, but I digress from the more to the less self-evident: heightened awareness, enhanced focus, deepened calm.
Certainly, the seeker into any practice will discover these things to one degree or another. Truly, these benefits are primary reasons for many of us to participate in our arts. And with practice comes a strong sense of accomplishment when we win at kumite(1),are awarded a new grade, or finally find the kuzushi(2)in a given waza(3). Yes, that feeling of justified success which comes often at first, and then infrequently, is worth every second we spend in the dojo.
But, what of our failures? Every student has been corrected on the same point a dozen times in one practice session. How does that feel? In trying to describe it, "success" is certainly not the word one would use. How many matches have I lost? How many tears of frustration have I shed due to my practice? How many times did I contemplate never returning to the dojo? And what of my many failings while walking alone on this "noble path?" Is there not value here, also? Perhaps, more than we think.
Many researchers have established the strong links between classical Buddhism and classical bujutsu. While other religious and philosophical systems are important to the martial arts, Buddhism has a unique perspective upon unfortunate circumstances. It gives us the Four Noble Truths, of which the first is, "Life is Suffering." If we are to accept that Buddhism has important lessons to offer the martial artist, then the difficulties specific to learning koryu(4)may be addressed by this belief system(5).
For those who do not ascribe to the Buddhist orientation, please, empty your cup! Koryu is about tradition, but for any tradition to embrace its heritage as strongly as many koryu, there must have been some struggle. Struggle cannot be valuable without loss ultimately being overcome by, if nothing else, equilibrium. The reflection on such loss and its lessons will lead to suffering, to knowledge, and, if used well, to growth.
I am not intending to twist Siddhartha's words, but merely to illustrate a point. Consider a most treasured metaphor, the forging of the Japanese sword. Everyone from Draeger sensei down to novices like me have used this allusion as a teaching tool. Indulge me in its use once more.
Not to be too "new-age" about the whole thing, but consider the metal’s perspective (if it could have one) as it was being shaped. After the initial battering and cooling, strength would pervade its exhausted being. Much as a bugeisha(6),the would-be weapon would say, "Wow, I feel so much better than before! All of that pain really paid off!"
Suddenly, without warning, the fire is entered again, and then come the hammers from all sides. No inch of the construct is spared. Certainly, our strip of metal holds together, but the folding, the incorporation of the hammers' work into the whole, only to be followed by more hammering, is not a joyous process. It is likely that the metal bar, after going through this a couple of times, would leave training, never to return, if it could!
Ah, but how impressive is the final product! The balance, the strength, the flexibility, the keen edge--certainly, the suffering paid-off for our sword in the end. That is, of course, if a weapon is what the metal wanted to become…
I hope we can all agree on the value of suffering in our personal practice. Many of us refer to its manifestation as "shugyo"(7).This struggle is one of the reasons why we attach value to our practice. Those of us practicing arts which do not award dan grades will certainly understand. Years of struggle without external reward--that can be a real test. But in the end, those of us who stay get what we want, or at least that for which we have worked.
For many of us, the goal is a teaching license. While this icon slips from its lofty position in the mind once it is attained, it is, nonetheless, a great measure of one's practice. With the menjo(8)comes recognition from teachers, acknowledgment of triumphs and sacrifices, and some modicum of authority and responsibility concerning that for which a student has given so much.
This, though, is where the deeper levels of suffering manifest themselves. While, certainly, successes at the training of others are at least as gratifying as successes involved with the training of the self, the failures are more profound. It is around this topic that I will hover for now.
As teachers, we put our souls into what we impart to our students. While spending a decade or more training ourselves, we practice teaching by correcting our kohai(9).After thousands of hours of being corrected by sensei and sempai(10),and equally passing it down, we come to feel a certain responsibility, not only for waza, but for attendance, for etiquette, and for kokoro(11).As sensei, we want to share these things in all of their depth with our students.
My first profound lesson in this area came not from my sensei, but from his wife. Surabela Fabian, wife of Dr. Stephen Fabian, American Honbucho(12)of Hontai Yoshin Ryu, motioned me to her as I walked across a street at Hanover College, where I had trained for nearly a year with Fabian sensei. It was spring, and I was returning to my dorm after a solo afternoon workout. Mrs. Fabian and I had met only once.
After exchanging greetings, she asked me to listen to her. On this Indiana street corner, on a sunny, chilly day, Mrs. Fabian proceeded to berate me for my lack of attendance at the club and my subsequent lack of respect for her husband.
"He thinks that you could be very good," she told me, sternly, "but you are being very disrespectful to him by not attending classes. Your development as a martial artist is about more than good technique… There are some things you can't learn on your own. You hurt him when it appears you don't care about his classes."
I was horrified. I practiced every day! Sure, I didn't always come to class, but, so what? My technique was better every time I showed up!
Indignant, but stunned beyond words, I probably only missed three practices in the next three years. Mrs. Fabian encouraged me to explore more deeply what her husband had to offer. Out of respect, I did so. It was to become one of my best decisions.
Still, though, I didn't really understand what she had meant. How could I "hurt" Fabian sensei? The thought seemed ludicrous to me on all levels. For years, I turned the concept over in my mind like some of the koan(13)I had been instructed with while at a Japanese zendo(14).It would take me nearly nine years to get it.
The Defense Language Institute in Monterey, CA, offers intensive courses in any of nearly three dozen languages for the training of military linguists. I was there to study Arabic, to serve my country. Also, however, I intended to continue my practice. I found myself without a sensei, facing the prospect of teaching solo for the first time.
In the beginning, there was only one student, Nick. After eight months, however, there were three, then seven, and, at one time, 25. We developed a strong bond and sense of community, the core seven deshi(15)and myself.
Then, one dim afternoon in our shared dojo-space, I came to understand Mrs. Fabian's rebuke. As I sat seiza(16),my hakama(17)and uwagi(18)flowing around me, I looked over the space in which my students would sit, ten minutes hence. Twenty minutes later, I was still alone. And ten minutes after that. Suddenly, I was enlightened concerning those comments years earlier. My practice had come full circle, for the first time since I had begun teaching.
Of course, there were no deep reasons for the absences. Students apologized the next day, each having different excuses. We continued forward. After that, however, I began to feel real disappointment and betrayal when one of my seven would miss. Was this not the most important thing in their lives? Did they not crave what I had to give, the way I had always craved? Did they not know how important teaching was to me?
Sometime later, having once again only three deshi, I am beginning to realize that it is not always the case. Most students run hot and cold, especially in a koryu, particularly if it is their first experience with martial arts. Like me in the beginning, some students don't understand the full scope of what is expected of them. Still, others don't care. With luck, though, these students will awaken… or leave.
So, suffering in practice does not vanish as we move into the role of sensei. Often, our suffering becomes more pronounced as we deal with the indifferent, the egomaniacal, and the uninformed. It is here, once again, that we may use such encounters to grow. If we like preaching shugyo to our students, it is vital that we practice it, ourselves.
I have found the adage to be true, that teachers will learn from their students. It is still painful to be disrespected, to be ignored, and to have what I do marginalized. Unfortunately, I have not yet reached the point where I am without desire or ego. It is when my ego is hurt, though, that I am subsequently able to reflect, to learn, and to grow. Along my path as a teacher, instructing in the ways handed-down to me, I learn as much from my students' transgressions as they do from my tutelage.
Notes
1. Sparring in a tournament or dojo context.
2. This is the point at which the balance of the partner is broken during a technique.
3. "Technique"
4. Traditional Japanese martial systems, generally referred to as "bujutsu." Many are considered to be Japanese national treasures. One of the qualifications for koryu status is a traceable lineage beginning before the Haitorei (weapons ban) of 1876.
5. While, certainly, the bujutsu, per se, were more significantly influenced at their inception by Shinto and Confucian ideas, I merely mean to imply a connection of trial and struggle in the worldviews of Buddhism and koryu, respectively. For the sake of clarity, Buddhism refers to Mahayanan- or Theravadan-style; Zen will be referred as such.
6. A classical warrior-type, a practitioner of koryu bujutsu
7. "Austere Discipline"–It can be physical, mental, spiritual, or any combination thereof
8. Traditional grade certificate or scroll
9. "Juniors"
10. "Seniors"
11. This word may be defined as "heart," but a single English word really does not capture the Japanese meaning. An approximation would be something like what we mean when referring to a successful athlete without the physical gifts of his peers, one who plays with "a lot of heart."
12. Official representative and ranking member of a koryu branch school in a country other than Japan
13. A riddle used to promote enlightenment in some sects of Zen, specifically the Renzai sect
14. The training hall or complex in which one practices seated meditation (zazen) or other Zen activities
15. Although this term may often connote a meaning similar to "disciple," I intend it here to imply a relationship stronger than the garden-variety teacher-student relationship without implying a religious-type devotion or following.
16. Traditional seated posture on the insteps of the feet and the knees.
17. Traditional pleated pants
18. Traditional quilted training jacket
(Please, visit the website of Barnes sensei on http://www.hyrusa.com/ )