Tag: training

The first law of [kenpō] states that when your opponent charges straight in and attacks, you should use your feet to move your body along a circular path. You should also consider moving your arms in a circular pattern to deflect the oncoming force. When your opponent attacks you in a circular fashion, however, you should respond with a fast linear attack—along a straight line from your weapon to his target. Just as the circle can overcome the line, the line can overcome the circle.

— 10 Kenpo Laws Every Martial Artist Should Know – Black Belt

Thank the gods for the Internet Archive Wayback Machine, else I could not have linked to the source article.

I wasn’t thinking about a murder. I was thinking about killing.

The Japanese martial dojo is a training hall remarkable for its beauty. Clean lines. A lack of clutter. The warmth of wood and the stateliness of ritual. Don’t be fooled. Look closely at us as we move in that space. We watch each other warily, alive to the sudden rush of attack. We’re controlled and focused. But there’s a murderous ferocity running like a deep current in us all. It gets exposed in many small ways.

Most dojo are big spaces. Sound bounces around in them in a jumble of shouts and thuds. But if you have enough experience, you can hear things distinctly. Asa Sensei was a kendo teacher of the old school. When you find a really good group of swordsmen training together, you can hear things in the quality of the noise they make. We were in Asa Sensei’s dojo, and the chant of the swordsmen was fierce, a pulse of sound generated in a circle of swordsmen that rang throughout the cavern of a room. It created an energy that I could feel as I swung my sword and shouted along with them.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see both Asa and Yamashita standing and watching us. Their dark eyes glittered, but beyond that, they could have been carved in stone. My teacher’s shaven head sat on his thick body like an artillery shell. Asa was thinner and had gray hair swept back from a wide forehead. But the way they held themselves—the thick, muscled forearms that were visible beneath the sleeves of their indigo training tops; the dense, rooted silence of both men—made them seem almost identical.

They were watchers, those two. It’s how you must get after a while. They drink in their surroundings until they can feel it on their skin, taste it in their mouths. Until the breath flows in and out in the rhythm of what surrounds them. And then, when ready, they strike.

When you see them as they truly are, these men are frightening. They hold so much back, measuring you, judging you. They dole out knowledge in grudging bits, forcing you to struggle for each morsel. Looking back, you reluctantly admit that maybe it was necessary. But while you eventually come to trust them, it makes you wary.

I struggle with this. Yamashita is my teacher and I had once thought him perfect. I knew better now. He was still my sensei, but the relationship had changed. He looks at me with flat, emotionless eyes. And sometimes, I look back in the same way. I’ve learned a great deal. Not all of it is good.

The first time I stood across from Yamashita, any confidence that a black belt in two different arts had given me vaporized in the blast furnace of his intensity. Yamashita knows what you are up to before the nerve flash of your latest bright idea leaps across a synapse. As far as I can tell, he is without technical flaw. And without remorse. With Yamashita, every time you step onto the training floor, you are being tested. Over the years you accommodate yourself to it, but it’s still a reality that hovers just out of sight, like a prowling animal, both feared and resented.

— Deshi, chapter 2

Stick:

Some lessons can’t be taught, Elektra. They must be lived to be understood.

— “Elektra” (2005)

One part of mental training is anticipation—that is, expecting a situation and acting upon it. This part of training occurs as much—if not more—outside the dojo as inside. For example, take the scenario of a person walking toward you on the street. Train by looking at his hands. Are they swinging normally at his sides, or is one hand hidden, or are both? If the latter, then something may be amiss and you need to be prepared to act. Train by looking at his belt, his wallet pocket (if he lias turned so that you can see it), his wrist with a watch, or the shoulder over which, his workout bag is slung; these can offer clues as to whether the person is right- or left-handed, information that can be useful in self-defense. Then look at his eyes, for they are the windows to the mind. If you feel safe with an approaching person, let your concentration go to the next person, but always keep a comfortable and safe personal distance from people. Above all, such observations serve to keep you mentally alert to the people and things around you.

— Japan’s Ultimate Martial Art, Chapter 1

[Colonel Glover] Johns was a “basics” man and a total soldier. He taught—and insisted that his company commanders teach—things like terrain appreciation, the knowledge of which was a basic tool of a soldier’s trade: to be able to look at a piece of ground and appreciate the slightest differences in the contour; to notice how the ground unfolds and be able to think There’s cover over there—cover, the one essential, providing protection from direct enemy fire; to recognize a stream line, a gully, or a treed area as an avenue of approach through which a unit could move unseen; to understand and identify the best ground from which to launch or repel an attack. Shoot, scoot, and communicate—the “three R’s” of infantry….

— About Face, Chapter 12

Author’s emphasis.

Once upon a time a friend’s psyker Player Character, Toby, decided to take as a student another Player Character, Reiko. Toby did this despite her known erratic personality. Reiko had already manifested some uncontrolled psychic ability. Toby recognized that if he did not teach her, someone else would.

He did not dismiss his concerns about her character’s character. Instead, he emphasized them in a no-nonsense lecture. He made it plain to her that his motivation was as much for the safety of the community as it was for her own. Should Reiko ever intentionally misuse what he teaches her, Toby said to her face, “I will end you.”

This scene predates Star Wars: The Last Jedi with Luke’s aborted killing of his student, Ben Solo. These are the only two instances of I know where a teacher/master is prepared to kill a student going-but-not-yet-gone rogue. The literary trope is a younger student sent against a rogue ex-student of the same master(s), e.g., Enter the Dragon.

In a milieu where great magical and/or psychic powers exist, this vigilance and grim contingency needs to be standard procedure for every teacher of them.

Bruce Lee and I were having dim sum, a traditional Chinese breakfast of meat-filled pastries, in a downtown Los Angeles restaurant after a lesson. I seized on this opportunity to tell him that I was discouraged. At forty-five, I felt I was too old and my body too stiff to achieve any real ability in jeet-kune-do.

“You will never learn anything new unless you are ready to accept yourself with your limitations,” Bruce answered. “You must accept the fact that you are capable, in some directions and limited in others, and you must develop your capabilities.”

“But ten years ago I could easily kick over my head,” I said. “Now I need half an hour to limber up before I can do it.”

Bruce set his chopsticks down alongside his plate, clasped his hands lightly on his lap, and smiled at me. “That was ten years ago,” he said gently. “So you are older today and your body has changed. Everyone has physical limitations to overcome.”

“That’s all very well for you to say,” I replied. “If ever a man was born with natural ability as a martial artist, it is you.”

Bruce laughed. “I’m going to tell you something very few people know. I became a martial artist in spite of my limitations.”

I was shocked. In my view, Bruce was a perfect physical specimen and I said so.

“You probably are not aware of it,” he said, “but my right leg is almost one inch shorter than the left. That fact dictated the best stance for me—my left foot leading. Then I found that because the right leg was shorter, I had an advantage with certain types of kicks, since the uneven stomp gave me greater impetus.

“And I wear contact lenses. Since childhood I have been near-sighted, which meant that when I wasn’t wearing glasses, I had difficulty seeing an opponent when he wasn’t up close. I originally started to study wing-chun because it is an ideal technique for close-in fighting.

“I accepted my limitations for what they were and capitalized on them. And that’s what you must learn to do. You say you are unable to kick over your head without a long warm-up, but the real question is, is it really necessary to kick that high? The fact is that until recently, martial artists rarely kicked above knee height. Head-high kicks are mostly for show. So perfect your kicks at waist level and they will be so formidable you’ll never need to kick higher.

“Instead of trying to do everything well, do those things perfectly of which you are capable. Although most expert martial artists have spent years mastering hundreds of techniques and movements, in a bout, or kumite, a champion may actually use only four or five techniques over and over again. These are the techniques which he has perfected and which he knows he can depend on.“

I protested. “But the fact still remains that my real competition is the advancing years.”

“Stop comparing yourself at forty-five with the man you were at twenty or thirty,” Bruce answered. “The past is an illusion. You must learn to live in the present and accept yourself for what you are now. What you lack in flexibility and agility you must make up with knowledge and constant practice.”

For the next few months, instead of spending time trying to get limber enough to kick over my head, I worked on my waist-high kicks until they satisfied even Bruce.

Then one day late in 1965, he came by my house to say goodbye before leaving for Hong Kong where, he said, he intended to become the biggest star in films. “You remember our talk about limitations?” he asked. “Well, I’m limited by my size and difficulty in English and the fact that I’m Chinese, and there never has been a big Chinese star in American films. But I have spent the last three years studying movies, and I think the time is ripe for a good martial arts film—and I am the best qualified to star in it. My capabilities exceed my limitations.“

Bruce’s capabilities did in fact exceed his limitations and, until his youthful death, he was one of the biggest stars in films. His career was a perfect illustration of his teaching: As we discover and improve our strong points, they come to outweigh our weaknesses.

— Zen in the Martial Arts, Chapter6

Author’s emphases are in italics. Mine are in bold.

He found Master Ibrahim by the prickling of his nape, by the shifting of a shadow, by a whisper in the air. The magus sat in a room gone dim with evening, lamplit and quiet. He wore his wonted black, but he had laid aside his turban. A cap covered his shaven skull; a jewel glowed in his ear, a moonstone waxing with its mistress the moon.

Gerbert bowed as had become his custom, and sat at the mage’s feet. He had learned not to speak until Ibrahim gave him leave. He was allowed to fidget, judiciously.

Tonight he was not moved to. His head was full to bursting with names; he was tired. He did not know if, after all, he wanted to see magic. Had he not seen it already, just in coming here?

Effects only, Hatto would have said. Of causes he had seen nothing.

What use, if he could not do it himself?

He swallowed a yawn. Ibrahim seemed lost in contemplation. The lamp flickered. It globed them both in light; it made all the world without, a featureless darkness.

Gerbert did not know why he moved. He wanted to, that was all. He reached, and the light was in his hands. It was cool, like fishes’ breath. It rested pulsing in his palms. There was something that one could do with it, could will, could wish…

It quivered and went out.

Ibrahim’s voice came soft in the darkness. “Bring it back.”

“But I don’t—” Gerbert broke off, began again. “I don’t know how.”

I can name every one of the Jinn, he wanted to say. I can recite the rolls of all the orders of angels. You never taught me to make a light that sleeps in my hands.

He did not say it. “You know how,” said Ibrahim.

How? With names? None of them seemed to fit, except for Lucifer, and Gerbert was not minded to invoke that one. Not quite yet.

With will? He strained until the sweat broke out on his brow. He willed until his ears buzzed and his eyes went dark. Nothing.

With words? Which ones? They ran through his head, all tangled, all useless.

He slumped, exhausted, growing angry. This was all nonsense, all of it. “Fiat,” he said, “damn it. Fiat lux.“

Inside him, something shifted. Something swelled; something bloomed. He stared dumbfounded at his fingertips. To every one clung a spark of light.

The moment he thought about them, they flickered. He pulled his mind away from them, and they flared up. They coalesced; they settled, round and cool and blinding-bright, in his trembling palm.

Master Ibrahim’s smile gleamed out of the night. Gerbert blinked at him, half dazzled, half bewildered. “Was that an incantation?”

Ibrahim laughed. “Hardly! And yet it served its purpose. Now do you see?”

“I see…” Gerbert found that he could close his fingers about the light, and it would shrink; then it would swell again, if he not quite willed it to. It was delicately improbable, like walking a tightrope with an egg balanced on one’s nose. “But if this is what it is, what are all the rites and rituals?“

“Guides,” the magus answered. “Protections. Defenses against the ignorant.“

Gerbert’s head had begun to ache. The light pulsed. It wanted to float free. He did not want to know what it would do if it escaped. He willed it to go out.

It only swelled larger.

His brows knit. “Words and will are simple. This is hard.”

“It is,” said Ibrahim.

Gerbert glared at the magic he had made. It had grown again. The ache in his head was fiercer. He had lost the way of it; he could not do it.

Half out of temper, half out of despair, he willed it to grow larger still. It quivered and sighed and dwindled to nothing.

Somehow Gerbert had lain down on the carpet. Perhaps he had fallen over. He was not interested, much. “I know children like that,” he said. “Contrary.“

“It is a child,” said Ibrahim, “but it will grow.” He seemed pleased; God knew why. He cradled Gerbert’s head with serene and physicianly competence, and poured into him something cool and bitter-sweet.

Gerbert was too far gone to be wary. He merely blinked at the magus and tried to decide whether he liked the taste. He thought that perhaps he did.

“Here is the secret,” Ibrahim said, “and the price. Magic is not wrought without consequence. The greater the working, the greater the cost.”

“This was great?”

“For you, yes. Were letters easy, when first you learned them?”

“Arabic isn’t,” Gerbert muttered.

“Surely,” said Ibrahim. “Now, sleep, and be content. You have power; you have it in you to master it. I shall take joy in teaching you.”

You haven’t till now? Gerbert would have asked. But his body was far away, and sleep was near, and sweet. He fell into its arms.

— Ars Magica, Chapter 4

Author’s emphases in italic. Mine are in bold.

But too much thought is a danger. The masters say that it makes the mind “stick”; it creates gaps in your defense. There is a time for thought and reflection, and the practiced feel of a wooden weapon in my hand let me know that this was not the time or the place.

— Tengu, Chapter 15

Marangan led us out of the office and down the hall. Double doors were propped open to reveal a large, high-ceilinged place. There was a faded sign over the entrance that announced the Kapatiran Marangan Kali. I didn’t understand Tagalog, but I knew a training hall when I saw one.

These places are all different and all the same. Spaces empty of embellishment or ornamentation stripped down and filled with the smell of sweat and the lingering psychic charge of effort and adrenalin. A Japanese training hall may be matted or have a hardwood floor. There may be some weapon racks hugging a wall and a small Shinto shrine tucked into a corner. But those are the sorts of details only a novice focuses on. The real essence of these places is something more subtle.

Marangan’s training hall had a dingy floor and smudged gray walls. Wiry young men in black T-shirts and sneakers worked alone or together, some with rattan sticks, others using their hands and feet. The wooden floor thudded with their movements and the sticks filled the hall with clatter. If you listened, you could pick up the grunt of effort, the hiss of breath, the emotional give and take of attack and defense. It didn’t have the understated geometric precision of a Japanese dojo. But I knew this place….

— Tengu, Chapter 15

Emphasis mine.

“…Yamashita Sensei is a master of the sword and other arts,” [Ueda] began. But Marangan jumped in. If he were a cobra, his hood would have swelled out in excitement. “And you are his student,” he told me with a slight air of satisfaction. “Come to rescue your master.” He smiled then, and you saw that his teeth were crooked and stained and long like his face. “I honor you for the effort.” Marangan stood up. It was a smooth motion, like a spring uncoiling. “Perhaps you would be interested in my art as well.”

“We gotta waste time with this?” Micky hissed in my ear as we followed Marangan.

“Yeah,” I told him. “Shuddup.” I knew Marangan. I’ve spent most of my adult life with people like him. When he had described himself as a mandirigma—a warrior—it sounded a bit over the top. But people like him lose themselves in a world of their own making. It doesn’t matter whether the art deals with fists or feet or sticks or blades. The pursuit of the art takes hold of you if you do it long enough. It becomes in many ways a reality bigger than reality itself. Everything is judged in terms of it. Including people. Marangan would need to know how I fit in his world. It would tell him how far he could push me and how far I would push him back….

— Tengu, Chapter 15

Author’s emphases in italic. Mine are in bold.

Master Lo:

You have learned only half of what I teach, Jeff. You’re strong. You’re quick. But you’re only a tiger, not a dragon.

The tiger does not think, therefore it cannot act. It can only react, respond. The tiger is strong and fearless, but it cannot initiate action. That is the difference between man and tiger.

Jeff:

Tiger is what I know.

Master Lo:

The dragon is also very strong, but full of wisdom. The dragon fears what its strength can do….

The dragon always has a choice; the tiger, never. I have shown you the dragon, but you have not seen it….

— “The Perfect Weapon” (1991)

Dojo is a word most martial arts students are familiar with, though many students erroneously associate it with the word school, as in high school or college. The dojo, however, is a place where only martial arts are taught and. strictly translated, it implies the instruction of only the “true Japanese martial arts” of Ken-Jutsu. Ju-Jutsu. and Kyu-Jutsu. It is more than a gymnasium or club; it is a cherished place of learning and brotherhood.

The Japanese use a broad interpretation of the word. To them, dojo is symbolic of the methodical, ideological, philosophical, and, most importantly, the spiritual aspects of the martial arts. Jujitsu involves more than physical techniques: it involves the molding of one’s character, the training of one’s mind, and—last, but not least—the developing of one’s body. The dojo’s foundation is based on the idea of virtue. Keep in mind that students of martial arts today are, in effect, the descendants of the samurai of yesteryear. Today’s students should work toward the propagation of the spirit of the Zen warrior, a spirit that encompasses more than an expert knowledge of lethal fighting techniques. It represents the attainment of a virtuous way of life where the main theme is the code of Bushido—The Way of the Warrior.

— Japan’s Ultimate Martial Art, Chapter 1

[The protagonist is a trained swordsman staying in a city far from home. His sensei arranges for him to train at a local dojo. This is his first time there. As a “new student”, he is given a white belt to wear.]

…When the class was called to order, I made sure I sat at the end with the beginners. Everything in a traditional Japanese training hall is related to issues of rank: it conditions whom you bow to and how, the roles of people in paired exercises, and how you’re supposed to behave in general. Even the room is divided into spheres of higher and lower status. Higher ranks line up closest to the place of honor where the scroll hung. As sensei, Hasegawa would sit at that end. The line would stretch away from him, across the room, and as individual rank decreased, so your place in the line grew farther and farther away from the teacher.

I sat near the door, with the kids….

…The Hasegawa school was rooted in the traditions of judo and aikido. The advanced students worked with wooden swords and the short staff known as a jo. They handed me one of the staffs, which were made from white oak.

We moved through some basics, practicing movement and strikes in isolation. Then we progressed to paired techniques….

“Kata,” [the sensei] called. Kata are the formal practice routines of the old arts, choreographed actions developed from traditions where the slightest error with a weapon could maim your opponent. Some martial artists disdain kata. When done right, true kata practice can make the sweat stream off you and your hair stand on end.

In the paired exercises focusing on jo, the attacker uses a wooden sword and the defender wields a jo. There are twelve kata for jo, and they grow subtly more complex as you progress through them. As a junior ranked person in this school, I got to defend with the jo. I was looking about for a partner, when [Hasegawa sensei] slipped into place in front of me carrying a wooden sword. He grinned slightly as we bowed.

But when we came together, he was all business—focused, smooth, and lethal. We started with the kata called tsukizue. Hasegawa was holding back a bit, getting a feel for my skill level. As we advanced through each form, his movements grew crisper, harder, and faster. His eyes tightened in concentration as my response kept pace with the increasing intensity of his actions.

By the time we had finished the final kata called Ranai, we were both sweaty. We brought our weapons down and bowed formally to each other. The smile was back on his face. I glanced around me and noticed that the rest of the class had sat down to watch. Thinking back, I remember the fleeting impression that most other activity had stopped some time ago.

“Thank you, Sensei,” I said. “That was the sort of thing I needed.”

“My pleasure, Dr. Burke,” he said, and sounded like he meant it. He called the class to order and we began to line up for the formal bow that would end the session. I started to move down to the end of the line, but Hasegawa laid a gentle hand upon my arm.

“Oh, no.” He gestured beside him in the special spot reserved for teachers. “You sit beside me here….”

— Kage, Chapter 6

“The first phase of a duel is the psychic dominance contest. A duel is often lost before the first physical pass at arms. I have seen a duelist back down and concede defeat, having recognized his opponent’s superiority; it saved his life, in fact.”

“My sorcery is a martial art. Psychically dominating all opponents is a core skill. The training to improve this skill is adversarial. Two sorcerers will intentionally prolong the dominance phase of a duel, pushing the limits of both mental strength and endurance.”

“A disciplined will is the hallmark of someone with significant martial, magical, psychic, or even spiritual training.”

“The exertion of will in this way has a drawing-in effect. Done with sufficient intensity, the local environs can experience a temperature drop and even frost.”

“A sorcerer will also channel power into his body. The most common effect is augmented strength. This energy flows mainly down the arms and out through the hands. This release manifests as heat; You have seen the burned-in handprints on my bokken’s hilt.”

— Xenograg

Training as a Jedi is often a series of brief bouts of working apprenticeship. Everything your master can tell you, she can tell you in a few days. What she can show you, she can show you in weeks. It’s only when you have to put the lessons into context in a real situation that you truly start to learn. A new apprentice Jedi often spends the longest with the first teacher, learning and adventuring until he or she can feel the call of the Force without aid. The mentor then suggests some other Jedi that the student might seek out that can impart different lessons, and new understanding of the Force. On the way to the next master, the student suffers through a series of interesting events, better putting training to practice. And new teachers demand their own quests before imparting their wisdom. Life as a Jedi is the life of a questing knight, forever in motion. A Jedi does not crave adventure, knowing that adventure will find her, regardless.

— Alternate Clone Wars, Part 3 – System sans Setting

This comes from a series of posts where the blogger reimagines the Star Wars universe based upon the premise “nothing is canon except the original three movies.” I like this premise, and the entire series it inspired.

King of Qin:

[has a revelation from pondering a caligraphic scroll bearing a character for “sword”]

Broken Sword’s scroll contains no secrets of swordsmanship! What it reveals is his highest ideal:

In the first stage, man and sword become interchangeable. Here, even a blade of grass can be used as a lethal weapon.

In the next stage, the sword resides not in the hand, but in the heart. Even without a weapon, the warrior can slay his enemy from a hundred paces.

But the ultimate ideal is when the sword disappears altogether. The warrior embraces all around him. The desire to kill is gone. Only peace remains!

— “Hero” (2002)

When Dardalion joined him Waylander blinked in mock disbelief. A white horse-hair plumed helmet was buckled at the chin, and the leather-trimmed cloak lay over a shimmering breastplate embossed with a flying eagle. A leather kilt, studded with silver, protected Dardalion’s thighs, while silver greaves were buckled to his calves. By his side hung a cavalry sabre, and on his left hip a long, curved knife sat in a jewelled scabbard.

“You look ridiculous,” said Waylander.

“Most probably. But will it serve?”

“It will serve to draw the Vagrians to you like flies to a cowpat.”

“I do feel rather foolish.”

“Then take it off and find yourself something less garish.”

“No. I can’t explain why, but this is right.”

“Then keep away from me, priest. I want to stay alive!”

“Will you not get yourself some armour?”

“I have my mail shirt. I don’t intend to stand in one place long enough to be cut.”

“I would appreciate some advice on swordsmanship,” said Dardalion.

“Gods of Mercy!” snapped Waylander. “It takes years to learn and you have an hour, maybe two. There’s nothing I can teach you—just remember throat and groin. Protect your own, slice theirs!”

— Waylander, Chapter 7

Syrio Forel:

Do you pray to the gods?

Arya Stark:

The old and the new.

Syrio Forel:

There is only one god…and his name is Death. And there is only one thing we say to Death:

“Not today.”

— “A Golden Crown” – Game of Thrones, Season 1 (2011)

Timo Cruz:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.

Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you.

We were all meant to shine as children do. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsiously give other people permission to do the same.

As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

— “Coach Carter” (2005)