Training 2024: Learnings

 

Utagawa Hiroshige, Autumn Moon at Ishiyama, 1834 (Source)

For my trip to Japan in 2024, we have discussed location and facilities, meals, vending machines, and other places I had seen (here and here).  What we have yet to discuss is what I actually learned.

It is not as ethereal a subject as it might sound like.  We are required to write a paper every time we train with our headmaster stating what we learned during our time with him.  My understanding is that somewhere out on the InterWeb, all of these papers exist (no idea where, of course).  My Sensei has always been kind enough to share his drafts with me; what I suspect is that everyone takes away both general things and things specific to their situation.

More relevant to this discussion, of course, is what did I learn?

Learnings for these events fall into two parts.  The first is that of technique, corrections received that are general to the waza being practiced and applicable to all or specific to the individual and their practice of it.  Mine for this category were not, for the most part, surprising to me:  Posture.  Grip.  Height (e.g., I need to be lower).  Straight(er) back (something I have been battling for 15 years).  Cutting angles (hasuji).  Area and direction of my gaze (metsuke).    To correct these is practice, feedback, more practice.

The second part - what did I take away as an individual - is always the more interesting and revealing part.  These have differed from year to year, based largely on where I was in my life at the time.

It all started with stiffness.

One of the corrections I received multiple times this training was that I was too stiff.  My grip on the sword handle (tsuba) was compared to a "death grip"; my completion of any technique was noted as being rigid not just in my grip, but in my whole body.   I was strong - very much so - but with flexibility, I would never truly perform the technique.

"A living hand is pliable; a dead hand is fixed" wrote Miyamoto Musashi, the 17th Century swordsman who knew a thing or two about swordsmanship.  It was not a minor thing.  

The encouragement, therefore, was to relax.

Relaxing in swordsmanship is something that seems to be at odds with the practice itself, at least in my mind - but then, as I considered it, in point of fact it was true of almost all aspects of my life: I am tense.  I tense up.   This is true in social situations for sure, but really it is true of any situation in which I have to make a decision or sometimes even just the thought of doing anything.  I become paralyzed and I become stiff.

Enter a hot bath and fluorescent lighting.

One evening in the ofuro, the beloved hot soaking tub that is a staple of Japanese onsen and even our humble training center, I sat looking at the reflection of the fluorescent lights above the tub in the water.  The water was stirred up due to the activity of people getting in and out.  The fluorescent lights above the tub chipped and shattered into a million light shards in the pool, lighted waves rippling back and forth in endless motion.

It was only when everything stopped - when no-one had entered or exited the pool, or when we just sat there - that the fluorescent lights reflected clearly in the pool.

The moon and water is a common motif in Japanese art, a staple of poetry and paintings and woodblocks.  Even in our sword art, there is a technique that is literally translated as "Water Moon Sword", the imagery of the two swords reflecting each other like the moon and water.  

Suddenly - in what I would not name "Satori" (enlightenment) but enlightening - I saw clearly that only when one is at peace and relaxed can one truly see and reflect what is around one.  Any stress, any disturbance, and the image is lost in a jumble of moving waves and fractured light.  And so if I wanted to improve my technique - to become less stiff and rigid - I needed to practice being at peace and relaxing, even in the midst of practicing forms.  It also helps in that only when one is at peace and still that one can see those subtle visual and mental cues that in the life a swordsman determined when to draw and in the life of ordinary people when an action was required.

The lesson, at least as I understood it, became even more critical upon my return and indeed during the past week:  being stirred up and anxious prevents me from seeing things for what the really are.  If I can bring my intensity down, manage my internally generated stress, I become free to act in ways that are actually beneficial.

I cannot say I am implementing this well; like anything it is a learned activity that has 50 plus years of habit and training going against it.  But I have at least been able to make myself conscious that such a thing is happening, and if I can realize its occurrence, I can take measures against it.

The moon will always be there to reflect in the water; likewise, every day is an opportunity to learn afresh that only through stillness and calm can relax enough to see things clearly.