stands alone, utterly absorbed, seeking a way to overcome the limitations of shikaku. Think of it. No matter how he stands or holds the sword—even to the extent of taking one for each hand—he must still contend with the dead zone. He must still acknowledge that, as a human, like all humans, he can never be completely invulnerable. From a purely technical point of view, from the perspective of combat strategy, this must have been a psychological monkey clinging to the back of every professional warrior like Musashi. Whatever kamae (combative posture or attitude) they assumed, there was always the shikaku. There was a weakness to every stance, to every position of holding the sword.
Moreover, Musashi was not merely another swordsman. He was as well an artist, a philosopher. And so I wonder if Musashi was contemplating, in this stern-eyed portrait, not just the shikaku he faced in combat but the vulnerabilities he faced in life. Was he considering the unexpected angle of attack of an enemy’s sword? Or the surprise assaults to which all of us are susceptible: illness, heartbreak, loneliness, death? “How would you respond to this attack?” one of my sensei asked me when he was teaching me one morning, and he grabbed my wrist. I performed a pivot and locked his wrist, using the grip against him. “And this one?” He punched and I countered, punching back, turning his strike aside with my blow and stopping my fist on the spot just to the side of his chin where it would cause the most nerve damage if it connected. He paused and looked at me. “And how about this attack?” he asked. “How about if you have a child someday,” he said, “and the doctors tell you he has an incurable case of childhood cancer. How would you handle that attack?”
I wonder if, in devoting most of his life to overcoming the limitations of shikaku in the art of the sword, Musashi had not entered into a struggle as well on a different plane. I wonder if his training in the martial arts eventually led to a deeper understanding of the shikaku of life. The possibility that it might, in my opinion, is reason enough to head off for the dojo for still another training session.
Counting to a Thousand
This was the question: “Is there anything more irritating than a person who has dabbled a year or so in this art, a year or two in another and who then thinks himself an all-around competent martial artist?” It was posed conversationally by one of my seniors at the dojo, to another budoka, also far my senior.
“Yes,” the second replied, “there is. It is the fellow who has trained several years in one art, who then thinks of himself as an all-around competent martial artist.”
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