nevertheless had no desire to endanger his life. Indeed, Innei realized he’d put himself in the same predicament. The only way he could show Matsu the error of his ways was to risk killing him, hardly a worthy act for a Buddhist abbot. In a quandary, Innei spent the evening in his garden, moving about with the spear. He continued his exercise, even when clouds billowed up in the nighttime sky, crackling with the energy of a coming storm. Lost in thought, Innei stood on the bank of a small pond, watching the reflection of his spear as he swung it over the dark water. That is when inspiration appeared, the story goes, quite literally in a flash of illumination. A finger of lightning streaked across the sky, reflecting off the surface of the pond, and appearing to cross the shaft of Innei’s spear.
The next morning, in one of the Hozoin’s gardens, Innei and Matsu squared off with practice spears. But instead of a straight polearm, Innei’s yari had a curved crossbar of wood fixed tightly to the shaft with cord. A more experienced martial artist would have paused to consider this modification. Changing even a few inches of the length of a weapon could mean a drastic difference in the way it was used. Matsu ignored the results of Innei’s inspiration, though. He rushed at the abbot, his spear clutched in his hand. His face was ablaze with determination to prove himself worthy of the priesthood, or at least to gain some attention. In response, Innei pushed his spear up, catching Matsu at the knees with the crosspiece. Then, with a twist, the abbot flung him into the air. Matsu crashed at the feet of the monks assembled to watch the match. Innei slowly walked over to the fallen boy and stood over him to check for any damage. “You must learn to be patient,” he said. “Rushing into the priesthood will work no better than rushing in against a warrior.” If we are to believe the story, Matsu took the counsel seriously. So much so that he went on to become the second headmaster of the ryu, achieving almost as much fame in his time as Innei had received in his.
Is the tale of the Hozoin spear’s inspiration in the reflection of lightning in a pond true? Or just a legend? It is impossible to tell. But there is no doubt at all that the most renowned school of the spear in old Japan was not founded by great samurai or noble warriors. Its creation is owed to the monks of an otherwise insignificant temple on the southeastern edge of Nara. So lasting was their reputation, in fact, that even today priests of all Buddhist sects all over Japan are sometimes referred to by the title of Osho. It is a title that has nothing to do with their religious calling. Instead, it means, “Honorable Teacher of the Spear.”
Ryomi (Reflection)
“In following the ways of the warrior, see that you yourself are right. Then you may think of defeating others.”
—Innei Kakuzenbo
Kofujita Kangejuzaemon Toshinao was a master swordsman of the feudal age in Japan, one whose entire life was dedicated to his craft. His apprenticeship in fencing began under a teacher of the Chujo ryu. While still a boy, though, Kofujita was accepted into the dojo of Itto Ittosai Kagehisa, the founder of the Itto or “One Sword” style of martial strategy.
The tactics of the Itto ryu called for a daring sense of timing and an absolute confidence in an ability to make a single, expertly executed technique at precisely the right moment. It was an approach to swordsmanship that Kofujita took to with enthusiasm. When his master Ittosai was off on one of his many journeys in search of worthwhile opponents (or dallying with a variety of the mistresses he kept, in search of something perhaps even more worthwhile), Kofujita practiced under the school’s seniormost student, Ono Tadaaki. It was Ono who fired the young Kofujita with a feeling of purpose and duty. Kofujita took seriously Ono’s lectures about filial loyalty and duty. When a local noble cheated Kofujita’s aged father in a business matter, Kofujita, barely in his teens, took up the cause. He confronted eight of the nobleman’s samurai along the street one afternoon. According to legends handed down within the ryu, he killed two of them and wounded three others before the rest hastily retreated.
As he matured, Kofujita became a bit calmer and more circumspect. Yet he never lost his enthusiasm for swordsmanship and for perfecting his technique in the art. He worked tirelessly for years on the basics of the Itto style of fencing. He taught many students of his own and in time came to be recognized as an authority on swordsmanship and as a shihan, literally, a “model for all others.” Not long before Kofujita’s master, Ittosai, retired from teaching, he gave Kofujita permission to open his own school. Ittosai seemed to realize that Kofujita was enough a master in his own right that his contributions allowed him to found an offshoot of the Itto style, which Kofujita christened the Yuishin Itto ryu.
One day Kofujita was out practicing in his garden when a visitor stopped by to see him, an old friend who’d grown up with him and had trained at the Itto dojo. A servant led the friend into the garden where Kofujita was standing alone, barely moving, just lifting the sword in his hands up a few inches and letting it drop, twisting his hips slightly. The friend saw that Kofujita was practicing at using his hips to precede the action of striking. It was the very first lesson an Itto ryu swordsman learned upon entering training. He wondered why a brilliant master like Kofujita was so intently working at this simple exercise. As he drew closer, however, he saw that the master was furiously at it, his whole being centered on the motion. When Kofujita looked up at his old friend, there were tears in his eyes.
“The first technique our master Ittosai taught us,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. “I don’t think it is quite good enough yet, do you?”
Kofujita’s introspection, his incessant willingness to critically observe his progress, reflect upon it, and strive for improvement no matter how long he’d practiced or how perfect his technique is a characteristic of the master budoka. This attitude is called ryomi in Japanese. Ryomi is an intense, ongoing process of self-evaluation for the martial artist or anyone else who hopes to make something worthwhile of his life.
Within the modern budo, “traditionalist” is a label affixed to those who adhere to the ways of the past. You will not find them wearing glitzy training clothes, or indulging their egos at tournaments. They follow the path of the budo because they see it as a journey of self-discovery, one that will only be frustrated by indulging in fads. They believe they are correct in their attitudes, and so they are an obstinate bunch, the sort of people whom the British would refer to admiringly as “hard ones.” I respect these individuals very much, and it is flattering to note that by the correspondence I receive, that some readers even think of me as a traditionalist. It occurs that some might have the impression that traditionalists regard themselves as faultless paragons, noble paladins of the Ways of the warrior. This is an impression rarely challenged by the traditionalist himself who, if he engages in any form of self-criticism at all, invariably does it in secrecy, among his own kind.
The kind of martial artist we refer to as a traditionalist can be forgiven for this deficiency in his character. It is not easy, after all, for traditionalists to analyze their own faults, for a couple of reasons. The most obvious one is that the complexities and depths of the budo forms they follow far exceed the “eclectic” fighting arts that have been created recently. It is tempting to become complacent. Budoka learning under the tutelage of experts can see firsthand the immense power and skill possessed by their teachers. Frankly, many of them simply cannot imagine that anything could possibly be bad about a system that turns out such masters. A second reason why many traditionalists don’t spend much time in the contemplative process of ryomi is that the criticism of their arts is by and large, inutterably ignorant. “What’s all that kata stuff got to do with real fighting?” ponders some self-appointed critic, who might just as well ask an auto mechanic what value a drive shaft plays in making a car go. Under such less than inspired criticism and with no real competition in the physical sense, it’s understandable that the traditionalist might get the idea that he’s a purist, the consummate example, faultless.
He is not. And if a master
