to the self-criticism of ryomi, then today’s budoka could survive and maybe even benefit from a little of the same.
The overall problem faced by the traditionalist is that while his world is filled with excellence, it is far too small. Often its dimensions extend only to the walls of his dojo. There his exposure is limited to others who train in his particular art, taught by only a few select teachers. This makes for a highly accomplished karateka or judoka or whatever. But it can also foster an individual of rather narrow views. The karate student needn’t try to widen his world by collecting the sprains and bruises of kendo; the judoka doesn’t have to accustom himself to the different sort of throws encountered in aikido. But there is nothing inherently sinful in karateka, judoka, kendoka, and aikidoka spending time at one another’s dojo, observing the training, asking questions, and getting to know traditionalists of the other arts. If they do, they will not be breaking tradition. They will be following an old and valuable custom in the budo.
None of the Japanese budo developed in a vacuum. Judo’s founder, Jigoro Kano, sent some of his best students to the dojo of karate master Gichin Funakoshi so they could learn his newly imported karate. Kano later introduced some of karate’s striking techniques into the kata of judo. The legendary Okinawan karate expert Yabu Kentsu studied judo continuously during his years of service in the Japanese army, and when he returned to Okinawa he often amazed his students with his ability to incorporate throws during training in the karate dojo.
Today this kind of interchange is sadly lacking. When I visit a typical budo dojo, I am often reminded of the spirit of provincialism that now seems to dominate the thinking in these Ways. Now, no one expects an aikidoka to be able to punch like a skilled karate exponent. Even so, I have seen aikido students who couldn’t even make a proper fist. Likewise, it’s common to see karateka go down against a footsweep, yet how often can they control and protect themselves with proper ukemi (falling methods)? If the karateka can show an aikidoka the correct way to make a fist, if the judoka is willing to teach the karateman to fall without injury, everyone benefits. In the course of such exchanges, a great deal of understanding about one’s own Way can be gained.
In the traditionalist’s small world, his sensei achieves a status difficult for the outsider to comprehend. In daily training the traditional budoka is pressed to do things that go against his every instinct: standing compliantly while an opponent practices control by blasting punches just brushing his nose, allowing himself to be thrown flying, continuing on long after his body has told him to stop. These are accomplished only by trusting his sensei implicitly. In return, the student is molded into a budoka, given a life beyond the neuroses and psychological limitations that hobble much of the rest of the modern world.
The serious budoka never for a second forgets the debt he owes for this. He treats his teacher with endless respect, loves him, and considers his advice priceless and undebatable. This is exactly how it has always been and how it should be. If one of my own sensei told me that I could only improve my technique by practicing underwater, you can believe I’d start looking for a sale on aqualungs. But if my sensei told me to invest all my savings in the nuclear-powered lawn mower industry, you can also rest assured that I would consult with stockbrokers and other financial analysts before I sunk my money into such a venture. Unfortunately, too many traditionalists fail to make this distinction. They prefer to perceive their teacher as a father figure, infallible in every situation and with absolute answers to everything from how to dress to whom one should marry.
The sensei, most of them Japanese, cannot be blamed for this. From the moment they landed here to introduce the martial arts to the West, they have been treated like royalty. They were never questioned when appointing themselves head of each major budo organization, and since their students showed little inclination to do things on their own, the Japanese masters were quick to establish themselves as administrators, governing every facet of these organizations. One Caucasian karateman recalls how the national meetings of a prominent karate group were held back in the sixties. “We’d have an open table discussion with a lot of good, contrasting ideas presented by knowledgeable members, and we’d vote. It was all very democratic. Sensei would listen to it all, then he’d tell us what was going to be done.”
By analogy, imagine what would happen if a prima donna ballet dancer were to appear at a meeting of the board of directors of a dance company, telling them how the company’s funds were to be allocated, how they should conduct business, and so on. The prima donna might be a peerless dancer. Her performing and instructing are wonderful assets for the dance company. Yet no one assumes that she is automatically also a brilliant administrator. The same holds true for the martial arts masters. They are unbelievably, awesomely skilled; in terms of the budo they are a priceless source of information. We here in the West are most fortunate to have them teaching us. But to have them running national budo organizations where thousands of members and millions of dollars are involved, especially when some of those members are experts in financial and business management and have their skills go unused, is a waste. It allows for decisions to be made on the basis of old college rivalries back in Japan, on philosophical evaluations that do not enter into business interests, and on a whole system of management that’s more like that of a feudal ryu than a modern organization supposedly bent on improving and spreading a budo. Western martial artists should strive always to show respect for their sensei. They should see to it that the sensei is paid well, in accordance with his high position and profession. And they should have no qualms whatsoever about assuming control of their organizations in an equally professional way. In addition to being a big step in the maturation of the senior American budoka, this is quite probably the only course by which the martial Ways can survive and grow on a widespread basis in the West.
Traditionalists do not need me to point out these specific problems, nor should they be upset at having them made public. Because they have been taught so well, they can seek out their own weaknesses. Since their art is strong, they need not fear having their shortcomings brought out for others to see. In fact, they should welcome the opportunity to reflect in the honored traditions of ryomi, just as masters like Kofujita Kangejuzaemon of the Yuishin Itto ryu did. Ryomi is a process as grueling as any physical training, and one just as important in the education of the traditional budoka.
A Puppy Dog’ s Bark
The date: around 1630 probably. The place: a little nomiya, a rustic shack of a restaurant that served travelers in that rural corner of central Japan. The afternoon’s business: slow. Heat oozed in from off the dusty highway outside. The greasy noren (a split length of cloth serving as an informal doorway) was unruffled by even the faintest breeze. Inside, except for the flies droning, the only customers were a pair of itinerant barbers and a swordsman. The latter sat near the window, watching the empty highway with a sleepy sort of disinterest and sucking noisy mouthfuls of cold noodles from a cheap bowl. Because he smelled and looked more than a little in need of a bath and scratched most distastefully with the blunt ends of his chopsticks at the scruffy patch of eczema on his forehead, the barbers did their best to ignore him.
Presently, the noren parted. Three young ronin ambled in, dusty and blinking in the darkness of the nomiya, their eyes still accustomed to the bright sun outside. They gave their orders in curt, tired voices to the proprietor who in turn snapped irritably at his assistant. Only after they had slumped wearily onto the floor matting and been served tea did they notice the swordsman by the window. Perhaps it was because they were shamed by the quality of the swords they carried. Ronin were men of samurai rank who, for one reason or another, were not in the service of a lord. They tended to be an uncouth lot. Looking at the fine weapon of the other diner, perhaps they felt a need to display their toughness. Probably, however, the young ronin were just hot and tired and ill-tempered, and the odd-looking swordsman was an easy target for their teasing.
One of the ronin began slurping his tea loudly, mocking the swordsman, who continued to slurp his noodles. The others laughed,
