John Maki Evans

by Kurikara: The Sword;the Serpent

  Over the next three years I progressed slowly through the lower levels of Fushi Sensei’s kenjutsu (swordsmanship) syllabus. This consisted of groups of techniques arranged according to the Godai, the Five Great Elements that form the foundation of Mikkyo teachings. The Earth techniques took me one year to master, and the Water techniques a further year. Here my progress faltered. As my frustration grew, Fushi Sensei said that until I was able to enter the Fire level, Mikkyo training would give me nothing. Since my enthusiasm for the sword was nevertheless undiminished, he encouraged me to broaden my studies and test myself at some of the prestigious sword schools in Tokyo. He introduced me to teachers he had studied with in the past, and as the training in the city dojos was considerably less demanding than what I was used to, I made rapid progress. Despite this, I was no closer to achieving the qualities of movement and energy required for the Fire techniques.

  One of the swordsmen he repeatedly referred to was Nakamura Taisaburo, famous for his mastery of tameshigiri (test cutting) and a practitioner of military swordsmanship. Photographs of his stout form in an army training uniform and his severe features grew increasingly familiar over the months. My reluctance to train with this man was a source of some amusement to Fushi Sensei. Both the military connections and the crude appeal of test cutting seemed completely at odds with my aspirations to “spiritual” swordsmanship. Eventually frustration at my lack of progress drove me to agree to at least meet this man.

  The immediate generosity and great warmth of Nakamura Sensei on this first meeting, so contrary to my expectations, was completely disarming. On the other hand, the informality of the dojo (in a school sports hall next to a badminton club) was unimpressive compared to the elite koryu (ancient school) dojos and the mountain settings I was used to. In addition, the simplicity of the kata (forms) his students performed seemed weak and banal after the complex and refined kata I had begun to learn. It was several weeks later that I first saw Nakamura Sensei (now in his seventies) draw his sword. He made a few simple moves, and I was enthralled. His sword moved with a combination of grace and precision I found difficult to comprehend, yet I sensed this power flowed from the same source as his generous enthusiasm. Though at some level I recognized the key to the gate of fire was here, my attachment to other schools was to delay me grasping it for ten more years. Slowly over that decade I grew to appreciate the subtle skills and fierce power of his best students. I also discovered I was able to access a power inside myself in his presence that I could not explain and which deserted me when I was anywhere else. Learning to access this power for myself would take a further decade, numerous errors, and the help of another teacher.

  Figure 2. Kenkon, the spirit of the sword; calligraphy by Nakamura Taisaburo.

  This book is the outcome of forty years of training and consideration. Chapters 1 to 7 set out the principles and components of training required to produce a complete swordsman. The same principles lie behind all schools and all arts. The last chapter indicates how this achievement leads to the threshold of inner cultivation—if one has the necessary desire and commitment. Failure to fully grasp in one’s body what is described in the first part of the book will render any efforts in the subtle realms worse than useless.

  This is not a manual. Living principles cannot be learned from manuals or videos but only from a teacher. They cannot be bought, and you may have to make great efforts to find (and merit) an appropriate teacher. If and when you do, pay utmost attention to the transmission that comes through them. As I hope the preceding account of my early training indicates, theoretical knowledge is a dangerous commodity and easily abused. Guard against familiarity, for it truly breeds contempt. Talking about something does not indicate practical understanding. Though you may grasp a truth at one level, a further year of application will show the shallowness of the first insight. Even when efforts are rewarded, results are open to all kinds of misuse and misinterpretation. Something may appear to you in one way and yet eventually prove to be the very opposite of what you first conceived. To reduce such pitfalls, bear in mind the following injunctions from Miyamoto Musashi:

  Discern the advantages and disadvantages of all things.

  Discover through yourself those things that cannot be seen

  Take care even with small matters

  Do not do useless things.2

  Even though the goal is desirelessness, if you do not find a genuine love for this art, leave it well alone.

  1. As did the Ninja schools and many bushi (samurai). Fudo Myo O, the Kurikara dragon, and bonji are among the most common engravings on swords. (See figure 1.) This has contributed to the growing realization among scholars that Mikkyo was at least as important as Zen Buddhism to the elite warrior class.

  2. From Gorin no Sho or The Book of Five Rings; translation by the author.

  Kihon—Basics

  1

  Eight in five and two in one;

  a million steps

  to the dragon’s lair.

  ki: foundation, fundamental

  hon: real, main, true, present

  Kihon are the essential techniques that constitute the foundation of any Japanese martial art. Kihon are practiced as a part of kata (set sequences) but should also be practiced independently. The practice of kihon is essential to training at all levels, and kihon are fundamental to the mastery of all movements of greater complexity. The ability to practice kihon repeatedly with diligence, enthusiasm, and a spirit of enquiry is the best indication of a student’s potential.

  Repetition

  By necessity the study of kihon consists of repetition. This is stressed in maxims like “ten thousand hours achieve the goal” or “a hundred thousand swings bring mastery.” Yet other factors must be taken into account if repetition is to bring success. Without proper guidance, the outcome of lengthy repetition is often chronic injury, and maturity in the art is never attained. Unfortunately it is those with the most enthusiasm and commitment who are likely to suffer this fate.

  Beginner’s Mind

  Repetition should not be mechanical. Counting repetitions may help in getting through a set of exercises, but it dulls the mind. In traditional Japanese arts, the student is often asked to perform basic actions with “beginner’s mind.” This is sometimes misrepresented as simply emptying the mind or “doing” without thinking. When one does something for the first time, the experience is fresh and vivid. This freshness must be rediscovered over and over again in kihon by maintaining a clear and open mind. Clearing the mind is undertaken so that one can see more of the field of action, not lie down and fall asleep in it. Mistaken notions of the void result in vacancy of intent and dangerous inattention. As soon as one is competent, training should be undertaken with a real blade to reduce such tendencies. The true void is a state of absolute awareness and intense creativity.

  The mind must be fully engaged in and responsive to the training. If one trains with this attitude, the mind grows broader and comprehends more and more dimensions to the activity. As the movement grows fuller and more integrated, stresses are reduced and injury avoided. It is not a case of trying to be “creative” with each repetition. The desire to find something novel in order to overcome boredom is a poisonous distraction. Pandering to this part of the mind cuts one off from the roots of reality. One should dive deeper into one’s resources, closely observe, and respond intuitively. In this way innate knowledge will reveal itself by stages.

  Refinement

  In neurological terms, when you learn a skilled action, you are laying down a circuit. Once this has been achieved, sports scientists advocate specialized speed and power training to enhance the production of this circuit. As a result, athletes spend less time practicing core skills. However, if you refine technique according to natural principles, so that actions are increasingly initiated from the center, speed and power can be effortlessly accessed.1 Traditional martial arts stress that there is no limit to the refinement of basic actions, since one can explore increa
singly deeper layers of the mind-body. This is enshrined in the ideal of the kamiwaza—the divine technique.

  Ashisabaki—Footwork

  All martial arts begin with footwork—ashisabaki. Power production and movement should always be initiated from the feet.

  Ashi itari tai itari ken itaru.

  (First the feet, then the body, and finally the sword.)

  For the beginner this means that the feet are placed first, the body weight is then transferred, and this shift is projected through the sword. As the student progresses, this sequencing changes, although the origin of power remains in the feet.

  Most people who start sword arts cannot wait to hold a sword, yet the best foundation training is restricted to footwork only for the first six months. This will accelerate the learning process since it eliminates the need to spend months later on reducing overuse of the upper body. One of the omote (external) principles of Nakamura Ryu Battodo is to keep one’s movements as close as possible to normal walking. Musashi makes the same assertion and goes on to list especially inappropriate ways of moving commonly taught in his day (jumping, floating, and stamping).

  Nevertheless, the demands of wielding the sword require that in order to keep the center stable, stance naturally lengthens, widens, and deepens according to the movement of the sword. Any instability in posture is magnified when the arms and sword move overhead or out to the sides, and even more so when a target is cut through. If one were wearing full yoroi (armor) and wielding a heavy battle sword, the stance would be even deeper, and this is reflected in the kata of schools such as Kashima Shinto Ryu. These adaptations should always be understood as modifications of normal walking, and artificial footwork should be avoided. It should also be remembered that gait and stride length vary among individuals and change with age.

  Suriashi—the sliding step—is a useful way of training integration of ki-ken-tai-ichi (energy, sword, and body as one) because the pulling in of the back foot to complete a step recovers the body’s center. The combination of suriashi and short stance used in Kendo has evolved because the kendoka is not required to cut but only to strike, and a rooted stance is therefore unnecessary. Tameshigiri soon reveals the unsuitability of this kind of footwork. Practice outdoors also reveals the defects of this technique. If the ground is muddy, pushing off from the ball of the rear foot results in sliding back instead of moving forward. If there is unevenness in the ground, the sliding foot will catch on protruding rocks and roots. From long experience of deadly encounters outdoors, Musashi advocated the opposite action.

  With regard to footwork, one should slightly “float” the toes and strongly press down the heel.2

  In one of the oldest and most respected koryu—Katori Shinto Ryu (notwithstanding the tremendous precision of this school’s kata)—detailed footwork is not prescribed, and students are expected to find their own natural stance. It is significant that this school also practices extensively outside in the fields.

  The central power that results from the complementary movement of the two legs can be achieved in many ways. All require strong legs and flexible ankles. Complete tanren (conditioning; see chapter 3), including squatting exercises and moving slowly in low stances, brings the strength and flexibility to perform these steps securely without compromising the knees or lower back. The strength of the hips and lower legs and the flexibility of the ankles are of particular importance. These qualities require correct breathing and abdominal pressure. For this reason, beginners should start the first tanren exercises together with kihon practice. One sign that the internal work of tanren is beginning to bear fruit is that the feet grip the floor spontaneously at the completion of a cut.

  Kihon Waza—The Basic Techniques

  Once the legs have been conditioned, success in mastering kihon (as in every other subject) comes from the correct sequence of learning. Whatever the school or style, one must reduce the syllabus to its essentials and proceed in mastering the essential techniques in a step-by-step manner, resisting temptations to skip ahead.

  According to Nakamura Taisaburo Sensei, there are eight basic techniques (kihon waza): the straight vertical cut (suichokugiri or kirioroshi), the diagonal downward cuts to left and right (kesagiri), the diagonal upward cuts to left and right (gyakukesagiri), the horizontal cuts to left and right (mayokogiri), and the straight thrust (morotetsuki). By not differentiating between left and right, Musashi’s system reduces this to five, resulting in a total of four cuts and the thrust.

  Although the sword moves in different planes, the actual trajectory of the sword is the same in all four cuts. By recognizing this, one can then reduce the total to two—the often described “cut and thrust.” In actual combat, the diagonal cut is the essential cut (see chapter 5, “Tameshigiri”), but it is technically very demanding. For this reason, beginners should first learn the vertical cut (kirioroshi; literally “cutting and letting fall”) first. The demanding part of this technique is getting the sword into a position from which to deliver the downward cut. As the name for the technique suggests, it is then largely a matter of letting gravity have its way. The lifting forward and up of the sword (furikaburi) is very close to the action of the thrust. In this regard, the thrust is the ultimate kihon from which all other techniques stem and consequently should be learned first.

  The tsuki was the most frequently used technique on the medieval battlefield since it was easier to pierce the weak points in armor than to cut through it. Establishing a conscious connection with the tanden (vital center) is easiest with the thrust because the action stems directly and perceptibly from that center. The action of the tsuki also establishes chudan kamae (middle guard), tenouchi (grip), and sensitivity to the kissaki (sword tip). For all these reasons, the tsuki is the most fundamental technique, and yet in most schools it is the least practiced. The only sure way to learn is through uchikomi—repeated thrusting at a target (see chapter 4).

  When the tsuki is established in this way, the most demanding part of the vertical cut has already been learned. The logical sequence for learning the five (or eight) kihon is therefore as follows:

  tsuki

  kirioroshi (vertical downward cut)

  kesagiri (left and right diagonal downward cuts)

  gyakukesagiri (left and right diagonal upward cuts)

  yokogiri (left and right horizontal cuts)

  Just as tsuki prepares for kirioroshi, kesagiri is merely an adaptation of the vertical cut to follow a diagonal line through the target. It requires better coordination and greater stability in the core than does the vertical cut, but it is actually easier to control during the act of cutting. Once the diagonal line is learned, by cutting downwards, the reverse cut comes easily with some adjustments in tenouchi and a natural turn from the hip and waist. A stronger waist turn and application of the enkeisen (circular trajectory) in a horizontal line achieves yokogiri. When this last basic cut is achieved, all other techniques will be recognized as reduced, combined, or one-handed versions of these five techniques.

  Tenouchi—The World inside the Hands

  On the first day of training, sword and human meet as alien objects; over time they become one living thing. Eventually the blade will magnify and project the actions of the body, reflect mood and mind set, and ultimately point the way to the core of being.

  Although the eyes play a part in the manipulation of the blade, this is largely achieved through the sense of touch. The fine sensitivity of the hands allows a progressive tuning of the body to the sword and of the sword to the body. Through the hands, one learns to sense the angle of the blade, the position of the kissaki (sword tip), and the flow of forces in the sword, body, and target. In tameshigiri (test cutting) one can sense the texture of the target and the quality of the cutting action. In kumitachi (sparring), when swords meet, one senses the strength and, more critically, the quality of the opponent—the degree to which he or she is integrated with the sword. For this reason the ura (inner/hidden) principle of Nakamura Ryu is t
enouchi, the world “inside the hands.”

  The first imperative is simple. The beginner must learn to stop the swinging sword securely. This must be mastered before using a shinken (live blade) or beginning tameshigiri. Losing the grip on the sword at the end of a cut can result in severe injuries. Security of grip is achieved through an inward spiraling action of the arms. For the most part, the hands remain relaxed, while keeping the fingers in continuous contact with the tsuka (handle). The photo shows the correct position of the hands in chudan kamae (middle guard) with the little finger of the left hand close to the end of the tsuka and a small gap between the hands. This position (together with a tsuka of appropriate length) allows for the free and fluid achievement of all the basic cuts in combat. The completion of the cutting action is secured by the correct placement of the “dragon’s mouth” (the web between the thumb and first finger) over the top edge of the tsuka (in both hands).

  The importance of the “dragon’s mouth” (the same area is commonly termed the “tiger’s mouth” in Chinese internal arts) was explained to me at length by Nakamura Sensei, while I sat next to him watching a class. At the time, I was recovering from surgery following an injury to this area. Nakamura Sensei described how he had once cut deeply into the base of the thumb while sheathing at speed. The tendons and nerves of the thumb had been severed, and, since this occurred in the days before microsurgery, movement of the thumb could not be regained. Nakamura Sensei had instructed the surgeon to sew up the wound so that the shape of the dragon’s mouth would be preserved. As a result, he had no problem controlling the sword afterward, despite the lack of any gripping power in the thumb.

  Figure 3. Tenouchi

  Chakin shibori (the wringing out of a wet cloth) is often recommended for developing correct tenouchi. Those who repeat daily the hundreds of repetitions required for the traditional cleaning of the dojo floor eventually realize that this action is achieved not by tightening the hands but by a fluent use of the whole upper limb. The only gripping action required is momentary and can be accomplished by the little finger (and to a lesser extent the ring finger). Any added tension in the hand restricts movement, reduces sensitivity, and disturbs mental equilibrium.3 Most beginners instinctively adopt a diametrically opposite use of the hands, and this must be slowly and patiently undone together with the upper body tension that accompanies it. With daily intensive practice this reversal can be followed in the changing pattern of calluses that appear first at the base of the index finger and then move across to the little finger before finally disappearing altogether.