Last week, I watched a student perform a finishing movement to a sword kata wherein he seemed to be off balance.  I asked him if he was having trouble.  The movement involved a step to the right from a kneeling position, which is done at the end of some of the Shinto Hatakage ryu sword kata.  After watching him one more time, I figured out the problem: He was trying to balance weight on both feet, making the shifting movement to the right more difficult.  Similarly, the suriashi sweep with the left foot at the end of the Muso Shinden Omori kata Gyakuto was difficult for him to do as well.

A famous taiji master once said that it was important, when doing the form, to maintain separation of yin and yang (meaning, in this context, right and left).  The principle also applies at certain times, to iaido kata.  Being able to solidly balance your weight on one side of the body enables you to freely operate on the other side.  For example, in the Muso Shinden ryu Hasegawa Eishin ryu kata Ukigumo, the iaidoka steps out to make enough room to draw his sword against his opponent, then returns, stepping left foot over right as she completes the draw and places the sword on the opponent’s chest.  Then she turns her foot in order to step and press the sword further, defeating her opponent.  Students who have had trouble with this movement are frequently putting weight on both feet once they step across.  However, the movement works much better if the iaidoka balances on the right foot until the moment she steps back (at which point she transfers her weight).

Kiyama sensei has also said that one should sit in tatehiza in such a way that one’s weight is on the left side, so that the right foot is free to kick at an opponent if necessary.  Given how difficult this posture is for people generally, I never insist, but I have made sure that I can do it.

Once my student realized that he should (and could!) balance his weight on one side or the other when the occasion called for it, the movements became much easier (I am always happy when problems are solved that easily!).  I am confident that once he gets to the chudan kata (still a ways off for him, I think), it will not be so difficult for him to manage some of the back-and-forth balancing of kata that start from tatehiza.

Some critics point out that the formalized kata of iaido are artificial, and they are correct, on a purely technical level.  But iaido is not a purely technical art.  An attack can come from anywhere, and being able to respond on either the left or right is good preparation.  As beginning students manage the diagonal turn in Shinto Hatakage ryu and the suriashi sweep in Gyakuto, they are preparing themselves for this very possibility – definitely a lesson worth learning.

This is my last blog post for Resobox.  It has been an honor and a wonderful opportunity.  I hope you will continue to view my posts at our new dojo website – www.iaikai.com.

I had an acting teacher in college whom I’ll call by his initial – Dr. K.  He was very intriguing – we heard that he was a working actor who spent his summers recording children’s records.  I have no idea if this was really true, but I was sufficiently impressed to ask him to be my academic advisor.  But it quickly became clear that, though he was a very good actor (we worked on a production together my junior year), he was an indifferent director.  “Play the reality of it,” was his standard direction to student actors, so much so that we used to make fun of him for saying it so often.  Also, we had no idea at all what he meant. Dr. K. did confusing, but daring work.  He was cool, yes, but we were frustrated by him.

I have been thinking about Dr. K’s admonition recently; and the other night at okeiko I had a flash of insight as to what he meant, 40 years later.  I was watching the students in the sword class go through the Omori set of Muso Shinden Ryu kata.  The participants were at several different skill levels, from a very beginner, who faked her way through the unfamiliar parts of the set very well, to students with years of experience.  There were certainly technical issues to address, but the overall feeling I got from watching the kata was: there was no there there.  People’s practice encompassed varying levels of technical ability; I knew from teaching them that the more advanced students knew the bunkai (i.e. the “story” of the kata), but I couldn’t see it.  No doubt people were tired, on a Thursday night.  We all work – my week had been more crazy than it often is, too.  One of my colleagues once remarked that watching iai kata is like watching paint dry – this particular evening I felt he was totally right.

I don’t mean this as a criticism in itself – Japanese sword work is an exacting skill that takes many years to learn.  Beginning students in particular (and by “beginner,” I actually mean people who have studied for years, not months) are often completely absorbed in the technical aspects of practice.  In fact, in its most basic form, the bunkai of the kata are primarily employed to safely teach the various techniques.  We’re not talking theatre here, even though the parallels are fairly obvious.  Yes, there’s a story (albeit a very brief one), but no character development, no “plot,” and no real emotional content.  And (importantly) we are not acting.  In fact, serious budoka dread any comparisons to martial artists in popular media (with good reason, but that’s another post).  As my teacher, Otani Sensei used to say, what we do is real.

And yet.  The bunkai are still there.  When I was a very beginner, my old sempai used to insist that I “see the enemy,” my imaginary opponent in solo kata.  I remember in particular one guy who sadistically kept me on my unpadded knees while I did the first cut of a kata over and over again while he claimed he could not see my intention.  Finally, I mentally pictured cutting him down with my amateur attempt.  “That’s it!” he exclaimed, and I was finally allowed to stand up.  Indeed.

No matter how good kata gets on a technical level, without a sense of intention, the movements will never be alive.  It is entirely possible to sleep walk through the movements, even with fairly decent timing.  But something will still be missing.  As one of my old teachers used to say, “If you are alive, then you must be lively.”  Learn the bunkai.  See your adversary.  Focus your movement.  Play the reality of it.  Thanks, Dr. K.

Last week, one of the students came in to the swordsmanship class late.  He did a fast bow and raced to start practice.  I stopped him.  “Please do the reishiki before joining class,” I said.  After he had completed briefly sitting still, then performing the series of three bows we normally do at the start of class (to the shinzen, the teacher on the floor, and the sword itself) he was free to join us.

The general outline of our reishiki, which is fairly standard in my experience, is that first, the teacher or a senior student calls out “Mokusou!” (黙想 – もくそう ) and we sit quietly for a few seconds.  Even though “mokusou” is a call for meditation, it’s fine to just sit quietly, breathe and relax.  After someone calls “yame” (止め) to end our sitting still, we then perform the three bows and begin practice.  After practice, we perform the same “quiet time” followed by the three bows in reverse order.

Why did I insist on this small ritual as a preamble to starting practice?  Performing reishiki has several important functions; however, none of them have anything to do with religious practice.  All of us have jobs and busy lives.  Sometimes we get stuck at work, or on the train, and we cannot get to practice on time.  Even if we are on time for practice, we may have had a bad day, either due to work or personal issues, or even some combination of the two.  The dojo is a place to relax, maybe even have a little fun, but most importantly, to focus on our practice.  Racing onto the floor, still flustered at being late, means our minds are naturally still focused on the world outside.  In all likelihood, after about 10 minutes, we will calm down enough to settle in to practice, but why take that long when spending less than five minutes doing reishiki will accomplish the same thing, and do a better job of it?

Even though we always practice safely and both iaido and jodo are kata practice only, swords and sticks are nothing to move about with less than good concentration.  The student who does not take a moment to calm himself at the beginning of practice will not be able to properly pay attention to whatever the group is doing.  While the danger to others is fairly minimal, someone who feels rushed may pose a danger to herself, however minor.  In any case she will not have a good practice, because her mind will still be on whatever she left behind in order to come to class.

It’s true that we no longer have the luxury that I had at the beginning of my training.  We used to have the keys to the space, being the last group to use it, and practice could take anywhere from two hours to three (or longer), depending on who was teaching, and what we were working on.  Even though we had the same rule about following reishiki, it was certainly possible to “cheat” on reishiki, join okeiko and still get some good from it when practice time was as open-ended as it was.  Today, things are different.  Rental time costs more; and classes are consequently shorter.  It’s in everyone’s interest to make the most of practice time.  Taking a few minutes to calm down and center one’s mind is really the best way to get the most benefit out of however much time there is.

Last week during the swordsmanship class, I had students take part in a critique of each others’ kata.  A student performs a solo kata of her choice, and the other students comment (briefly!).  Everyone performs, and everyone gets to talk.  Sometimes, after a round of discussion, the student performs the kata again before we move on to the next person.  I took part in this technique(?) during my training, and I think it worthwhile for my own students as well.

Some teachers feel that they are the only ones who should comment on a student’s technique.  Iaido is an exacting art form; teachers have had more (sometimes much more) experience; so naturally, they feel they are in the first position to judge whether a student is doing a technique properly.

I have no argument against this, for sure, but years of teaching and observing have shown me several things, including that there are times, no matter how much I, as a teacher, try to correct a student’s technique, the student will still follow what one of the senior students is actually doing during a class.  I don’t even know if this is a conscious process, but I have seen it again and again, and while the newer student is not wrong to follow a senior, he seems more likely to imitate what he sees there rather than follow the example the teacher is setting.  Any mistakes the more advanced student is making, therefore, are likely to be picked up by the newer student, which means, in a way, the teacher has twice as much work to do.

Another thing is that students are unfailingly honest in assessing another’s performance.  I never tolerate rudeness or unhelpful criticism – generally speaking, I ask each person to note one thing she liked about the kata followed by one thing she thinks could be improved.  I contribute my $.02 as well.  Additionally, if I think someone’s assessment is wrong (i.e. she is misinterpreting a technique or bunkai), I point it out.  And, call it American culture, or something, but students are sometimes more likely to listen to their peers.  I can tell a student forever that he’s leading his cut by ducking his head forward, but, for some reason, when another student remarks on it, it sinks in.  Hey, whatever works.

Given a critique with a class of four or five people, the result is that each student gets a raft of stuff to work on.  When I was training, the comments were pretty much all of the you-need-to-work-on-this variety, which can discourage some, so I decided to balance things out.  Being told good things as well as bad things allows students to feel neither ground down nor falsely buoyed up.  And platitudes don’t count.  Being told simply that your work in class is “good” or that something “needs work” without explaining how it might be improved is not helpful for the performer or the critic.

When I was a beginning student, being able to observe others’ kata not only made me aware of how they were performing, I inevitably mentally examined my own performance as well.  That leaning-forward thing, am I doing that?  Is my cut strong enough?  Do I pause in the right place (or the wrong place)?  Mentally self-assessing at the same time I was listening to criticism my peers were giving others also gave me a lot to think about, not only during okeiko, but on the way home afterward.

Making the critique a regular part of practice also lets students monitor each others’ progress as well as their own: “You fixed that bad habit, and your form looks much smoother.  Now you have to make your cuts more precise.  You could try X,” could be the result of a regular critique.  The critics end up learning as much or more about the kata as the student who is presenting it.

Koryu budo demands excellence.  The techniques have been honed over hundreds of years.  As a teacher, I can see lots of room for improvement in my students (as well as seeking out more experienced budoka to help me with my technique as well).  But sometimes it’s a good idea to step back and let the kids take the wheel.  It’s the only way they will, eventually, learn to drive.

We practice jodo (stick fighting) as a workshop.  I have permission from my instructors in Japan to teach what I know, but I still consider myself a beginner, as are the other people in the class.  Like a lot of traditional martial arts forms, jodo is a practice I can work on for many years to come.  Though I know I improve every week (and my students do too), jodo practice is a long, long continuum.

Jodo kata are all partner kata.  The jo (stick) side is considered the less-advanced side, and the tachi (wooden sword) side is generally reserved for the more advanced students and the instructor.  However, since the class is a workshop, everyone learns “both sides” of the kata.  As members of the class have advanced, I have been able to accommodate total beginners by having them only be concerned about the jo side; but this is a relatively recent development.  In the beginning we were all learning together, and, since I needed practice as much as anyone, I had to teach the tachi side so I would have someone to work with as well.  This is not an orthodox approach, and whenever we go to a more formal get-together, I have to remind my students that they should concentrate on the jo side, since there are generally more advanced people to practice with.

The tachi side is the more advanced side because it is the “teaching” side.  The jo side of the kata provokes, reacts and defends against the tachi.  A similar situation arises in our kumidachi (paired wooden sword) practice, wherein the more advanced side is the uchidachi side (which is generally the side that attacks).  The shidachi is the defender and generally wins.  The uchidachi, like the jodo tachi role, introduces techniques so the shidachi or jo side can practice a set of techniques in return.  While spacing and timing are generally accommodated by the jo side, the tachi side has a responsibility for making sure the jo techniques are practiced properly, and above all, safely.  The tachi side also gets to bear any miscalculations on the part of the jo side.  Again, the assumption is that the tachi side has the experience to anticipate any errors from the jo side to the extent it is possible.  For example, starting a technique or kata too close together can “bind up” the practitioners; whereas being to far apart can result in ineffective technique.  Ideally the tachi side can see when both partners are too close or too distant; something that only comes with experience.  Since the jo side is responsible for setting the initial distance, the tachi can advise her partner when to close up space, or step back.

In addition, the tachi must be careful to make her technique as clear and straighforward as possible.  From time to time I have noticed in techique practice that those on the tachi side are sometimes moving the bokuto slightly in anticipation of a strike by the jo (in hikiotoshi uchi, a striking exericise, for example).  This movement in anticipation does not actually help the jo side in any way; there is no advantage in making things easier.  Being neutral in the placement of the bokuto is the best way for the jo side to learn.

One of the most difficult but important things to learn in any partnered kata  practice is to react to your partner rather than anticipate him.  When I take the tachi side, I vary the speed with which I react to the jo side.  (In fact, as the evening wears on, I get slower, because I am tired!)  Even the most experienced students will sometimes get ahead of the tachi when they take the jo side.  As the tachi, it is my job to stop the kata and point out why the jo would not want to get ahead of the tachi’s movements.  The jo side then begins to comprehend that jodo is the study of ma (間), the timing with which one moves through space.  It often happens that students on the jo side want to rush through everything.  The tachi can slow down the kata and give everyone the timing and spacing needed in order to perform the techniques correctly.

The tachi (or any teaching side) of a kata has to exhibit good technique, good awareness and self-control.  He has to take the occasional off-target tap or poke without losing his temper, remembering that no one is deliberately trying to hurt anyone.  As tachi, we get the opportunity to set a good example for each other, and establish an environment where everyone can learn.

It’s an old argument: kata vs. technique.  Bruce Lee, action star, philosophy major and founder of the martial art style Jeet Kun Do (JKD) reportedly disparaged kata, suggesting it was rigid and noncreative.  A more dynamic martial art teaches techniques that can be called upon in any situation, he felt.  And free-sparring was the only way to attain a spontaneous application of the techniques.  Kata was not only boring, it was ineffective.

I cannot tell you how many times people have brought up this argument with me.  Both Japanese swordsmanship (iaido) and stick fighting (jodo) consist solely of kata.  There is never any free-sparring.  Even when competing, practitioners of the art forms contest in their execution of kata.  With all due respect to the martial arts legend, we should take a look at what kata is for, what it accomplishes (especially in the modern world) and what it does not.

Both swordsmanship and jodo involve inherently dangerous techniques.  Learning to wield a 3-foot razor (Japanese katana were, and still are, surgically sharp) did not lend itself to free-sparring.  Jodo, which pits a 4-1/2 foot staff against a sword, is similarly dangerous.  Much like swordsmanship, a free-sparring jodo match could end up with one or both combatants badly wounded or killed.  In order to learn either of these combative forms, or others involving bladed weapons, such as naginata (halberd), employing free-sparring would have been foolish in the extreme.  While Bruce Lee’s point was probably aimed at empty-hand practitioners, its general promulgation since has run smack up against the realities of training with dangerous implements.

So – kata enables trainees to handle dangerous weapons in relative (by no means complete) safety.  Students learn to draw, cut and resheathe a sword with minimal danger to themselves or others.  Solo kata for swordsmanship employ bunkai (分解).  In English bunkai is often translated as “application,” but a more accurate interpretation is “analysis.”  In a budo sense, for the purposes of iaido solo kata, bunkai is the identification of the scenario that makes up the kata, a story of attack, defense and/or counter attack.  The teacher illustrates the scenario so the student better understands what she is to accomplish in the kata: what is the kata a response to?  How many “opponents” are there?  What are the targets for the various cuts and blocks?  Explanations can be verbal, but can just as often enact the story of the kata.  Some instructors (me included) have used bunkai enactments in public demonstrations.  My feeling is that, no matter how beautiful or exciting a solo kata may look, acting out the scenario of the kata is a good exercise in timing for the students and also gives the audience something more literal to look at.

Jodo is slightly different, in that all jodo kata are paired kata.  Students learn the bunkai not in the abstract, but in a simulated encounter that pits the stick against a partner wielding a wooden sword.  Timing and distance are not idealized, as in solo practice, but change with every training partner.

The next phase of the argument now might be, why even bother to train in this way, since no one carries swords or long sticks anymore?  There are many reasons why people might want to train: a sense of history, or exploring another culture through a living art form, aesthetics, and I suppose, a few who think that learning a weapon-oriented martial art is just badass.  In particular, solo kata was invented for them.

I still remember the moment, as a 6-year-old, when I first learned to read.  After what seemed like forever of sounding out letters and syllables, the letters on the page suddenly became sound, and I recognized the sound as being a word I knew.  I was completely thrilled, dumbfounded.  I became the best reader in my class in a matter of weeks, devouring everything I could lay my chubby hands on.  The teachers, wisely, just kept giving me books.

As a budoka, I practiced jodo off and on, from almost the time I started training.  Many times we would show up to okeiko and just do whatever Otani Sensei, or the sempai on the floor, felt like doing.  Very often our iaito would sit by for weeks or months, while we tried to manipulate sticks instead.  No one complained – it was all new, and all cool, to us, so we did whatever was on the agenda for a given night.

I lived alone at the time, in a very dark apartment that had two advantages – high ceilings and a long, narrow hallway.  I used to swing a broomstick practicing the various jodo kihon, trying to improve.  We were practicing the first half of the ZNKR jodo Seiteigata, and I did my best.

I have written in other blog posts how it can be surprisingly difficult to learn to manipulate a simple, wooden stick.  Even with a rudimentary understanding of the kihon, remembering even the beginning of the standard set of kata was a challenge.  Throw in about 20 intervening years of at times very sporadic practice, and I was just like my 6-year-old self again – practicing and being endlessly corrected on kihon and struggling, generally alone, trying to remember how the two sides of the kata fit together.  It was like trying to assemble a puzzle where some of the pieces are not missing, but they are hidden.  You can imagine the frustration.

But I was determined.  So I traveled to Capital Area Jodokai in DC, traveled to Detroit, traveled to Maryland, and of course, traveled to Japan, all in order to find people to practice with, and to get my butt kicked by those who knew much better than me.  Sometimes the practice was less than ideal.  For example, if the gasshuku crowd was all advanced students, I had to be content with just having fun because truly understanding what I was being shown was well beyond me.  Sometimes, after three days of intense, daily practice, I would feel like I was getting somewhere, only to go home, and, with no one to practice with, forget everything.  Sometimes I would have to fend off a sense of frustration at traveling hundreds (or thousands) of miles just to perform the same, basic kata, over and over again (at least I would remember it later!).

But eventually, things began to change.  I would watch some more senior people perform a kata, and I could see the kihon that made it up.  I knew those kihon.  I could do them.  When I got stuck trying to remember, I would track through the bunkai in my head and know what the next step was.  It was like the kihon were the syllables of words, and the kata were the sentences, the bunkai were stories of attack and defense.

I now have students here whom I practice with.  I have drilled them in kihon and walked them through kata – sometimes the same kata, over and over again.  And recently, I noticed that they are beginning to learn to read too.

That does not mean that they (or I) can jump from an elementary school reader to Shakespeare without appreciable hard work.  I realize that all of us, as a group, are far from that.  But with practice, we will all get better, week after week.  Now that we are becoming literate.

Many years ago, we had a guest student – a young Japanese man who was visiting New York for the summer. He was a shodan in kendo, young, strong and full of energy. At the time, we were practicing some kendo from time to time, and he had decided to join us.

One night, the regular teacher did not show up, so I was, by default, the teacher for the evening. Since I did not feel at all qualified to lead a kendo workout, I volunteered a swordsmanship class instead. Even though he had never handled a sword or even a bokuto, with typical enthusiasm, our guest was happy to give it a try.

Kendo and actual swordsmanship are very different from one another; not only in temperament, but in technique. Without getting too heavily into it, cutting with a sword is very different from striking with a bamboo shinai. I watched as our guest student’s enthusiasm increased throughout the class. He wasn’t afraid to try anything. On the other hand, one of my sempai, who came late to the class that night, could not seem to do anything right. The more the Japanese guest seemed to enjoy himself, the more frustrated the sempai became. Just for fun, we had gotten some sheets of newspaper and were cutting them with iaito (it can be done). No matter how hard he tried, the sempai could not make a decent cut. In fact, the harder he tried, the worse things got. Meanwhile, the Japanese kendoka cut as though he had been doing it all of his life.

I am sure most people have endured that sort of frustration. It seems our first attempt at something new is so much better than our fifth, sixth, or even sixtieth. To use a personal example, I once attended a kyudo (traditional archery) “first shot” weekend. After 2-1/2 days of intense preparatory practice, I was allowed to take a first shot at a target. I remember not being able to see anything but the target, or feel anything but the bow and arrow in my hands. I took the shot, and it seemed to me to be perfect. However, the balance of that day and the following morning, it seemed like I could do nothing at all. I would lose my grasp of the arrow, and it would fall to the ground as I began to draw the bow; or, as I was drawing, the string would suddenly catch in the groove in the archery glove (it’s supposed to be there). The string slipping into the groove sounded like a rubber band breaking. In a panic over the sound, I would invariably drop the arrow again. The teacher told us to treat the abortive attempts as “shots” and we would have to give way to the next person, who, though awkward, would somehow display more natural talent than I did, or something. In any case, she would make a shot. Then I would fail again. I believe I did not complete a single shot after the first, perfect one for the rest of the weekend.

Have you ever tried to pick up a sleeping cat? She weighs a ton. She doesn’t resist (she’s barely awake), but somehow it’s much more difficult to move her when she’s a sleep than when she is awake. Many years ago, a theatre teacher of mine who practiced aikido demonstrated the same principle. No, he wasn’t asleep, but it was much more difficult to move him when he seemed not to be actively trying to resist being moved. At the time, I just figured he was using some mind trick on us. But he wasn’t.

All of the above examples illustrate the same idea – the more relaxed you are, the better stuff works – whether in order to not be moved or trying out something new. The more tense I was with the bow and arrow, the worse I fared. The young, Japanese kendoka, being totally relaxed and just in the class for fun, did well and had a great time. My sempai, who was a much more serious person, became increasingly worse as his frustration grew. While it’s much more easily said than done (the one English word every Japanese budo teacher or sempai ever seems to know is “relax”), relaxing, slowing down movement and developing what I would call a sense of deliberate (as in slow) detachment works better at learning new things than any amount of frustrated, increasingly intense repetition.

Anyone can have a bad okeiko. Even after so many years of practice, there are nights when I feel like I can’t do anything right (or what I consider to be right). But I have learned that, when dealing with a 400-year-old art form, if you don’t get it in one night, there’s always next week, or the next decade. The important thing is to learn how to learn.

As I noted in my earlier post, kumidachi (組太刀), paired sword kata, teach a number of concepts that can then be applied to solo practice. In addition, they are useful in illustrating some more tactical aspects of Japanese swordsmanship.

Most importantly, kumidachi kata teach space and timing. How far are you from your opponent? Can you reach her in one step? Two? Stepping forward or back? How fast is she moving? How large is her stride? Does she cut with full extension, or does she pull back somewhat? This concept, called ma (間) is very difficult to express in words, but is essential to many Japanese traditional arts, not just budo. With practice, a budoka can literally “size up” an opponent, and perform a kumidachi kata for the first time from a perfect (or nearly perfect) distance, and in the proper time. Some people have an innate sense of ma, but everyone can develop the sense they already have.

In addition, there are three classical concepts, which are applied to many martial arts genres. They are: sen no sen先の先, go no sen後の先 and sen sen no sen先々の先. It is important to point out that different styles assign different interpretations to these concepts. Sen sen no sen, in particular, can carry an almost mystical meaning in some practices, whereas it can be more pragmatic in others. In our practice, we use Otani Sensei’s kumidachi techniques to show the way in which we consider each one. As I said, Google any of these terms and you will get a good sense of how practitioners from different budo interpret and apply them.

Sen no sen means to perceive your opponent’s attack in order to counter it. For example, in our first kumidachi kata, partners stand at tip-to-tip distance, swords held in the seigan position. The uchidachi (attacker) raises her sword for a downward cut. The shidachi (defender) brings her sword up at the same time, steps off the line (either to the right or the left) and “cuts” the corresponding yokomen (side of the head) of the uchidachi. Unlike a lot of paired sword techniques, Otani Sensei’s kumidachi offer choices from time to time to both the uchidachi and the shidachi. While the outline of the form may be simple (as is this one), the execution can be more complicated.

Go no sen means to allow your partner to initiate the attack and then counter it. In the third of Otani Sensei’s kata, the partners face off from hasso no kamae, in which the sword is held up and to the side. In this kata, the uchidachi actually decides whether to attack from the right or the left (it may seem a little eccentric to some people, but as a trained jodoka, Otani sensei believed an attack could come from either the right or the left). The shidachi takes up the corresponding side of hasso no kamae. As the attacker moves to cut diagonally, the defender needs to allow him to commit to his cut before he can counter with one of his own. If he moves too soon, the attacker will simply follow his body movement and adjust his cut accordingly. Hence, go no sen – the defender must wait.

Sen sen no sen can have an almost mystical meaning to some budoka. For our purposes, however, it means to provoke a reaction in the opponent before introducing a defense and counter. In the fourth of Otani sensei’s kumidachi kata, the partners start tip-to-tip in seigan. Theoretically, the shidachi decides not to try anything directly, so she uses a provocation, dropping the tip of her sword to gedan no kamae, in which the tip of the sword drops to knee level. The uchidachi, seeing what he thinks is an opportunity, comes in for a downward cut. The shidachi uses a technique called ukenagashi to ward off the attack, steps off the line and counters to the uchidachi’s shoulder with a diagonal cut. As in some of the other kata, the shidachi has a choice: since the attack is coming in straight, she can decide to step to the right or the left.

While these principles may not mean much to beginning students (I think mostly they just want to get out of the way), I hope that the principles will become more apparent with continued practice. Certainly, the differences in individual students’ relative sizes and body mechanics will ensure that whatever students may take away from kumidachi practice, they will never find it dull.

Traditional Japanese swordsmanship (iaido) consists solely of kata. As an art form that teaches people to draw and cut with a sword, as well as return it safely to its scabbard, solo practice is the safest way to learn, both for the student and the people around her. The different kata introduce theoretical situations – attacks from different angles, attacks by multiple opponents, and aggressive tactics for the swordsman should the need arise. By employing these theoretical scenarios, the iaidoka learns different techniques and timing.

Many traditional practices also include partner kata, called kumidachi (組太刀). Outside of safety issues (we would lose a lot of students if we allowed free sparring with swords, not to mention gain a lot of lawsuits), and unlike karate’s kumite, kumidachi is not sparring, but a carefully controlled exercise where the outcome is never in doubt. Kumidachi were traditionally reserved for high-ranking students. Unfortunately, in the modern era, so few people have achieved a high level of skill that some paired practices have been discarded or simply forgotten. Recently, an effort has been made to reclaim kumidachi in some styles before the forms are gone forever.

I was fortunate in that my teacher, Otani sensei, created 20 kumidachi forms for us to practice. While the forms were influenced by several styles, they are unique to our particular practice. Unlike some of the traditional styles, these original kumidachi can be practiced by anyone, at any level (though they increase in difficulty as one goes through the whole set). The first five or so are even suitable for careful practice by beginning students, and I tend to introduce them early in their training.

There are several good reasons to have students practice kumidachi. In addition to several important principles that apply to combat and swordsmanship, which I will discuss in the next post, there are some simple, practical aspects. For example:
Kumidachi practice gives students an actual target. Many times, iaidoka practice their solo kata with little understanding of where the target is. In kumidachi, of course, the target is right there. Practicing with a partner ideally imparts a sense of realism that can be carried back into solo iai practice.
We don’t have to look very far in popular journalism to find articles that discuss people’s vanishingly small attention span, given our multitasking jobs and the constant distraction of our electronic tethers. I can guarantee one cure: someone coming at you (however slowly) with a wooden sword aimed at your head. Kumidachi practice is a unique way to help students pay attention to the “here and now.”

Of course, we are not actually bopping our opponents on the head, wrist, torso or other targets that are presented in kumidachi practice. Though someone occasionally gets touched, the idea is to control the strike short of the target. In order to do this, we employ a technique called shibori, literally to wring out the tsuka (grip) of the sword at the end of the cut. In target cutting a type of shibori is used to power the cut through the target; but in kumidachi, shibori is used to end the cut short of the intended target. While I often worry about beginner students understanding this concept when starting kumidachi, generally, I have found beginners surprisingly adept at shibori when they have a living target. Again, this is a technique that transmits directly into solo practice.

Which brings us to the last practical aspect; or, rather, two related concepts that are important in any martial arts class: a sense of bravery and a sense of trust. It takes a certain amount of nerve to face someone and allow that person to attack you. Moreover, you have to trust your partner that if you mess up your part, she will stop short of somehow making you pay for your error. While, as I said, someone occasionally gets touched, there is no malicious intent in kumidachi, or any other partner kata. And isn’t that how a dojo is supposed to work?

I just came back from some training in Japan. There is a lot to be said for being able to go there, to go to a “real” dojo, to take part in a practice in which you are not a teacher or even a senior student, but just an interested foreigner who rarely gets such an opportunity. In some ways, I am still processing the experience.

But one of my favorite things about being able to train in Japan, is how small I feel, as though I am creeping around among giants. The iaido teacher I train with is 90 years old; he has been training in budo for over 70 years. Last year, I was able to show him some of my Muso Shinden ryu practice, even though he himself teaches Muso Jikiden Eishin ryu (a related style that I think of as being like a cousin to ours). I did my very best, as though I was performing in front of my own, original teacher, who passed away ten years earlier. It was a great privilege. Moreover, I felt like I was getting another chance to show my teacher what I had learned from him, in having an opportunity to show this gentleman what my teacher had taught me.

This time around, he kicked out butts through Shinto Hatakage Ryu Iai Heiho, an old and not very well-known style. Unlike some of the more recent styles of iaido, this one has fewer forms, and even some of the names of the forms have been lost. Like a lot of Japanese teachers, he spoke little, except for the phrase “mo i-kai,” which means “one more time” or “hai – sugi,” which means (loosely) “okay – next,” meaning we should go on. It doesn’t sound like much, but without discussion, one gets a lot more practice in. At the end of 2-1/2 hours (which did not feel that long), we were drenched in sweat and felt as though every aspect of our practice had been raked over (which it had been). Without him saying much, we each saw faults in our technique, and we each had an opportunity to improve. As a student, I felt enormous benefit, and, as a teacher, I felt sort of jealous and wished I had similar ability; but then, I’ve only been teaching for about 16 years. In this teacher’s book, that puts me about midway through grade school. I have been training for 30 years. It sounds like a lot from an American perspective; but, again, I think that puts me in about 7th grade.

At the jodo practices, the shihan arranged for some of his high-ranking students to come work with us. The shihan even had time to work with me one-on-one himself. The shihan is younger than the iaido teacher, but all the same, the time he has spent in training and teaching eclipses my minimal experience by many years. Yet he showed similar generosity in time and attention, though his teaching style, and the content of the class are radically different from the iaido practice. While iaido includes solo kata practice, all of jodo is partner-oriented. Where iaido is generally quiet, jodo is noisy with sticks hitting wooden swords and kiai loudly accenting strikes and thrusts. (It’s not as loud as kendo, but then, almost nothing is.)

I have been privileged to practice at some very, very old dojo in Japan. The floors are worn and grooved from years and years of bare feet – sliding, pounding, learning. It’s frequently too cold (or too hot!). Sometimes the roofs leak a little, here and there. The places themselves can make you feel small when you realize all of the years of effort that has gone into practice, practice, practice. Even though I am still shaking off jetlag and trying to get back into a normal routine (whatever that is), one thing that I have processed from the trip is to keep practicing, keep learning, keep growing.

As I explained in an earlier post, having a plan of defense/counter attack is an important part of the bunkai for many iaido kata. The iaidoka often waits patiently for the attacker to commit to a particular technique before reacting. The idea is that moving to counter too soon would cause the attacker to break off and try something else. This type of training induces a certain calmness of mind and sense of space and timing.

Much of this training, in which one waits or reacts to an opponent, contravenes what we might think of as the best way to defend ourselves. My first thought, personally, is to run. In fact, my teacher, Otani Yoshiteru, once said that avoiding trouble (by whatever means) is the essence of budo practice. But running away does not make for much of a kata. The assumption of most koryu bunkai is that running is somehow not an option, and the kata gives us one or more probable paths to resolving the situation.

It seems counterintuitive, but one tactic that is especially employed in jodo kata is to stay in contact with your opponent. For example, in the technique dobaraiuchi, the jodoka blocks tachi’s cut to the do (midsection of the body, often under the arm, above the hip but below the ribcage) but does not retract the leading foot. I used to think this was very odd; wouldn’t you want to put some distance between yourself and the sword? But you don’t. If you lose contact with the sword in dobraiuchi, you no longer have a tactile sense of where the sword is, and the swordsman, free of the jo, is able to try another technique which the jodoka may not so easily counter. The jodoka stays in contact with the opponent’s sword until she is able to switch her kamae and hit the attacker’s sword, effectively turning the tables on him. According to the technique, after hitting the attacker’s sword, the jodoka chases down the opponent.

Some techniques are simply provocations, and are also based on contact. In kuritsuke, the jodoka stops the swordsman’s overhead cut and then pins the swordsman’s wrists. The swordsman cannot advance any closer to the jodoka, nor can he move backward, as the jodoka will simply follow him with the pin. His only choice is to first turn towards the jodoka and then back away directly, giving the jodoka more options to defeat him.

Which brings up an important point about jodo. Jodo was originally a police art. Therefore, attempting to flee an attacker is not the jodoka’s job. Instead, the jodoka must overpower the swordsman in some way and convince him to give up the fight. While there are defensive jodo kata, there are also kata where the jodoka actually starts the altercation. In the kata Tachiotoshi, the jodoka and swordsman are standing with weapons crossed. Nothing will happen in its own, so the jodoka steps around the attacker’s sword in order to strike at his head. The swordsman blocks the strike, and, in turn, counterattacks the jodoka. In Kasumi, the kata begins with the jodoka striking the opponent’s sword, causing him to back up and then step back in with a counterattack. Clearly both of these acts are designed to provoke the swordsman to react, because the jodoka’s job is to stop the swordsman, not just to defend himself.

I look at the paired classes of iaido (swordsmanship) and jodo as complementary opposites. Most budoka consider the sword to be the queen of weapons – strong, sharp and flexible. However, in the right hands, a simple stick can defeat a sword. No one ever always wins.