I haven't written any "budo philosophy" pieces of late because, well, they don't get near as many views as my essays on old-school strength training, powerlifting, and bodybuilding.  But I enjoy writing them, and, to be quite honest, I think they're some of the better essays here on my blog.  The idea for this one had been churning away in my mind for a few weeks, so I thought it was time to put pen to paper and see what comes of it.  I hope you find it, at the very least, to be an interesting take on an "obscure" subject:

The Budo That Can’t Be Seen

“Do the budo that can’t be seen,” ~Morihei Ueshiba

“It is bad for those who are learning Zen to become like those who are studying Zen but do not sit.  After all, you must have the discipline to sit everyday.” ~Omori Sogen

     The first quote comes from the founder of Aikido, also known as O-Sensei, and it’s the primary thing I want to discuss in this essay: how one does the budo that can’t be seen, and some thoughts on different ways that this can be applied.

     The second quote comes from Omori Sogen, one of the few Zen masters of the 20th century who was also a legitimate budo master of the Jikishinkage-ryū school of Japanese swordsmanship.  The two quotes may not seem at first read to have much to do with one another.  But I want to turn to the 2nd quote first in order to lead us to learn to do the budo that can’t be seen.

     What Sogen says of Zen is also true of budo.  Many martial practitioners—though I’m not sure how much the term “practitioner” can really apply here—play at budo through study but not practice.  Oh, they might come to class, go through the motions, enjoy training in the dojo, and, on occasion, have some hard training sessions.  But they mainly “know” a lot.  It’s the reason for their interest in budo in the first place, to acquire knowledge.  They enjoy studying budo.  They may study everything about their style, in fact.  Sometimes, they even “look” good—technical kata, clean technique.  But it’s not truly real.  It’s not deep enough.  It can, in a couple of words, be seen.  To practice that which can’t be seen requires diligent practice, constant practice, unwavering practice until true budo emerges.

     There can be confusion here because it seems as if some who practice harder, more diligently, even more “correctly” are not as skilled, not as “good,” as those who don’t practice as much but seem to know a lot of things about their particular art.  But what we see is often no more than what is on the surface.  A budoka may not be as naturally skilled, and she may not have all the knowledge as some of her fellow practitioners, but if she continues to practice hard enough—not study—her techniques will eventually look as technically proficient as her fellow classmates.  But her budo is not the same, looks aside.  It’s deeper.  It has been forged in the fire of practice that her fellow budoka—naturally more talented, more inherently “gifted”—will never understand.  It simply can’t be seen by the majority, other budoka included.

     You see this in Zen, as well.  One practitioner may not have studied as much, and might not even know all the terms that his fellow practitioners know with ease, but he practices more, intent on seeing, and therefore knowing, the truth of Zen, not just intellectually understand it.  And when he does see, he now sees the very thing the other practitioners have discussed—he realizes that some of their explanations were even quite accurate—but he knows in a way they can’t know because they haven’t seen it.  Because what he sees—even though they “see” the same thing—is more, deeper, and below the surface.  Many may look upon the ocean in its majestic, wondrous beauty and they all know, at least intellectually, what is below the surface.  All can talk about it.  Some can explain it eloquently, but he sees and knows, even if he can never really put it into words.

     Omori Sogen had a more down-to-earth manner of expressing this same idea: “We often have visitors, some of whom have evidently read widely on Zen Buddhism, who like to discuss different theoretical problems.  Judging from their words, they seem to be great Zen men, but most of them have not sat enough for their vital buttocks to be familiar with their Zen cushions.”

     You encounter this relatively often in the dojo.  Visitors will come, spout their training credentials, and spend plenty of time discussing intricate theoretical locks, grabs, throws, blocks, and strikes.  But they still can’t stop a roundhouse kick even when you explain to them that your left foot is about to connect with the right side of their head.  That kind of budo—the ability to have your way even when your opponent knows what’s coming—is another kind of budo that can’t be seen.  It can’t be seen by others because they have never experienced it.  That’s because this kind of skill requires a combination of speed and strength, brought on by perfection of technique through constant practice, that can’t be understood if the training to acquire it hasn’t been undertaken.

     It also requires something else: a confidence that is conveyed in one’s “energy,” one’s presence so that the opponent has lost before the confrontation has even begun.  This point might seem odd to those who practice Zen but not a martial way.  It is an essential skill, however, if your life is ever on the line in a real combat situation.  You must be able to convey that confident presence to the street.  If you aren’t capable of that in the walls of the dojo, you won’t be able to do it in the open air of a street encounter.

     But Zen training does have its equivalents, as when one “resolves to know the great matter of life and death,” or if you commit to “die before you die.”  If those pithy sayings are to have any meaning at all, then one’s Zen practice must at the very least acquire the same seriousness as a bout in the dojo.  In many ways, Zen training is more serious, much more.  You train for the potentiality of death within the dojo.  You train for the eventuality of death in the zendo.

     The primary reason most never acquire a budo of this level is because they try to acquire it, they try their utmost to seize upon it.  But it is only achieved—if it’s ever achieved at all—through, ironically perhaps, not trying to achieve it.  You let go of the goal of integration and focus on the path.  The path itself becomes the goal.  The path is the goal.

     This means the only way to truly acquire this unseen aspect is to give yourself completely to your practice.  In time, this unseen aspect will emerge.  But you have to be diligent, even if there comes a time when it seems as if it will never emerge.  Yet it is often at the point when one is willing to give up, perhaps even to the point of despair, that diligent practice is most needed.  It might sound cliche, but it truly is darkest before the dawn.

     You must simply stay at it, give yourself completely to your practice, go through the darkness and, eventually, true budo emerges from within you.  It can’t be seen.  It can only be known.  You won’t be capable of explaining it to others, though others might see it in you, even if they themselves do not understand what it is they encounter in your presence.

     The words here are only pointers, however.  You must focus on your practice above all else.   With that, I will leave you with the words of Bruce Lee (paraphrasing the Zen poet-monk Ryokan): “It's like a finger pointing away to the moon. Don't concentrate on the finger or you will miss all that heavenly glory.”  

Sources

“Striking Thoughts: Bruce Lee’s Wisdom for Daily Living,” by Bruce Lee and John Little (editor)

“Introduction to Zen Training: A Physical Approach to Meditation and Mind-Body Training,” by Omori Sogen