There is a common understanding that the kata that make up modern Okinawan karate have been passed down for a long period of time essentially unchanged. There is also a common precept that “the kata must be preserved unchanged”, that they must be kept that way. The idea, of course, is that they contain knowledge that has been passed down intact and that if they are changed this knowledge will be lost.

Ok, that makes sense. The forms contain information for and about the systems they are a part of. Wouldn’t dream of arguing with that. The “unchanged” part, that might be a little more problematic. It is a nice idea. I’d like to think that we have little nuggets of ancient wisdom to draw on in our practice. In some systems that can be somewhat verified. Taking something like Tenshin Shoden Katori Shinto Ryu, there is a very well documented 600 yearish line of continuous succession and written documentation to back up the physical practice (this includes records of changes made, but that’s a different conversation). The two person paradigm that the kata embodies is somewhat change-resistant, as is the highly conservative environment of the practice. However, to be honest, we have no video reference before the 20^th century, so we really have no idea what it used to look like. But the Okinawan arts have a very different cultural background, and solo kata a very different practice paradigm.

Focusing on the cultural background, I’d like to look a little more closely at what unchanged might mean. To do so, I’d like to look at one or two kata from the early 20^th century. We don’t have video reference from this period, so let’s really simplify and just look at kata names and who taught them.  Let’s start with Seisan. We know that Aragaki Seisho demonstrated a version in 1867, so it has a long history in Okinawa. About 60-70 years later, around 1930, there were at least 7 versions extant. They included:

There is evidence of other versions. Itoman (The Study of Karate Techniques, 1934) lists an Iha Seisan and Mike and Takada (Kenpo Gaisetsu 1930) an Oshiro Seisan, which Kinjo Hiroshi has said is actually a Tomari Seisan passed from Mastumora to Iha to Oshiro. (He also says there was no Shuri Seisan.) Others, including researchers like Patrick McCarthy, have said Matsumura passed down the Shuri Seisan. I haven’t spent much time looking at the Shuri/Tomari lineages and can’t speak to some of this, so I’m sticking with the ones above as they will make my point well enough. The possible existence of others, or more complicated lines of transmission, only reinforce it.

So around 1930 there were at least 6 and possibly as many as 10 or more (I wish I could document 13!) versions of a single kata on Okinawa, a kata that had already been around for at least 70 years. Probably more, but we can clearly document to 1867. And these 6-10+ versions were each passed on by a single teacher to only one or two people we know of; for example Kanyu Seisan went only to Kyoda Juhatsu. That says two things. One, that the only versions we know now were those passed to people that continued to teach and helped create the styles we know today. (As a corollary, with small groups and not every teacher having students that taught, there were likely versions that simply didn’t get passed on.) And two, that none of these versions were widespread, they were particular to a single teacher and a small group of students.

To put it a different way, every teacher that passed down Seisan passed down a different one, and passed it down to a few direct students only. They passed down their own version. Indeed, while they all bear close resemblance to each other no two teachers from the pre-war era passed down an identical Seisan. What does that say about a “root” kata, one unchanged? By whom? As of when?

I’ll bring another kata in to look at this a slightly different way, Passai. At the same time, the 30s ish, there are a number of different versions of Passai extant, at least according to the somewhat scant written record. At this point they have taken on the names of the folks who taught them. A list could include:

These are people’s names, plus a place name. Even with a fairly comfortable understanding of Japanese I often find a list of names like this somewhat inaccessible. So let’s rephrase it. If it were in English, the list would feel more like:

This isn’t a list of style specific kata or kata named for some long lost ancestor. It’s a list of kata, named for people in the current or recent generations. A list of individual variations of a common piece of material. If you are familiar with folk music think about the different versions of The Ballad of John Henry recorded in the 20^th century. Each artist considered it ok, in fact if you know musicians you’d realize they would consider it essential, to take the root material and “make it their own”. The same thing is happening with karate kata here.

There were no styles at the time. Each teacher had, essentially, his own style, made up of what he had learned from their various teachers and completed with his own personal research and development. None of these teachers had many students. They did however, have a community around them.

These guys all knew each other. They shared stuff- the kenkyukai is a perfect example. A bunch of folks from what would eventually become different systems got together and shared. They were interested in how their peers were training. It wasn’t radical, though like most groups made up of a bunch of leaders it didn’t last long.

Community is important. Looking at these kata variations it seems clear to me that each teacher took the themes that were current in the community, things like Seisan or Passai, and worked with them as they saw fit. This wasn’t considered transgressive.  To wit, in Miyagi Hisateru’s piece “Memories of a Karate Man” he writes that “Yabu (Kentsu) performed Kusanku, which combined Sho and Dai. In Yabu sensei’s version all the shuto-uke were replaced by tsuki-uke. I think this was Yabu sensei’s way of improving the kata and that it was a good idea. Researching and combining kata has its place. Using the fist is better as the usual shuto-uke runs the risk of having fingers broken, which is quite frightening.”

It seemed normal to Miyagi that Yabu sensei would combine and make changes to classical kata based on his own ideas. The variations of Seisan and Passai, and their names, indicate to me that this was a typical way of working with kata. If not, there wouldn’t be so many unique variations of Seisan, or Passai with different teachers’ names attached.

So I might suggest that we should look at any search for an “original” version of a kata in a different light. We can’t know what the kata actually looked like before video. We do know that teachers felt comfortable making changes to kata at least up until the war and the development of today’s karate styles. We also know that even after the formal styles were created and the idea of kata as unchangeable came into more prominence changes still happen. If they don’t why are there so many minor variations of Goju’s Seisan now? They all come from Miyagi. Maybe he taught it differently to each person that learned it, or taught with variations, in which case he started out precluding the idea of a “true” kata. Maybe each teacher made some minor tweaks that he thought were ok. Either way, in 2 generations, with video and a clear pressure to keep things the same, there are differences, albeit minor.  What does that imply for kata in an environment with no video record and a common acceptance of teachers making changes as they see fit?

Perhaps we could find an “original” version of a kata for whatever system we are researching as far back as say 1930. Maybe as early as the start of the 20^th century, if we have any way to prove the current version is unchanged since then. But before that? I dunno. Taking Seisan, they are all clearly variations on the same form, but which version is closest to the original? How would you know? There is no documentation about its creation. There doesn’t appear to be one that was more popular, at least in the early 20^th century. You might be able to tease out one that was from an older lineage, but how do you know where the other lineages got theirs, and how do you know what changes were made the generation before it was passed on as it is now? How do you know that other versions from the same period didn’t keep key elements that the teacher that passed down the “older” version didn’t like? And does it matter?

Kata are an essential part of Okinawan karate. They hold important elements of the systems they embody. But equally clearly, at least to me, their secrets are in their practice, the way they are done and how they were shaped to work within their systems, within current (at the time of the system’s founding) training methods and concepts, as much as in the sequences. Their embodiment of these particular concepts is what makes them valuable tools. Certainly they have been passed down to us and we should treat them with the respect they are due. But we shouldn’t fool ourselves that we have some unchanged piece of the ancient past to work with. Our karate ancestors were inspired men, not the kind of folks to blindly pass on something, but the kind of men who would make sure whatever they valued they worked with and shaped to be an active and creative part of the art they loved. Respect that, follow the goal, not the finger pointing at it, and don’t create a mystical artifact that, most likely, is just illusion.

Oh, and don’t change the kata.

Well, I’m definitely thinking about language and culture these days. Right now, it’s titles and ranks. These came up in a conversation I had recently. There is already a plethora of stuff written about how they are used incorrectly. On one level that makes sense to me. I find the western misuse of Japanese terminology endlessly frustrating. Honestly, it is pretty simple. In Japan and Okinawa one never refers to oneself using a title. You don’t say “Hi, I’m Bob sensei”, you say “Hi, I’m Bob.” And even the highest ranked teachers are called “sensei” when you are speaking to them (just like a school teacher or your GP), not hanshi, or shihan, or any other title. Sempai cannot be used as a title or rank, because one person’s sempai is another’s kohai. (At the same time, in the same conversation…) But these simple linguistic concepts get, or got, changed pretty quickly in their transition to the west. Some groups now refer to seniors with titles like kyoshi or renshi instead of sensei. I see sempai written on belts or used as a title. And don’t get me started on soke. At times it makes me, and people I know who have also lived in Japan, a little batty.¹

But why? So what? They are just words. And when I look closer, the only people that seem really invested in this are westerners who have lived in Japan for an extended period of time. Even many of the Okinawan teachers I know see how their western students use the terms and while they may laugh a little about it they don’t really seem to care. And I certainly know people who have been traveling to Okinawa or Japan for decades who use the terms very differently to how they are used in their native context but suffer no conflicts or consequences. So why is there an issue?

For a couple of reasons, I think. The first is simple: it is incorrect. To give some context, it sounds a little like someone saying “Hello Mr. Master’s Degree Frederick” to me. Really weird. The second is the way in which it is wrong. In Japanese it would sound arrogant (and a little insecure). Think “that’s right, I am more important than all of you and you better know your place” arrogant if you are using it about yourself, like “I’m Bob sensei”. And saying something like “good morning xxx hanshi” to someone, either comes off as sarcastic, implying you don’t think they deserve the rank, or it implies that the person you are speaking to is quite arrogant and demands being called by his or her titles and you are calling them out on that. Either way it is pretty much an insult. So I’d think that if you were really trying to show respect and be a part of an activity rooted in another culture you would want to get it right.

And yet….  I have friends and acquaintances who have spent a lot of time in Okinawa. They use titles in a variety of ways, depending on the American (or Canadian) groups they belong to. When they are in Okinawa however their teachers and fellow students never get upset about mis-used vocabulary or word choices that can come across as rude. Why not? Because it is really clear things are not meant that way. As the Okinawans are well aware they cannot speak English they recognize the effort. They see the desire to demonstrate respect and friendship, and to give credit to the teacher, the art, and the culture. Mistakes are not nearly as important as the spirit behind them.

But things are different when you are living in the culture. Okinawa is unusual, because you can conceivably live there for years and not really have to speak Japanese or Uchinaguchi much. But in virtually all the rest of the country if you are living and working there you live and work in Japanese. And while it can be over-stated, it is an in-group culture and a fairly formal one. There is a difference between someone visiting and someone who has taken on the responsibilities of an adult. If you have taken on these responsibilities not only is your intention important, your competency is as well. If you are in, you have to abide by the rules. That means understanding how to be polite and acting accordingly.

This is in part because your public behavior represents the group, whether you want it to or not. The costs for failing can at times be severe- ostracism and disrespect among them. There can also be consequences for any group you belong to; whether you think it is fair or not your behavior will reflect on those around you and they may pay a price for your actions, just as you may pay a price for theirs. That set of expectations carries across multiple areas of your life: work, the dojo, and friendships. The better your language and cultural skills get, and the closer your relationships get, the stronger the expectations get. This isn’t to say it is a harsh culture. My experience is the exact opposite. But there are expectations around following basic rules of conduct, just as there are here.

So after living in the culture for an extended period you wind up internalizing this, both because it is a part of your daily life and because most people want to be polite. And then when you hear things done incorrectly it really stands out. (In part because it can then reflect back on you, even if your only connection is that you are both gaijin.) That’s not surprising. If I were to hear someone say “Hello Mr. Master’s Degree Frederick” to me here I’d definitely wonder. Especially if that person had been involved in an American art form, say bluegrass banjo playing, for years and traveled here many times to study it. And even if my (hypothetical banjo player) business card were to have my degrees on it it’s clear we don’t say them when speaking to someone. It only takes a couple of first meetings to learn the “nice to meet you Mr. xxx” portion of a conversation. I’d wonder why they didn’t care enough to learn how to address people, or if they were too stupid to get it.

I’ve sat in dojo in Kagoshima and Okinawa with my teachers and guests who spoke very little Japanese. I’ve sat at work with new arrivals and my bosses. And in both situations I’ve seen the guests getting honest praise, repeated later when they were not around, for their use of the language while then being criticized myself for mistakes in gradients of formality between different members of the group. I’ve also been given a dressing down for other foreigners making mistakes- the fault was mine not theirs because I knew what was appropriate and they didn’t; even if they were refusing correction not being able to get them to accept it and be polite was my responsibility, though I had no authority over them. The expectations were just different.

It can be crazy-making! Why can she, whom you see every year or two but can’t discuss political economy with, get a pass on calling you a moron by mistake while you give me, who is here every week, cleaning the dojo, going to the enkai, and talking with you about how to deal with your chronically late employee, a dressing down for mixing up formal verb tenses when drunk? Shouldn’t everyone have to get it right? Especially when it has been made clear getting it wrong is disrespectful?  And why is their behavior my responsibility? Why do the actions of people I don’t even know reflect on me? For folks who have lived and worked in the culture this can result in some stress that comes out when non-Japanese use things like titles and such inappropriately. And if the locals don’t take any offense at visitors misusing their titles, I guess it doesn’t really matter and we should get over it. But having some responsibility, unwanted I assure you, for the actions of others whom I have no control over has reminded me of one thing: usually they are being let off the hook because they aren’t thought of as being fully on the team. They are not being treated as a responsible adult.

So while it is nice getting let off the hook, and comfortable (and cool?) creating your own traditions around titles, you might want to think about what that means, for you and for your group. You don’t have to get it right, but making the same mistakes over and over tells people that you don’t really care, or just don’t understand (or think your version is equally or more valid than the native one). And if they are letting you off the hook it may indicate a background assumption you are not really equals. Is that what you want? To be assumed to be less than? And really, there is no excuse. The butchering of Japanese titles here is a pretty poor showing. But no worse than this sign, so I guess it goes both ways. Can’t imagine that place getting much business in Boston though.  I know I’d go somewhere else.

1 I actually think this is in part due to the military background of so many of the first generations of Japanese martial arts instructors in the US. In the military a captain is a captain, a private is a private. Rank is not conditional. But in the dojo, a sempai is sometimes a kohai, and your sensei might be someone else’s kohai. it all depends on who you are talking to. That’s pretty different.

Culture, writing, language, training, they interact in interesting ways. The Water Margin translation I referenced in my last post reminded me of the Bubishi and the Kenpo Hakku, in particular the bit probably most connected to Goju Ryu’s history: 法剛柔吞吐; Ho Go Ju Don Tou. The characters directly translate something like- law/principle, hard, soft, swallow (in), spit (out). The form is a 5 character poem of a type common in Southern Chinese martial arts. They are sayings that elucidate elements of practice or the principles of the art.  They can be difficult to translate because they are written without punctuation or much in the way of context, often missing particles, verb conjugations, subject and object markers, and other elements of language that could make them clear. More pertinently here, they also often reference cultural ideas or common use phrases that are very clear to a native speaker (or to an initiate) but may be completely unintelligible to a non-native. Think “bums me out” being translated by someone who has never heard the phrase before. Without knowing it means “saddens me” one might wind up with an odd-seeming translation that involves multiple posteriors, and potentially a lot of mystery.

In this case, there have been a lot of translations over the years. They usually focus on breathing, as the terms 吞吐Don Tou use characters that can be read to imply inhaling and exhaling as well as swallowing and spitting. So, translations like: The way of breathing is both hard and soft. With this translation, it makes sense to examine what the phrase means for using the breath in a hard or soft fashion, and what this then means for both practice and combative use. This is probably the right way to go, after all it is how the poem has been understood for quite a while, both on Okinawa and in the West.

However, there might be another, simpler answer to what this phrase means, one dependent on the cultural context it comes from. The Bubishi is a Southern Chinese Boxing manual, in a format fairly common in the area and time. These arts all use versions of: 浮沉吞吐FouChunTunTou, or: float, sink, swallow, spit. These are four basic directions of power- swallowing is drawing towards yourself or absorbing, spitting is sending out or projecting, floating is lifting or raising, sinking is dropping down or weighting. Obviously we could go into a huge amount of detail and discussion about these energies, what they mean, and how they are used, but that’s the basic idea. It is a core concept in these arts, in particular the Crane systems.

It seems perfectly in keeping for a Southern Chinese training manual to reference these energies. Almost mandatory. And certainly immediately clear to someone reading it. But it doesn’t seem that this phrase made it into the Okinawan arts with quite the same weight. It may be the Okinawans were not as familiar with it, or that it wasn’t as central to how they conceptualized their arts, and so the folks who trained in China didn’t really pass it on. Therefore, except to those who had trained in China and spoke the language, the very common meaning behind it may not have been apparent. This goes even more so for Western students working on translating from Japanese, as the Japanese is actually Chinese and not only is the phrase in another language, but it is actually a standard reference to something they may have had no context for and so didn’t recognize.

In short, Westerners (and possibly Okinawans?) may have been dictionary-translating a text that is structurally obscure without the key cultural context that could change it from something that seems esoteric into something simple. Indeed the phrase itself, instead of being an esoteric statement, could be a means of simplifying the Hard/Soft dichotomy that is so often used, giving it concrete examples as opposed to a more philosophical meaning. 

If we look at it through this lens, instead of a commentary on breathing, you get a simple examination of two of the four directions of energy:

Rule (Ho) Hard (Go) Soft (Ju) Project/Spit (Don) Absorb/Swallow (Tou), just as before. But if instead of drawing connections to breathing through Don and Tou we think of them as common use terms for two of the four basic energies, the translation might be different.  

Perhaps: The rule is projecting is hard, absorbing is soft. Or: be soft when absorbing, be hard when projecting. Or: When bringing in be soft, when forcing out be hard. Or: absorbing techniques are done softly, projecting techniques are done hard. Or: absorbing is a soft concept, projecting is a hard concept.

My experience in Feeding Crane, and limited exposure to a number of other Southern Chinese arts, tells me that these would all make immediate sense to someone who was trained in these systems, as these ideas- absorbing as soft, projecting as hard; connecting various energies to concepts of hardness and softness and then categorizing techniques based on them- are very common in these systems. Sometimes they are categorized  something like: Swallowing is soft is pulling, defense, retreat, slow movement, reactive; Spitting is hard is pushing, striking, attack, advance, fast movement, aggressive. All ideas that can be easily connected to both training and use, are fairly concrete in meaning, and can be clearly linked to specific techniques.

Of course I can’t know if this is correct or not. I certainly am not about to dismiss the efforts in translation and understanding that have gone before me. But it does fit with the context the Bubishi is supposed to have come from. It also takes a lot of the woo-woo out of this portion of the poem, which I kinda like. Either way, it gives some context for what is often a very obscure section of text. If we are going to try to examine the connections between the Chinese and Okinawan arts we need to understand the context of both. Without context we are far more likely to be making things up as we go, which is cool, and can be fun, but perhaps isn’t the point?

Karate is full of myths. Origins, connections to past traditions, mysterious teachers, hidden techniques, the list goes on. This isn’t surprising, in fact it is in keeping with the arts related to it, both in Japan and China. Sometimes, however, the myths can take on a little too much historical weight. That is certainly true in the Chinese arts, where things like the Southern Shaolin Temple, which in all likelihood never existed, and the legends surrounding its destruction and the diaspora of its surviving monks form the basis of the foundation myths of a number of Southern Chinese arts.

These legends seem, when scholars examine them, to be based at least in part on the stories told in The Water Margin, also called Outlaws of the Marsh, or All Men Are Brothers. This novel, which can be dated to at least 1524, is a treasure trove of martial arts tropes, as well as being quite a fun read. It has everything: monks fleeing burnt temples, masters hiding from the government, secret symbols and hidden training, mystical and magical martial skills, numerology, and so on.

Many of these tropes are also seen in the stories around karate in Okinawa. Mysterious teachers, hidden techniques, fighting back against an oppressive government, hidden meaning in the names of kata, these sound familiar, no? These go along with the stories of direct transmission from a mysterious Chinese teacher and secret or ancient Chinese knowledge. A lot of Chinese stuff, really, for an island more directly influenced by Japanese culture and political hegemony. A little background in Okinawan culture makes at least some of the reasons for this emphasis on Chinese knowledge obvious. There is an immense amount of cultural capital to be gained in traditional Okinawan culture through connection to Chinese knowledge or learning. More than from Japanese, regardless of the actual historical weight of the two.

When looking for the connections to the Chinese cultural impact on the Okinawan martial arts however, the emphasis is usually on trade, or the sapposhi, the Ryukyukan or Kumemura; on contact with the martial arts directly. But questions remain. Where did the founders learn their arts? Why are their teachers unknown? What exactly was Chinese and what Okinawan? And the stories also seem, familiar? Fleeing conscription in Okinawa or leaving on a quest for martial knowledge, becoming a disciple of a local master after helping him or his family, learning deeply and in secret, being the best student even if you were an outcast of some sort , fleeing having accidentally killed someone in China. Good stuff, if rather unoriginal. But while these stories are occasionally examined, looking at some of the larger Chinese cultural impact on the Okinawan martial arts is ofttimes ignored. How did music, the classics, or dance impact those learning martial arts? And what impact did literature or legend have?

This last occurred to me most recently when I was visiting the Museum of Fine Arts here in Boston a few months back. Amusingly enough, I was in the company of one of my teachers, a senior in the Jigen Ryu from Kagoshima who was visiting. He wanted to see an Ukiyo e exhibit that was on. He was somewhat amused that the MFA has such a huge collection, known in Japan as well as here for being one of the best, and it was indeed a wonderful exhibit. Amongst the many works of art, the one that really jumped out at me was this: an 1830s reprint of an 1805 translation of The Water Margin illustrated by Hokusai. This was, at the time, a huge success and inspired a “Water Margin” craze. An 1827 reprint with art by Kuniyoshi jumpstarted his career and inspired a nationwide craze for whole body multi-color tattoos (as well as inspiring the reprint of the 1805 printing that had inspired Kuniyoshi). I hadn’t realized how popular, and persistent this book was in Japan. Somehow, I’d segregated the Chinese and Japanese cultural spheres, while in reality they merge a great deal.

As I said, this work had a huge impact on the founding myths of many of the southern arts. These arts in turn had some influence on the development of karate as we know it today.  These martial arts cannot be separated from the legends that surround them (nor would I want to!). But in part because of the strength of these stories their actual history is often hard to discover. Powerful stuff indeed. And in looking at the influence of Chinese culture on the Okinawan martial arts it might behoove us to think a little more holistically. If we think about these stories as coming from multiple sources, filtered through multiple cultures, it might be another window into their influence.  In reality it isn’t just from whatever direct transmission of technique or information that happened that this influence is felt.

And therefore it isn’t just from Chinese sources that Chinese culture can enter the arts. In this case, a set of foundational stories that was hugely influential in China, and to the arts that then influenced the Okinawan arts, was also very popular in translation, with editions being published periodically and remaining popular through the Edo (from at least 1757 on) and Meiji periods. These would be known to any Okinawan martial artist who could read, and most likely, since they were so popular, even to those who couldn’t. So they would be part of the background of the art from both ends, as it were. Both through the direct transmission from Chinese sources, who would certainly have been familiar with the tales (and likely practiced arts that incorporated them into their own myths) and from the popular culture around the Okinawans.

So what Chinese influence then? Not just technique, but also myth and story. A multi variate influence. Happening at different times and through different media. Coming from variant cultural loci, and with accompanying variant levels of cultural capital, but regardless thereby being somewhat self-reinforcing. And much like the Chinese before them, it seems like not too much of a stretch to see the Okinawans also incorporating these stories into their own, particularly since they were getting them from all sides, as it were. Perhaps unconsciously, perhaps on purpose, but that is how myth and fact get intermingled. When, as humans do, we take what we are given and make ourselves the main characters of our own story.

I’ve always found the “everybody has two arms and two legs and there are only so many ways they move” adage somewhat annoying. In the martial arts it is usually used to validate the method the person saying it is demonstrating, with the implication that anything else is an inefficient use of the limited options the human body offers. While there is some truth to it, there are also a huge number of variables that make it somewhat useless in training. (Provided, that is, that you are not trying to do something that actually is physically impossible, like do a technique that requires 3 arms.)

One way to look at this variability is through methods of power generation. By this I mean the way the body generates force that can then be used to hit, kick, block, throw, choke, etc.. While the adage above implies that the body has limits that lead us to one “best” way to develop power I’d like to examine that a little. To do so, I’d like to look at a few ways I have been taught to develop power. I am not going to look at specific techniques, or training methods, but instead look at the basic mechanics behind them. 

Rotation

This is pretty straightforward. It means rotating the body around the core, the spine. An example might be a standard reverse punch, a low round kick, iriminage, or the way we use the torso/frame in our basic strikes in Matayoshi kobudo. There are a lot of elements that come into generating and transmitting this rotation- how you initiate it, how you tie the large muscle groups to the limb(s) being used to transmit the power, how you connect it to the ground and into the frame so it doesn’t bleed out when you impact, and perhaps most importantly how to connect the frame together, so you are not “using your hips” but not actually connecting them to your shoulders and leaving just the arms or shoulders powering the movement- but the general idea is consistent: the body turns, the turning action generates force.

Compression and Expansion

This sounds complex but it isn’t. It is simply contracting and relaxing various muscle groups. Doing it with certain groups gives the sense of entire sections of the body getting larger or smaller, expanding or contracting, as represented by the term shime in various Okinawan arts. The term fajiang is often used for this when done quickly to create percussive force and it is essential to short power. One aspect of it is that creating tension in a muscle leaves it unable to tense further, making relaxion essential to using it again. Another is that compression/contraction with certain muscle groups can extend the oppositional groups so they are prepped to contract (and vice versa), that “drawing the bow” analogy many arts use. A third is that tension in a muscle means it is restricting movement, making relaxing it essential to using the oppositional muscle groups as well as to using it again. Examples of this might be pulling your shoulders towards each other in front then pulling them sharply apart using the large muscles of the back, as we do in Feeding Crane and Matayoshi kobudo (in nunchiyaku, or tinbe forms, for example), pushing the lunging elbow strike forward using the leg and torso in Uechi ryu, driving the foot down while extending the torso for a low side kick in Goju, throwing a jab, or applying a triangle choke. Again there are a variety of elements that are needed in practice- knowing which groups to use, learning how to connect them, and especially learning to relax and contract as needed so you don’t choke your own power- but the idea is consistent, and at times seems so simple it doesn’t need to be explained or examined.

Shaking

This sounds esoteric but it isn’t. It is similar to rotation but instead of using a single unified rotation to generate force the body is shaken. A back and forth shake/twist through the torso with hips and shoulders moving in opposite directions, much like a coil spring, is used to generate power that can then be transmitted to the limbs. The image often used to explain it is a dog shaking water off its back. It is commonly seen in Crane systems, with techniques like Feeding Crane’s elbow back or Crane Wing Pecks Eye. Much like rotation I think it is often misunderstood, as the core shaking needs to stay connected both within the frame and to the limbs and I often seen huge hip movement happening well before impact, essentially a rotation with only part of the body, isolating the limb instead of connecting it to the core. Of course it also needs training- the connections to the core need to be developed so the large muscle groups properly drive the shake across the frame as opposed to with it, relaxation and tension need to be learned, and timing, in particular continuing the shake through multiple techniques, needs to be trained- but the idea of using a cross-torso shaking/twisting motion to generate power remains the same.

Momentum

This is pretty simple. It means putting the body in motion and dumping the momentum gained into the opponent. A diving take down, a body check, and a lunging elbow might be examples. Main training elements here are connection and structure. When you impact you need to stay structurally sound so that your power doesn’t bleed out of the nearest joint, or back into the air.

Sinking

This is using gravity. It is similar to momentum, but the movement is generated by allowing gravity to do its work instead of your muscles. A sacrifice throw would be a good example, as would a dropping punch or elbow, or dropping your weight onto a joint break. Connection is a main training element here, along with learning how to time and initiate the use of gravity. Often it is through a knee release, but there are other ways. This sinking energy is also used to initiate movement, by releasing in the direction you are going and using gravity to get you started.

Those are some methods I have been taught to generate power, but to be clear this doesn’t get into how to use what you have generated. Take whipping as an example. In my opinion, whipping is not power generation, it is power transfer. That seems like a fine distinction, but I think it is a really important one. To whip, at least as I have been taught, you need to keep the limb relaxed enough to transmit the power developed at the core without choking it off and at the same time connected enough to control and deliver it. You need to know where your power is coming from and then how to get it where you want it. The same goes for any transmission method, really.

And none of these necessarily stand alone. No system I have practiced (or seen) uses just one, and indeed few individual techniques do. They tend to group and reinforce each other. You can rotate, sink, and expand to deliver a punch, compress and sink to break an elbow, compression and expansion drive rotation, shaking, or momentum, and so on. It is really useful to understand which combination of power generations you are using so you can focus your training on making them clean. That way they can reinforce instead of counter each other. Understanding what you are doing allows you to improve it.

And this is why I think the adage is not very useful. These are all good methods of generating power. There are others. None need be used in isolation. None trumps another. And these methods of power generation don’t even begin to address the use of structure, position, timing, target, leverage, tactics, methods or directions of use (like the classic rise/sink/spit/swallow) etc., all of which hugely affect how power is transmitted or received. So instead of a “one is best” approach, or a focus on limitations, looking at the multivariate way they can be used seems more useful to me. While the human body does have limited options available to it even this initial level of variability, before delivery method, structure, timing, leverage, etc. are included, creates a lot of valid options.

As an aside, I also think one part of the variation you see between systems is how these methods, among other things, are weighted and combined. That balance affects how an art looks and what options it focuses on. It creates the “engine” for that specific art. For example, Goju, as I understand it, uses mainly expansion and contraction and rotation while Feeding Crane uses mainly shaking and expansion and contraction, while both use sinking and momentum in varying amounts. Those combinations lead to slightly different answers to various problems. When I watch other arts- boxing, judo, kali, xingyi – I see varying elements of most of these methods, depending on the system and technique. And it is really interesting to see an art or practitioner focusing heavily on an element of power generation that I don’t use much of.

Anyway, just some thoughts on power generation. Take a moment. Pick a technique from your practice. Look at how it generates the power it uses. Where that power originates and how it is delivered. It might help you understand how to improve it, or give you some insights on how your system uses that specific type of power generation in other ways.

Why do we so commonly have images of our teachers (and their teachers…) as supernaturally skilled? Thinking about my last post and some of the feedback I got led me to think some more about the images I have of my teachers, the stories I have told about them, and, amusingly enough, of some of the stories (sometimes heard second or third hand) my students have told about me. When I think of Kimo, Sakai, Gakiya, Miyagi, Liu, Nagata, or a number of my other teachers or seniors one of the things I consistently remember is the feeling of being completely outclassed. I think many martial artists have similar experiences. Why is that? It certainly supports that trope I discussed in my last post. But in thinking about it, I realized something: we often create these images early in our relationships with people. And when you first walk through the door of a dojo you don’t know anything. You are completely outclassed. In a way that you should not be, at least if the teacher is good, even a couple of years later. But these images are sticky. They maintain. I think that is one reason why we have this trope to begin with. We are struck by how far outclassed we are when we enter the dojo, at a time when we have no training in that art and are looking for something. It is an impressionable moment. Of course we remember our teachers as amazing!

And to add to that, our perception of age changes. I clearly remember being completely outclassed by an old man when I was 18 and starting training. It was like something out of a movie! I came to the dojo from competitive rowing and not being able to keep up with such an old man seemed impossible. Looking back though, that “old man” was in his early 40s. Not so old, though he sure seemed it to my teenage self. And that man was training every day, and had been for decades. So again, the image was formed based on a moment in time. One informed by the perspective of a teenager who had no martial arts training at all. But it was an impressionable moment. And it stuck.

I think a lot of stories of our teachers come from these moments. Starting training, being young, being in an impressionable place. Paying attention to when and how we developed them seems a good idea to me. It might make you reassess these images. For me, doing this has led to a deeper appreciation of the teachers I have had, of how they welcomed me and helped me grow. And of how they demonstrated their ability and knowledge in a way that inspired and drew me in, instead of beat me down. And now, when I remember those of my teachers who have passed, I see them in a more human way. Sure, when we met they could do impossible things. But instead of standing on a pillar and looking down they showed me where the ladder was, and how climbing it wasn’t impossible, just a lot of good hard work. And then they gave me a hand up the first steps.

I was talking to a friend a few months ago, about teaching through the pandemic. One thing that came up was how many people had been doing Zoom sessions. I understand why. We have not been able to gather in person as we normally would and Zoom has acted as a substitute. It has helped some dojo stay open and give their students the best experience they could in a difficult time. I have even heard some talk about how it was better, allowing more access to teachers and material without the need for travel, and at lower cost. Sure, it doesn’t allow for contact, or physical corrections, or breaking off into smaller groups or pairs to work on something, but it does enable certain types of training, primarily solo or form work, and a certain type of instruction, primarily lecture and demonstration. We realized we could balance the up and down sides, particularly as a stop gap during a pandemic. Some good some bad, but probably better than nothing. But the thing we kept returning to was that it just wasn’t as much fun.

Fun, that is, for us. From what I’ve heard students have mixed experience with the format. Some don’t like it, some love it. But regardless, the upsides seem to be primarily for the students, particularly those who are newer to the material. I’ve done a couple of Zoom classes, as requests and to see what I thought of the format. And yup, it was nice to see the students, as best I could in little boxes on the screen, taking in some of the material and having a good time. But indeed it just wasn’t as much fun.

What do I mean by fun? Well, I didn’t enjoy it as much, or feel I could actually teach. I couldn’t really see who was getting it and who wasn’t. I couldn’t read the room well enough to improvise, to add, remove, or change material to get the lessons across. I couldn’t touch people to correct them, offer appropriate pressure to help them better understand. I missed seeing the lightbulbs switching on as a shift in the class helped someone suddenly get what we were doing. And of course there was no partner work. It felt incomplete, because our art is interactive and without contact none of the movement has any meaning. Teaching itself is interactive. I can certainly talk (just ask my students) but in general there is a blurry line between training and teaching. I felt like I was lecturing to the group instead of trying to figure out how to meet each person where they were and working with them to move forward. And I missed the casual social interactions involved in a normal class, even a seminar or workshop class. Learning a little about the participants, benefiting from their experience, sharing a story that popped up because of a question, or getting another perspective on what we were doing that would make me think about my practice. Learning. Building relationships.

So yeah, not as fun. But so what? What does it matter if the teacher is having fun? We are used to thinking of teachers a certain way. Their role is to aid and assist, to inform and to help us grow. (Looking at how we treat school teachers, it seems credit for a selfless “giving” spirit is far more important than respect for a difficult profession or providing a good salary and working conditions.) Teachers give. The relationship is one way. And yes, most people who teach do so because they love it, because they want to share their art and want to see others succeed. Most also feel a responsibility to pass on what they have been given, to keep the art alive and growing. I certainly see all this in the people I know who teach martial arts. But that conversation about zoom classes make me think about what we should expect teachers to get out of teaching, and what students should perhaps be thinking of in regards to their role.

Why should a teacher teach you anything? Especially in a volunteer activity like the martial arts? Well, one reason is that you have paid for class and shown up. Ok, that is a reasonable expectation. But from there? And what if the teacher isn’t getting paid? I wonder how many students think about what they are giving to their teachers in return for what they are receiving. How does your participation help the teacher? The dojo? The art? What have you done to encourage the teacher to be there, to share hard won knowledge and experience with you? What brings them back time and again?

I think these are important questions for any student. Just think about it. You have no “right” to knowledge or instruction, no matter how much you want it. If your teacher isn’t getting anything out of it, maybe they will reassess. They might stop teaching. Maybe they will come to teach out of habit and not bother to figure out how to pass the hard stuff on. Maybe they will come to train, not worry so much about teaching, not worry if you can get what they are doing or not. Maybe they’ll focus on faces through the door instead of quality instruction. Maybe they won’t try to figure out how to work with you so you can keep growing and just let you get what you can. How many people keep doing something they don’t see any benefit to? Your teachers’ efforts are helping you to learn and grow. What are your efforts doing for them? For the rest of the group? For the art? Are you showing them why they should keep trying?

One way to look at this is transactional- what are you giving in return for access and instruction? Have you paid your dues, put in your time? But another way is relational. Is the relationship a two way street? If the teacher just gives, the power in the relationship is one way- the teacher has it all and the student is simply a receiver. But that is pretty juvenile. If you are both adults the student should be able to meet the teacher part way, provide something that adds value to the teacher, to the relationship, and to the group. This may be simple: funds for the dojo, a thoughtful gift, taking care of chores and such, helping find other interested students, engaging, working, and showing the teacher how valuable what is being passed on is to them. It may be more complex- adding knowledge from other sources (academic, medical, other training), doing web design or management, teaching classes, making connections and opening doors for new opportunities, working to become a training partner for the teacher so you can help them keep improving. (This last is, in my opinion, particularly cogent- without strong and challenging training partners the teacher’s skills get rusty and they stop growing.) But regardless of what it is, it is important. You may not know it, but what you are contributing is one reason the opportunity to train, to learn, exists.

I am not suggesting the student has more responsibility than the teacher. In a traditional Japanese sempai-kohai relationship the larger responsibility lies with the sempai (and a sensei is simply a sempai of another stripe). But the kohai has an equally important role to play. Just as your teacher is working to figure out how he or she can best meet you where you are and help you grow, you are supposed to be working on your own to figure out how you can help your teacher (and the group you are both a part of) grow and become more of what they want to be. To be an equal part of the relationship. And, honestly, that is hard to do over Zoom. And not nearly as much fun.

One thing I think is essential in training is understanding what each part of your practice is for. What is the goal? Being vague here doesn’t help. For example, doing 1000 punches in shiko dachi to “make you more powerful” is fine, but it might be helpful to define exactly what “more powerful” means. Better able to stay in shiko dachi? It will do that. Better able to hit hard? It might do that, but probably won’t. Better lactate tolerance? Probably better ways to do that. Stronger legs? Ok but again there are better ways to do that. Increased mental endurance. Sure. You get the point. Being clear about what your goals are and how you define them is essential. When I look at elements of my training I tend to put them into one of three categories, based on what their primary goal is: Attributes, Techniques, and Skills. 

Attributes are intrinsic elements of the practitioner. They might include speed, aerobic endurance, physical strength, flexibility, ability to generate martial power (fajiang or atifa), ability to take a hit/body conditioning, fundamental mechanics, use of peripheral vision, and so on. They may also include understanding of the principles of the system (theory), knowledge of where to hit and how things like joints work, and other non-physical attributes like fudoshin. These attributes can often be trained alone, as solo drills. They help form the “engine” as it were, or the martial body-mind appropriate for the art you practice. Training like calisthenics, basic movements, bag or makiwara work, hojo undo, paired conditioning drills, meditation, reading and other study, and so on are some methods for developing your attributes.

Techniques are exactly that. Specific martial applications. For example a kote gaeshi, or seio nage. This category would also include things like tenshin, interactive blocks and strikes, ukemi, throws, kansetsu or shime waza, or how to resist, absorb, or apply specific pressures. Training technique usually requires a partner, as the point is learning how to do specific things with an opponent. Some aspects of technique can also be trained in solo kata or on a bag, training dummy or with other training tools. Drills like any sort of pre-set bunkai, uchikomi, yakusoku kumite, various “lock flow” drills, many types of kakie, and so on are primarily technique training.

Skills are the means by which attributes are used to apply techniques. These are things like understanding timing, controlling space, and taking and maintaining the opponent’s balance, hitting with power on target on a resisting opponent while moving. Things like being aggressive (in intent, not emotionally), controlling fear, zanshin, ability to observe, and so on are also skills. For example, being strong and able to do a perfect kataguruma isn’t helpful unless you can take a resistant opponent, protect yourself from their attacks, feel openings and options, and get them and you in a position where you can use that strength to apply the kataguruma. Training skills requires a partner, someone who also understands what you are doing in training and why. You have to know what skills you are working on and what aspects of the training methods you are using are the “fiction” that allows you to train that skill, or set of skills, safely but thoroughly. Training methods like some forms of pushing hands practice/kakie or sensitivity training, many forms of randori, and other free or semi-free practice are often skill training. Pre-set two person work can also be skill training if it is designed and done that way (harder than it sounds and somewhat rare in the Okinawan arts).

Of course there is overlap between these categories, and many training methods will cover more than just one. The important thing, I believe, is understanding your goals, and then understanding how what you are training helps you meet them. If you don’t really understand what your practices are supposed to do, you can’t monitor and adjust when you are doing them incorrectly. For example, if  you think the purpose of a bunkai is to teach you to do a certain technique but don’t know what skills it is reinforcing you might not notice if you are starting out of range, not attacking into range, or waiting with your arms out for  your partner to apply the technique. These might actually be OK ways to train, if you understand what is happening and why- for example it is silly to try to learn a throw with a partner who is always resisting you- but if you don’t clearly know why you are doing what you are doing it might just feel fast and strong and be reinforcing mistakes. And you may not be balancing with other methods that correct for these issues.

Creating a balance between these three categories is essential. You can’t use your skills if you are too weak, or don’t understand why they work. Your strength will be overwhelmed if you don’t have a good mastery of technique (just watch a good grappler dominate a physically strong beginner). Your speed and techniques will be useless if your opponent is constantly keeping you off balance, physically or mentally, or if you don’t have the engine or technical vocabulary to put them into effect. In my opinion one reason Kano’s students did so well against classical jujutsu players is that he took the excellent attribute and technique training from the classical systems and added a better approach to controlled skill development. Sure, his guys probably lost something in the process, perhaps a toolbox that included the more damaging techniques, but since they were working in an environment where killing or maiming the opponent was a negative result, this didn’t matter. And the skills developed worked. (It definitely helped that many of his guys also already had a strong background in classical jujutsu, a case of adding to not instead of…)

It is easy to focus too much on one category of training. You might like it more. It might be easier. It might be more fun. And for an instructor, you might want to work on your weaknesses, not realizing your students need more focus on other things, or just have something you are into. In my experience attribute and technique training are usually the biggest emphasis in most “traditional” dojo. Physical training (calesthenics, weight training, hojo or junbi undo, etc.), basics, kata, pre-set bunkai and various things of this sort. They are easier to control and generate clearer results. What results? Fitness, some basic skills, and memorization of the curriculum. But an over emphasis on attributes can also lead to demanding training that results in possibly strong/fit people with mediocre mechanics or limited skills. Since physical attributes can cover for some of this, people training might not even notice. An over focus on technique on the other hand can easily result in people in poor shape or unable to take a hit doing lots of forms and “cool” applications like throws, striking combinations, or joint locks, often against unresisting usually out of range opponents. Plus, of course, having a curriculum down. Feels cool but lacks meat, as it were.

Skill training is a little harder to measure sometimes. You have to be clear what you are measuring before you start, create a metric as it were. Competition can create a way to judge who in that environment is developing, depending on how it is done. However in competitive environments I often see an emphasis on specific attributes and very specific skills, the ones most pertinent to that particular brand of competition. (I also see selection for those attributes, instead of skill development, but that is a different discussion.) Attributes can often make up for technique and skill- if you are strong and fast enough that throw is likely to work even if you are not quite lined up properly. They also are essential- if you don’t have the necessary endurance you will lose. At the same time certain specific skills are really useful in specific environments but can be detrimental in others (think about the overextension and lack of ability to take a hit often seen in point fighting; that would get you crushed if your opponent could grapple). An overemphasis on skills is like coming out to spar or roll but not spending time training techniques or working out- you might get good at what you know but may not know why, probably have a pretty limited repertoire, may not know what to do against someone with equal skill, and might lack the engine to get things to work. And over focus on skills can lead to my favorite martial trap, the technique of no technique- being able to move easily through a lot of somewhat fuzzy applications but not really knowing why they work, and not knowing when to stop and finish. It is like an OODA loop stuck in D.

Everyone has their problems. My training needs work, constantly. There are lots of way to break down your practice, and if you are paying attention it is likely you will have to constantly re-adjust to work on whatever you have been lacking lately. I have found that in doing so having a better sense of what I am training when I am training, what the precise result of that practice is, is one way to keep myself on track. This is very different to a subject list. That might be there as well, but doing xx kata or bunkai doesn’t, by itself, tell me anything about what attributes, techniques, or skills doing that is developing (if any). And in the end it is being able to use the system that is important, not just if you have it memorized, so it seems important to me to know just what it is I’m doing with my time.

In Matayoshi kobudo we have a weapon called tinbe. It is a sword and shield combination- a medium sized round shield “worn” on the forearm and a short single bladed sword or large knife. The term tinbe refers to the shield. It is usually written in katakana, テンベイー, which often indicates a foreign language origin for a word, but it is also written using these characters: 籐牌. These are the same characters used for tengpai, the southern Chinese shield it is identical to.[i] Even though it has the same name, it is very different in form and use to the other Okinawan tinbe, which is a smaller oval center grip shield or buckler (often represented by a turtle shell) used with a short spear called a rochin.

In our tradition it is very clear that this is not a native Okinawan weapon but something Matayoshi Shinko learned in Fuchow from Kingai Roshi: Matayoshi Shinpo called it 中国南派少林拳の 籐牌術 (Chugoku Nanba(n) Shorin Ken no Tinbe Jutsu) or Chinese Southern Shaolin Tinbe techniques. This isn’t surprising; identical short sword and rattan shield combinations are common in Fujianese and other southern Chinese arts. Matayoshi Shinpo would on occasion demonstrate the weapon with a sword resembling a butterfly sword (hudiedao) or shield sword (paidao) as used in southern China with the tengpai by local militia and government soldiers, as well as in various martial arts, from at least the Qing, and more likely the Ming, period on.[ii]

Most people familiar with the tinbe in Matayoshi kobudo think of the shield as a circular metal shield, around 22” in diameter. But those metal shields are not the original version. Matayoshi sensei described that to me as a larger rattan shield with a leather cover. In the liner notes to the video the dojo released in the 90’s it was described as bring made of the woven bark of the binrou (a betel nut palm) tree or bamboo, coated with oil, and with leather stretched over it. A version like this used to be in the dojo and I believe is now in the museum at the karate kaikan.[iii]

The metal ones that were used in the Kodokan were made in the early 1970’s. They were made because getting the traditional version was difficult at the time. Those also got damaged doing pair work and needed to be replaced periodically, which was both inconvenient and could get expensive.[iv] The metal ones were durable (the original ones are still being used, around 50 years later) and were made locally.

When they were built however, certain compromises had to be made. Perhaps most importantly they are smaller than the shield they are based on. Traditional southern Chinese tengpai are between 70cm and 1 meter (27-39”) in diameter, with the 70-80cm range being the most common. That is considerably larger than the metal ones. Kimo Wall and Sakai Ryugo both told me about Matayoshi sensei in the 60’s using a shield large enough to crouch and hide nearly his entire body behind. He would duck walk with it, while hidden, a technique seen in a number of southern Chinese sword and shield routines. He would also hide behind it and attack from various angles.

But making a, say, 35” diameter shield out of metal results in a really heavy implement, hard to use and too heavy for many of the system’s techniques. It would also have been hard to make. While recently many tinbe are made from the larger woks available in the markets in Naha there are other options now that were not available in the 70’s. For example about 20 years ago I made one about 25” in diameter using an aircraft aluminum blank from a Society For Creative Anachronism armorer and these days there are even synthetic options that take impact well. But at the time local craftsmen were the only resource so even though they were custom made there were limited options for material and construction. Different materials result in different properties and balancing the properties of the shield- weight, durability, cost, and available materials- resulted in what over time became the standard tinbe.

But the metal construction does indeed result in some different properties. It is smaller, so doing something like concealing your body behind it isn’t possible. It is metal, so certain techniques, like punching with the edge, are more effective, while others, like pressing and then attacking with a blade right through the shield instead of around it, are impossible. While these changes are relatively minor they do affect use. In an attempt to better understand the weapon I have made a number of experiments over the years. Over 25 years ago I tried a rattan shield meant for Wushu. It was around 26” in diameter and much lighter than the metal ones. That weight and size change led to some differences in how I did our techniques. Because it wasn’t very heavily built it got beat up pretty quickly (and had been expensive) so I stopped doing pair work with it, but it was fun, and interesting, to use. After a while I settled into using a lighter, larger shield sometimes for kata and sticking with a roughly 25″ diameter metal one for pair work.

Not that long ago however I decided to do some more experimenting, in the hope of getting to something a little closer to the shield our techniques had been built around. I had been working tinbe a lot with a couple of my students. I’ve been lucky enough to have some really interesting exposure to our tinbe practice. The basic form we do was, as far as I have been able to find out, made in the post-war years by Matayoshi Shinpo, from techniques passed down by his father. It is pretty well known.[v] There are, however, a number of variations I have been taught for it over the years. Not huge changes, but different jumps, rolls, footwork and cutting patterns in various places in the kata, as well as a technique for throwing the paidao. (I also have a little exposure to what I’m told is a pre-Kodokan tinbe form, but if I ever get more on that I’ll update this.) Anyway, we had been spending some time working these variations and applications for them along with the kata and pair work we usually do and the process got me thinking about the shield again.

I did some looking on-line and not surprisingly there were options available there hadn’t been the last time I looked. I found custom size rattan shields available here. Bruce was great to work with on sizing and such and the shields are well made. I got a really big one first, 1 meter diameter. It seemed a little large, even for me at 6’2″, for our techniques. I then got one around 85cm (34”) diameter and it felt good.[vi] The tighter weave in this rattan compared to the wushu one, along with the size, made it a bit heavier but more durable and still much lighter than the metal ones. Honestly, this by itself would have probably been a good result, but I was interested in going a little further with the project.

I took a close look at my notes, and at how rattan shields were treated and cared for traditionally. Matayoshi sensei had said, and written, the shield was coated with “abura/油” which translates as oil, though no specific oil. Chinese shields were often soaked in tung oil, and while I didn’t want to buy enough of that to set up a pan and soak the shield I did give it a couple of heavy coats of tung oil.

Then I got some leather at a local shop, which early in the pandemic wound up being a bit of an adventure by itself. I have never worked with leather before so some training or experience, as well as a more appropriate set of tools, might have resulted in a better finish, but I did my best. I stretched it over the shield and glued it down with a leather adhesive.

I then did some rough stitching to hold the inside edge down and take out some of the buckling and trimmed off the excess. I glued the remaining edge to the inside and then went back with a double thickness of linen thread to stitch the edge down again, more tightly and evenly. Getting the needle through the multiple layers of leather was entertaining. My notes said the leather was stretched over the frame, which implied a fairly lightweight and soft leather. It might be interesting to try something heavier and harder, like a saddle or shoe leather, but for now this is what I felt was closest to the descriptions I have and the shield I used in the Kodokan in the 90s.

Finally, I painted the leather. It came out pretty well, and so far has been a lot of fun to train with. It is about as heavy as one of the metal shields, but is half again as big in diameter and moves a bit differently. I can’t really hide my whole body behind it but a lot more of my movement is concealed, especially if I am crouching, and it being slightly lighter makes it a bit faster as well. Impact is also absorbed a bit differently by the more flexible rattan and leather surface.

Anyway, it was a fun project and I am looking forward to continuing to train with it. And if I do it again, I’ll have to do a Tiger shield, complete with uniform. No t-shirts here, those guys knew how to suit up…

[i] I have heard various different terms for the sword, sometimes from the same person, including Matayoshi sensei. They have included seiryuto (dragon tail sword), to (sword), nata (often translates to machete but a real nata has no point and a single bevel edge), rochin (a carry over from Ryukyu kobudo and incorrect according to Matayoshi sensei), wakizashi (curved short sword), kodachi (small sword, which is how it was written in the Kodokan video liner notes from the 90s) and beito (This was once from Matayoshi sensei when I asked about it. I noted it but unfortunately didn’t follow up. Bei could be a transliteration of pai, like tin bei for teng pai, and dao is sword 刀, “to” in Japanese).

[ii] It is a slightly different conversation, but the use of a machete with the tinbe is also likely a more recent adaptation. Getting paidao, or hudeidao, on Okinawa was difficult before the advent of the internet. Given the machete’s availability it is an easy, inexpensive, and fairly decent substitute. While I can’t be 100% sure what Kingai Roshi used, given the standard use in Fujian in the 19^th and early 20^th centuries, and Matayoshi sensei’s use of a paidao, it is a pretty safe guess that it was a short single bladed sword with a D guard and upturned rear quillion.

[iii] Interestingly enough, while southern shields are coiled rattan and usually not covered with anything, in northern China, where neither rattan or betel palm grow, they sometimes used wicker or bamboo shields covered with leather. This version seems to be something of a hybrid.

[iv] One of the “origin” stories of the shield is that it was a farmer’s hat that was used as a shield. Romantic but given the weapon’s documented use in China for centuries highly unlikely. This may however have come from the fact that in the 60’s rattan shields were not available on Okinawa. I have been told that they sometimes used cheap cane hats as a substitute. They fell apart quickly, even doing kata, but they cost pennies, so it didn’t matter.

[v] It is also pretty simple, especially in comparison to many southern Chinese forms, but that is a different conversation.

[vi] I could also have started from scratch and made the shield, like this gentleman did. Pretty impressive.