Haiku (4 page)

I held myself aloof from this. That I did not enter some charlatan’s dojo and request “instruction” was an affirmation of my own humility, proof to me that I had reached a level where such trivial matters played no role.

But I never banished that part of myself which noted with pride that
my
dojo had never been so invaded. Or the hidden pleasure I took from the knowledge that none would so dare.

Once, I had been respected for my ability and teaching skills. But, as time passed, I came to be revered for my “wisdom.” At first—I now acknowledge with a shame too deep to express—this seemed quite justified to me.

Such perception of wisdom ensured that I would fail its ultimate test. I had never acknowledged what I had
not
learned, nor had I ever pursued it.

When I crossed that invisible line I do not know. But, perhaps gradually, my advice and counsel came to be prized not because of what I knew, but because of who I was. Did I
fail to notice? Or, more shamefully, did I take such as my due?

In the eyes of my students, I was a … celebrity of some sort. And I dwelt within a culture in which celebrities are
expected
to pontificate mindlessly on subjects far beyond their own understanding, with every inane babble breathlessly regurgitated by an adoring press. I thrived in a culture in which actual achievements, even actual knowledge, had no real significance. And, thus, no value.

In reality, it was the demon within me who was thriving, constantly replenished by the harvest of the arrogance I had sown.

The higher the mountain of “fame” I climbed, the greater the distance I put between myself and a state of worthiness.

In Japan, students had found their way to me because of my reputation. Many times, I had been forced to prove myself worthy of that reputation. Often, challengers were injured. Once, death resulted. As news of such “testing” magnified with each retelling, the motivation for others to train with me grew. I knew this, and regretted it. But since I myself had never issued a challenge, I believed I had retained my humility.

When I first began teaching, challenges could not be avoided. Typically, they were even announced in advance. I faced each without fear, knowing the outcome was meaningless in the eyes of those who watched solely to judge the character of the combatants.

But in America, I could not defend against what overtook me by stealth. Although my “wisdom” grew, no alarm sounded within me as students gradually concentrated less on my art than on questions such as have confounded the greatest sages for centuries.

My degeneration gathered momentum, to the point where my students would have been disappointed if they had actually understood my answers. They believed that such wisdom as I dispensed would take years of study to comprehend fully.

I had never been trained to deflect such a force. Slowly, my resistance gave way. Or, more likely, I yielded to the siren call of my own egotism.

My speech itself became so larded with epigrams that it left space for little else. “The wind finds its own way” was a particular favorite of my students. Where once I had conversed, I now proclaimed. The humble man who had refused all titles now watched detached as “teacher” or “sensei” turned into “master.”

The more I spoke, the less I taught.

The more time I spent dispensing my hollow wisdom, the less I had for teaching the only truth I knew.

Within my dojo, a laxness crept in. Training, once focused
on
focus, slid to a level of mere competence. Leaving much of the teaching to the most experienced students, I became a “holistic” practitioner of my art, melding the spiritual with the physical as seamlessly as had the rulers of my childhood.

My rhetoric did not change. I maintained that a true teacher is also a student. By teaching, he also learns. But by then, I was studying to become a master of tautology, spewing meaningless truths as if they were keys to a higher plane of understanding.

For the first time, I began to tell stories of my childhood. Even today, I cringe with humiliation as I recall how some of those stories seemed to embellish themselves.

Self-awareness abandoned me, I would later say. But that statement was both self-pitying and untrue. Self-awareness did not depart of its own accord, any more than my stories embellished themselves. It was I who banished whatever challenged my new persona. I allowed adoring worshipers to gush about how merely being in my presence revealed the power of my
ki
. And each time I did so, I was strangling its very essence.

My mother’s legacy of humility and sacrifice slipped away, a beautiful, hand-wrought kite carelessly released, as by a spoiled child whose parents would always buy him another.

We do not value that which we do not earn. My mother’s kite of love still hovers, its string dangling. But it has flown so high that I must ascend the mountain of honor before I may reach for it once more.

In the world of martial arts, innovators are viewed as inherently suspect; only those who practice the “old ways” are regarded as truly authentic.

When I began teaching, the very concept of female students
would have been unthinkable. In America, I maintained this barrier for many years. Such discrimination was looked upon as “traditional.” And, thus, elevated in status.

I did not advertise—as in Japan, American students would find their way to me through word of mouth. My investors were soon repaid. That they continued to own a share of my “business” was a blessing. They handled all mundane matters, such as leases, suppliers of services, and payment of taxes, leaving me free to teach. Never did they so much as suggest any alteration in my methods or my standards. This I first took to be earned respect; later, as my entitlement.

I changed nothing. I still refused to award “belts.” Students continued to advance solely through the hard-won respect of their peers.

Nor did I permit my students to participate in tournament fighting, because preparation for such contests requires an entirely different concentration from what my style demanded.

Only beginners were permitted to wear the gi. Once a certain degree of kinetic understanding was attained, all further training was in street clothing. Sparring was without regard to size or age. In life, one cannot select one’s opponents.

“War” is a word commonly used in America to describe a sporting event. But when attacks are announced in advance, when the combat occurs within an arena, this is not “war.” By the time I learned that war between nations was subject to rules—the Geneva Conventions come to mind—I had already seen such rules violated so casually that I had learned
the truth of war. The victors make the rules, as they later write the histories.

Other styles concentrated on their rules. In my dojo, we trained to become the victors.

In tribute to the harsh brutality of my own childhood “training” in the temple, I would never accept children in my school. Though I never relaxed that rule, barring females from training was less suited to American culture. Eventually, female students became part of the life of my dojo.

Only in hindsight did I understand—and come to accept—that what I had viewed as incorporation of two cultures under the same umbrella was nothing more than the domination of my own ego. What joined the two cultures was not the study of martial arts; it was the study of
my
teachings.

“Water seeps through spread fingers,” I would tell my students, leaving them to interpret what I myself did not understand. When the fingers are opened
intentionally
, the seepage becomes an unimpeded flow. This is why I call my demon by its rightful name: an invited guest.

My “adaptation” coincided with the beginning of what I later recognized as my final descent from purity. For reasons I lacked the insight to understand, the female students were even more eager than the males to sit at my feet and bask in my ever-more-vacuous pronouncements. Such women would train with great dedication, and their expectations were far beyond the attainment of physical proficiency.

What they sought was the spirituality they believed I possessed. But any such spirituality had long since departed.

It was Chica who taught me the truth which illuminates the path I now follow. Though she is gone from this earth, her spirit remains, a candle-point in the night, guiding my way. I accept that I am not worthy of this flame of guidance. I know it to have been the final bequest of a child to the self-absorbed “father” who sent her on a mission for which she was not prepared.

Chica was my student, a slender, dark-haired young woman who appeared to be in her early twenties. I knew her only by the name she provided, a holdover from my first teaching principles. In post-war Japan, keeping records would not only have violated tradition, it would have endangered any who studied with me. At my dojo, students signed no contracts; no credit cards or other such methods of payment were accepted. My American investors would create whatever paper the authorities required. This was an arrangement they themselves had suggested, one that I eagerly embraced.

I asked nothing of my students but their commitment. They contributed what they could, it being tacitly understood that this would vary from individual to individual.

That was as it should always be, so that each might find his own path to the Way.

Chica was my student for almost five years. She would come nearly every afternoon, often practicing until late in the evening.

Never once did she question the training regimen. Never once did she protest, even when in pain. Her only response to criticism was to work harder. Adversity intensified her efforts. As I gradually descended from teacher to “master,” Chica was climbing the path to the ideals I had once embraced with all my spirit.

My art has many aspects, but it attains the apex of its effectiveness only when in synergy with the aggression of an opponent. Those of sufficient knowledge are able to cope with any attacker’s apparent advantage in size or strength. But only those at the highest level are able to use such apparent handicaps to enhance their own effectiveness.

In my system, we teach that speed is power. We stress the importance of what we call “being first,” but, always, the foundation of our art lies in its ability to convert the energy of an attacker’s force into a weapon.

Although we teach avoidance of confrontation, we understand this to be an option that will not always be available. Thus, what others call “self-defense,” we teach as attack.

What we do not teach is “analysis” of an opponent. A fully trained practitioner will not “think.” Reaction will flow as water against a slightly torn cloth, organically seeking the point of least resistance. Our most complex departure from the hidebound scripture of martial arts is our acceptance of this core truth: Some human beings are of evil mind and poisonous spirit. They cannot be understood, they cannot be changed. And, once they reveal themselves, they cannot be avoided.

When such a person enters—into a room or a life—attack is an inevitability. At the ultimate peak of our art, one learns
to
induce
such an attack. When an aggressor moves in response to
your
inducement, he has lost the power of surprise. His assault cannot create that frisson of panic on which he has come to rely. Acting
within
the aggressor’s attack creates a narrow slit of momentary confusion. In that moment, the aggressor is completely vulnerable. His power has not been lessened, it has been redirected.

Desire to inflict pain becomes painful.

Desire to kill becomes death.

All speak so glibly of a “center.” We do not focus on finding one’s own center; we focus on turning an adversary away from his.

Some of the most revered sensei call this “balance disruption.” But, just as we do not “name” various techniques, we have no terminology for their total integration.

All styles are rooted in the same basic principle: all attacks reveal weakness, so it is always the aggressor who is at greatest risk.

To attain true calmness within the aggressor’s attack is achieved by very few. Many may
appear
calm, but that is most often either self-confidence or stoicism. The true calmness of which I speak is the ability to recognize adversity as opportunity within a fraction of a second. Such calmness is a rare gift—it cannot be learned. But, as with all gifts, it must be nurtured and developed to reach full bloom.

Years of lessons and the most dutiful attention may result in an accomplished painter. But only forces we do not understand produce a Van Gogh.

All such gifts are delivered in two boxes, one inside the other. One is a grant; the other a demand. The larger box
may be torn open, as if by an eager child handed a present. The smaller—and far more precious—box is locked. Its key is not provided; it can be located only through devotion, labor, and sacrifice.

To be gifted is inborn. It is not earned. Not all those who are gifted are worthy of their gift. That test lies not within the locked box, but in the search for its key.

At some point in our training, pain becomes a factor. This is the barrier at which many students balk, like a horse refusing to jump a fence. Watching Chica approach that stage, I saw that what was a new and even fright-inducing experience for so many students had been a part of her life before she had ever entered the dojo.

It was my gift to see this. As it was my self-absorption that blocked the correct response.

One night, Chica was the last to leave the dojo. I watched her sweep the floor. By then I was so entrenched in my own arrogance that it did not occur to me to assist, as would have been proper.

When Chica finished, she approached where I was sitting. She bowed deeply before she said, “May I ask a question, master?”

I returned her bow, then spread my hands to indicate permission. “Yes, my daughter,” I intoned.

“Am I ready?” is all she asked.

Did I ask, Ready for
what?
Did I even consider the possible ramifications of her question? Did I give such a dedicated and devoted student the simple respect of inquiry?