by Robert Wolfe
Any time I interview a
candidate for admission to Itten Dojo, I usually ask
what is motivating the individual to seek martial arts
training. Some candidates are merely looking for an
interesting way to get into better physical condition,
while others seek some measure of capacity for
self-defense. A few people say, “I don’t really know;
it’s just something I’ve always wanted to do” (a very
good answer, in my opinion, as is, “It looks like fun”).
A frequent answer in the variety of reasons offered is a
desire for spiritual development. This presents me with
a bit of a quandary, because I don’t believe the study
and practice of martial arts is a source of spiritual
development in the sense many people seem to assume (or,
more properly, have been led to assume, particularly
with regard to arts such as aikido). Don’t get me wrong
— I do most definitely believe the various budo (martial
Ways) are vehicles for personal development in several
important respects. I take issue only with the
representation of budo as spiritual training.
When I speak of spirit in the context of martial arts,
I’m talking about an individual’s focused will or
intent. At the low end of the spectrum, this might be
something as simple as enthusiasm at practice; at the
high end it might be ironclad determination to survive
and prevail in an attack or similar, life-threatening
circumstance. Spirit as defined in the Yamate-ryu is an
aspect of character and something that can be trained.
It is, in fact, the overarching goal of our training.
“Spiritual,” in the sense which many prospective martial
arts students seem to refer, relates to understanding of
oneself and one’s place in the universe, insight to the
nature of ultimate reality, and the cultivation of moral
values. In other words, spiritual in this context
addresses topics much more properly, in my opinion, the
purview of religion.
For Ueshiba
Morihei, the founder of aikido, there was absolutely no
distinction between his personal practice of martial
arts and his religion. An ardent adherent of a radical
religious movement known as Omoto-kyo (an eclectic mix
of Shinto, Taoism and myth aimed toward achievement of
utopia on earth), as well as a personal disciple of its
leader, Deguchi Onisaburo, Ueshiba believed aikido to be
the product of divine revelation and its physical
practice a form of misogi (spiritual purification), a
means to reconcile Man and Heaven. Aikido training for
Ueshiba consisted of daily, spiritually oriented
practice of meditation, prayer, chanting and
ritual and time on the mat in the dojo, with both
aspects comprising a unified whole. His objective seemed
to be becoming in some sense a conduit for effecting the
transformation of society worldwide, not just through
his example but by means of some direct, personal
influence on the underlying structure of the world.
Me, I’m just trying to manage a decent iriminage…
According to researcher Peter Boylan, an overt linkage
of martial arts training and religious/spiritual
practice is unusual (though not unheard of) even in
Japan, outside the writings of Ueshiba and subsequent
instructors of aikido. Sure, there have been a number of
books over the years attempting to tie budo and Zen, but
even cursory review of the available literature pretty
quickly demonstrates such linkage — to the extent it
exists — is relatively modern. Historically, the samurai
were far more interested in Mikkyo, an esoteric form of
Buddhism, the practice of which was thought to confer
invisibility and other attributes very handy in mortal
combat. Note that the samurai were seeking advantage on
the battlefield for the benefit of the clan, not
individual, spiritual development in the modern sense.
At some point, though, the quest for power in the
temporal world was overlaid with at least a veneer of
polishing the inner self. Following the unification of
Japan at the turn of the seventeenth century and
cessation of the state of constant civil warfare that
had prevailed for more than 200 years, the practical
need for martial training diminished rapidly as most
samurai made the transition from warriors to
bureaucrats. Persons wishing to promulgate martial arts
had to find reasons to train other than
self-preservation, and self-perfection came to be a
primary rather than secondary or tertiary objective. At
various times over the subsequent 250+ years, the
Tokugawa Shogunate was forced to mandate training,
evidently because so many samurai simply no longer
wanted to bother with it. While most people can readily
grasp the desirability of acquiring skills directly
related to keeping them alive, fewer people are
attracted to the concept of arduous training in order to
become a better person. Even today, or more like
especially today, the cleverest marketing touts ways to
become a better person with no effort whatsoever (and
likely implies the reason you’re not much to begin with
is somebody else’s fault). Fortunately for us, and
future generations, there has always been a small subset
of the world population interested in the study and
preservation of traditional martial arts for their own
sake.
So what can the practice of
budo accomplish?
I consider the
optimal outcome of martial arts training to be the
creation of a more capable individual, in as many
aspects as possible. The dojo is both laboratory, a
place in which to experiment, discovering one’s
strengths and weaknesses, as well as forge, a crucible
in which to purge fear and temper the body and will. Our
training is geared toward physical outcomes of increased
fitness, flexibility and overall health, as well as
practical self-defense skills, and spiritual (in my
terms) outcomes of enhanced personal discipline and the
ability to get a necessary job done when the job
is really something one doesn’t want to have to do (as
described in my earlier essay, Fight, or Quit). Mind and
body reflect each other, and the greater the degree to
which we can improve the functioning of both, the
resulting synergism will yield a sum greater than its
contributing parts.
As for martial
arts training imparting moral values, about the best
notions I’ve been able to come up with are:
1. If you fight you’ll likely get hurt even if you win,
so if at all possible it’s probably better not to get
into fights.
2. It’s a good idea
to be considerate of your training partner, because it’s
his turn, next. In other words, “do unto others…” unless
your ukemi is utterly flawless.
3.
By being at the dojo, you’re not hanging out at the bar,
pool hall, or race track (at least not until after
practice). On the other hand, depending on the class
schedule, you might not be at religious services,
either, so this one is probably a wash.
Beyond that, I just haven’t in 40 years of training seen
any evidence that martial arts practice effects
spiritual improvements of the nature often claimed in
books or presented in movies or on television, à la Kwai
Chang Caine in Kung Fu. In fact, in an unfortunate
number of instances, I’ve observed (and had personally
to deal with) just the opposite. Martial arts, being
derived from military arts, are, at the core, about the
exercise of power. And this paradigm is ripe for misuse.
You won’t have to look very far in the martial arts
world to find utterly contemptible examples of abuse,
exploitation, delusion and grandiose self-inflation. In
many cases there is a direct correlation between the
number of years of training the perpetrator has under
his belt and the egregiousness of the offense. What’s
worse is that such cases seem most prevalent in the very
arts, like aikido, popularly assumed to be the most
“spiritual” in nature. Why this is, I don’t know.
Perhaps people most perceiving themselves to be lacking
in some aspect are most susceptible to being taken
advantage of, or perhaps hierarchical environments in
which some individuals are established as superior in
one respect or another to others can foster abuse of
position. To be fair, we see these same depredations in
religious organizations. The bottom line is all human
institutions are inherently corruptible, and can
function with any measure of propriety only when all
persons involved maintain focus and vigilance and do
their best to cleave to an absolute, external standard.
This last is one reason martial arts fall short as
spiritual development: While there is an external
standard for performance (or even behavior), it is
individually derived and not absolute. The founder of an
art or subsequent, subordinate instructors can establish
standards, but those standards are always subject to
revision by other individuals. Only standards external
to individuals, things like the Ten Commandments, have
any chance of providing a moral compass. (Of course, you
don’t have to believe in absolutes, in which case I
guess you’re on your own. Although I concede we, in this
world, may not have a completely clear idea of what the
absolutes are, I do believe absolutes exist and that it
behooves us to try to apprehend the absolutes to the
best of our ability.)
The other,
primary reason martial arts don’t make one more
spiritual (which is to say, don’t develop the soul) is
the simple fact that perfecting a sword cut, for
example, does not yield anything other than a better
cut. I see nothing intrinsic to the practice that might
determine to what end that cut is ultimately employed,
or that might result in a person becoming saintly. If
you want to be able to hit harder, do pushups and
practice your punching. If you want to learn how to
live, read scripture. Pick the tool best suited to the
task.
In short, I think anyone
wanting to believe the dojo is a substitute for church,
synagogue, or mosque, or budo an alternative to active
and engaged faith, is making a dangerous mistake.
It is certainly true that the dojo, through its
constituent members, can provide community, mutual
support, and a deep sense of shared purpose. It’s also
true that the discipline of training can provide
meaningful challenge and satisfaction across the course
of a lifetime. For some people, this appears to be
sufficient. I believe we are better served looking
beyond “the course of a lifetime.” I believe that
everything we do, every thought we think, has spiritual
implications and consequences — and I do mean spiritual
in the larger sense of soul and a world beyond this. For
me, the dojo community and the experience of training
are considerably enhanced when viewed within an
encompassing framework of faith.
There are more efficient ways to get in shape than
practicing martial arts, and far more effective methods
to defend oneself. But, all things considered, martial
arts do a pretty good job of accomplishing both.
Moreover, they’re a heck of a lot of fun. And that’s the
real reason I keep training and instructing.
Fortuitously, I think there are grounds to believe at
least one of the reasons we are on earth is to
appreciate this creation and where proper to have a good
time. Rather than being a way to gain power in the
temporal world, or effect its transformation, the
practice of martial arts is to me a way to share, to
give back, to express God-given talents in a manner that
is, I hope, pleasing to God.
Martial arts may not make us more spiritual, but we can
make spiritual the practice of martial arts by what we
bring to the practice: reverence for our creator, love
for each other, and joy at the chance to experience it
all.
