Ryomi (Reflection)
“In following the ways of the warrior, see that you yourself are right. Then you may think of defeating others.”
—Innei Kakuzenbo
Kofujita Kangejuzaemon Toshinao was a master swordsman of the feudal age in Japan, one whose entire life was dedicated to his craft. His apprenticeship in fencing began under a teacher of the Chujo ryu. While still a boy, though, Kofujita was accepted into the dojo of Itto Ittosai Kagehisa, the founder of the Itto or “One Sword” style of martial strategy.
The tactics of the Itto ryu called for a daring sense of timing and an absolute confidence in an ability to make a single, expertly executed technique at precisely the right moment. It was an approach to swordsmanship that Kofujita took to with enthusiasm. When his master Ittosai was off on one of his many journeys in search of worthwhile opponents (or dallying with a variety of the mistresses he kept, in search of something perhaps even more worthwhile), Kofujita practiced under the school’s seniormost student, Ono Tadaaki. It was Ono who fired the young Kofujita with a feeling of purpose and duty. Kofujita took seriously Ono’s lectures about filial loyalty and duty. When a local noble cheated Kofujita’s aged father in a business matter, Kofujita, barely in his teens, took up the cause. He confronted eight of the nobleman’s samurai along the street one afternoon. According to legends handed down within the ryu, he killed two of them and wounded three others before the rest hastily retreated.
As he matured, Kofujita became a bit calmer and more circumspect. Yet he never lost his enthusiasm for swordsmanship and for perfecting his technique in the art. He worked tirelessly for years on the basics of the Itto style of fencing. He taught many students of his own and in time came to be recognized as an authority on swordsmanship and as a shihan, literally, a “model for all others.” Not long before Kofujita’s master, Ittosai, retired from teaching, he gave Kofujita permission to open his own school. Ittosai seemed to realize that Kofujita was enough a master in his own right that his contributions allowed him to found an offshoot of the Itto style, which Kofujita christened the Yuishin Itto ryu.
One day Kofujita was out practicing in his garden when a visitor stopped by to see him, an old friend who’d grown up with him and had trained at the Itto dojo. A servant led the friend into the garden where Kofujita was standing alone, barely moving, just lifting the sword in his hands up a few inches and letting it drop, twisting his hips slightly. The friend saw that Kofujita was practicing at using his hips to precede the action of striking. It was the very first lesson an Itto ryu swordsman learned upon entering training. He wondered why a brilliant master like Kofujita was so intently working at this simple exercise. As he drew closer, however, he saw that the master was furiously at it, his whole being centered on the motion. When Kofujita looked up at his old friend, there were tears in his eyes.
“The first technique our master Ittosai taught us,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. “I don’t think it is quite good enough yet, do you?”
Kofujita’s introspection, his incessant willingness to critically observe his progress, reflect upon it, and strive for improvement no matter how long he’d practiced or how perfect his technique is a characteristic of the master budoka. This attitude is called ryomi in Japanese. Ryomi is an intense, ongoing process of self-evaluation for the martial artist or anyone else who hopes to make something worthwhile of his life.
Within the modern budo, “traditionalist” is a label affixed to those who adhere to the ways of the past. You will not find them wearing glitzy training clothes, or indulging their egos at tournaments. They follow the path of the budo because they see it as a journey of self-discovery, one that will only be frustrated by indulging in fads. They believe they are correct in their attitudes, and so they are an obstinate bunch, the sort of people whom the British would refer to admiringly as “hard ones.” I respect these individuals very much, and it is flattering to note that by the correspondence I receive, that some readers even think of me as a traditionalist. It occurs that some might have the impression that traditionalists regard themselves as faultless paragons, noble paladins of the Ways of the warrior. This is an impression rarely challenged by the traditionalist himself who, if he engages in any form of self-criticism at all, invariably does it in secrecy, among his own kind.
The kind of martial artist we refer to as a traditionalist can be forgiven for this deficiency in his character. It is not easy, after all, for traditionalists to analyze their own faults, for a couple of reasons. The most obvious one is that the complexities and depths of the budo forms they follow far exceed the “eclectic” fighting arts that have been created recently. It is tempting to become complacent. Budoka learning under the tutelage of experts can see firsthand the immense power and skill possessed by their teachers. Frankly, many of them simply cannot imagine that anything could possibly be bad about a system that turns out such masters. A second reason why many traditionalists don’t spend much time in the contemplative process of ryomi is that the criticism of their arts is by and large, inutterably ignorant. “What’s all that kata stuff got to do with real fighting?” ponders some self-appointed critic, who might just as well ask an auto mechanic what value a drive shaft plays in making a car go. Under such less than inspired criticism and with no real competition in the physical sense, it’s understandable that the traditionalist might get the idea that he’s a purist, the consummate example, faultless.
He is not. And if a master like Kofujita Toshinao could submit himself to the self-criticism of ryomi, then today’s budoka could survive and maybe even benefit from a little of the same.
The overall problem faced by the traditionalist is that while his world is filled with excellence, it is far too small. Often its dimensions extend only to the walls of his dojo. There his exposure is limited to others who train in his particular art, taught by only a few select teachers. This makes for a highly accomplished karateka or judoka or whatever. But it can also foster an individual of rather narrow views. The karate student needn’t try to widen his world by collecting the sprains and bruises of kendo; the judoka doesn’t have to accustom himself to the different sort of throws encountered in aikido. But there is nothing inherently sinful in karateka, judoka, kendoka, and aikidoka spending time at one another’s dojo, observing the training, asking questions, and getting to know traditionalists of the other arts. If they do, they will not be breaking tradition. They will be following an old and valuable custom in the budo.
None of the Japanese budo developed in a vacuum. Judo’s founder, Jigoro Kano, sent some of his best students to the dojo of karate master Gichin Funakoshi so they could learn his newly imported karate. Kano later introduced some of karate’s striking techniques into the kata of judo. The legendary Okinawan karate expert Yabu Kentsu studied judo continuously during his years of service in the Japanese army, and when he returned to Okinawa he often amazed his students with his ability to incorporate throws during training in the karate dojo.
Today this kind of interchange is sadly lacking. When I visit a typical budo dojo, I am often reminded of the spirit of provincialism that now seems to dominate the thinking in these Ways. Now, no one expects an aikidoka to be able to punch like a skilled karate exponent. Even so, I have seen aikido students who couldn’t even make a proper fist. Likewise, it’s common to see karateka go down against a footsweep, yet how often can they control and protect themselves with proper ukemi (falling methods)? If the karateka can show an aikidoka the correct way to make a fist, if the judoka is willing to teach the karateman to fall without injury, everyone benefits. In the course of such exchanges, a great deal of understanding about one’s own Way can be gained.
In the traditionalist’s small world, his sensei achieves a status difficult for the outsider to comprehend. In daily training the traditional budoka is pressed to do things that go against his every instinct: standing compliantly while an opponent practices control by blasting punches just brushing his nose, allowing himself to be thrown flying, continuing on long after his body has told him to stop. These are accomplished only by trusting his sensei implicitly. In return, the student is molded into a budoka, given a life beyond the neuroses and psychological limitations that hobble much of the rest of the modern world.
The serious budoka never for a second forgets the debt he owes