Enren – Circling Endlessly

Training does not happen only in isolation. When I joined the Jiki group at Lonin to demonstrate for Lunar New Year last weekend, I filled in for one of the deshi who was ill. I was able to do the formal kata in an orthodox manner, but returning to the harsh kiai and a un kokyu I had cultivated in earlier years now simply felt wrong. I had been inspired by the strong performances I had witnessed that day amongst the other dōjō who participated in our gathering and wanted to show the art as I had learned it and how far I could take it. Although I believe I was successful in demonstrating the dominant spirit cultivated in Jikishinkage-ryū the level of exertion bordered on affliction. The Tao reached out and reminded me of this in the last movement of the kata.

Some context. The second portion of Jikishinkage-ryū kata practice is called to no kata and consists of 14 short partner forms. I have been thinking of them as comprising several sections [more on this another time]. The second part of the last kata called enren ( 圓連 ), which alludes to linking or connecting links of a chain or beads of a mala into a circle, has a flowing uchikomi practice that is said to originally have been the fifth kata in the introductory set called hōjō, which is based on Taoist five element theory. In the current arrangement of hōjō the fifth element of earth represents the end of each season (spring, summer, autumn, winter) that changes into the next. This is represented by a ritual movement called gehan-in that then flows into walking methods called unpō performed with the type of formal breathing associated to the next season. Originally, there were five kata, similar to the set sangakuen in Yagyu Shinkage-ryū, with harvest season as the fifth component, between summer and autumn.

In enren, the uchikomi is a randori-like practice of repeated cutting against a target. It is a nice form of moving suburi and demonstrates lateral movement otherwise missing in the rest of the curriculum. However, it is done cryptically, where one cuts on a line of attack not associated with any combative meaning. It seems, on the surface, to be pressure testing without a path that leads into developing combative ability. It is true the movements are hard to execute as uchi and shi look to be doing the same thing but in reality are not. They are performing different motions (one yin and one yang) that balance each other. In that way, the capstone kata is teaching that the concept of kage or shadowing, like yin relating to yang or solid to transparent, can be more complex than simply balancing posture or stance against a particular static kamae an adversary adopts.

Subtleties aside, what the uchikomi in practice often does provide is a very difficult ending to the sequence of kata when performed continuously. Uchidachi has to extend their kiai to signal to shidachi the repeated cutting is about to end, which breaks the meaning and purpose of having an uchidachi vs. shidachi role (which Jikishinkage-ryū is otherwise very good at maintaining compared to some other arts). Uchidachi should be pushing shidachi, not aiding them. But without that coordination, it is not possible to end the repeated sequence smoothly.

Over the years, I have seen films of otherwise experienced kenshi failing to perform this sequence. This year, I too fell into the same category, whether one can say I am experienced or not.

Ending the sequence happened out of rhythm for some reason and shidachi realized they would be struck. They dodged, but from my perspective it was as if they had disappeared right before my attack was to land. This is a skill Shinkage-ryū is supposed to cultivate — done properly the practitioner disappears suddenly from view. The patron deity of Shinkage-ryū, Marishiten (Marici), is the Buddhist goddess of light and thought to grant the siddhi or genjutsu of invisibility. Suddenly disappearing for a moment, in coordinated tai-sabaki and sword movement, is an example of this kind of skill.

When this happened, I struck with full force and found only empty space instead of shidachi's shinai held out as a makiwara. Because we were moving fast and light for the repeated uchikomi, I was holding my training implement (the shinai is not actually a weapon) too lightly. Not finding a target and maintaining my posture, the shinai went flying from my hands.

Good that I did not lose my balance — bad that my weapon went flying from my hands like an arrow shot into the ground.

The kata of Jikishinkage-ryū are full of riddles or koan. In hōjō, movements are often symmetric, where both participants move and cut and nothing happens at all or both participants mirror each other directly, moving towards each other, throwing their lives away. These actions develop a particular mindset important for the art, and are not meant to be introductory tactics.

To no kata is supposed to be tactics; its first ideogram means to wrap or surround and today is often glossed as referring to the implement used (a bamboo shinai wrapped fully in leather). But an older meaning is form of tactics, as in combative engagements, one seeks to envelop, surround, control, and eliminate an adversary.

Returning the enbu, and our performance of enren, one (rather generous) perspective might be that we discovered an alternate ending to the kata.

In the moment, having lost my weapon but not my posture, I maintained zanshin and reverted to unpō — advancing slowly and strongly to drive shidachi back, albeit without a weapon. Had shi attacked while I was unarmed, I could have accepted the cut, to end the kata, or attempted to respond. As it was, he mirrored my movements. Really, anything could have happened. Afterwards, I moved back two steps and knelt to retrieve my weapon and continued to move away, doing my best to mentally keep forward pressure the whole time. We wound up manifesting, spontaneously, a section of kata from the final section of Jikishinkage-ryū called marobashi, which my partner has never seen. Usually it is shidachi advancing, with kodachi against tachi, but the spirit was the same. In that moment, my failure was an opportunity to keep zanshin despite the shock of having something go suddenly, unexpectedly, wrong. I had failed at the most basic skill — all this kiai and pressure, all this writing about Jikishinkage-ryū for years, leading a small class so I would not have to give up on the art when I moved — all that and I could not even properly hold a sword.

It was especially stressful for this to happen during enbu, in front of an audience I was attempting to make a strong presentation of our swordsmanship to, not to mention in this worldview the attendant kami watching. Looking back, I am proud of my student. Developing shidachi to the point they can win is the purpose of to no kata. All in all, the performance was a fitting way to end the last demonstration I plan to do of traditional Jikishinkage-ryū as I learned it – in truth, I was not able to do that much, so even the more reason for a new beginning.

And what of the role of enbu? A small crucible to help distill, from time to time, new insights into a practice.