Follow, Break, Transcend

Follow, break, transcend (shu ha ri): if only it were always that simple.

The tea ceremony master Sen no Rikyū (千利休; 1522-1591) is credited with developing the concept of Shu Ha Ri (守破離). His quote:

「規矩作法 守り尽くして破るとも離るるとても本を忘るな」

so inspired Fuhaku Kawakami in the 19th century, he broadly popularized the concept. It can be roughly translated as follow (the rules), break (the rules), transcend (the rules).

This triad has become somewhat lingua franca in contemporary martial practice. In 2021, the Integral Dojo hosted a six-part dialogue on this topic with exceptional martial artists including Toby Threadgill, who teaches several of my friends, and Ellis Amdur, who I have known for twenty years.

Five years later, I think a bit about the topic as I examine my own practice. I have been conducting research on the history and theory of Shinkage-ryū, especially Jiki Shinkage-ryū and how it relates to contemporary lines of practice such as Yagyū Shinkage-ryū and Hikita Kage-ryū.

At the same time I have continued to train in Jiki Shinkage-ryū after the death of my teacher. For some time I have worked independently and have wound up making my practice my own: analyzing its kata compared to those of other related arts, breaking the kata down to apply movements and ideas from them in a variety of ways, and then engaging in free sparring with varying levels of intensity, up to and including engaging with students of other ryūha and entering HEMA competition.

When I first arrived in Seattle in 2016, I had been practicing several approaches. I had been training in Katori Shintō-ryū for over ten years, Jiki Shinkage-ryū for seven or eight, and had learned older kata of Yagyū Shinkage-ryū as well. Because Shintō-ryū and Shinkage-ryū are so different today, I wound up deciding to focus solely on Shinkage-ryū.

What I found revealing was that in technical exchange (with another koryū, in HEMA competition) I found myself using Chinese methods a great deal. That was not surprising. But in terms of the Japanese methods I embodied dynamically, I would effectively attack with Jiki Shinkage-ryū, but was initially much more limited in how I could react with it. I found myself drawing on aspects of Yagyū tactically, even though I was least experienced in that approach. I did them with a Jiki Shinkage-ryū flavor and I believe what I drew upon ( suriage and kaeshi movements ) are common to both lines of Shinkage-ryū. But I seemed to have confirmed my Jiki Shinkage-ryū teacher’s conclusion that the kata as presented formally today do not quite have enough explicit exchanges to be a complete set of tactics. Shintō-ryū, even though it was the koryū I had trained in the longest — hardly was of benefit at all — dwelling on that would be another essay entirely.

Later, at slower speed, in analytical settings, under less pressure once I began teaching, I could apply Jiki Shinkage-ryū, as well as aspects of older Yagyū Shinkage-ryū kata. But to apply Jiki Shinkage-ryū I had to dramatically pull apart its kata.

This is the Ha phase of Shu Ha Ri.

Under pressure, it was my Chinese martial arts practice that came to the foreground, despite working on it less with other persons — I only worked briefly with a small group on Chinese weapons in the PNW. I include that point because I don’t want readers to think the traditional Chinese methods I learned were limited to posture, sensitivity, and other abstract concepts. They included a robust set of weapons practices, which have partner drills as well as solo forms. Unlike Jiki Shinkage-ryū kenjutsu, the practice is not encoded in a way that obscures its intent. The methods can be used very directly, so did not require as much cognitive load to unpack. Thus, they were more immediately available under duress.

I think there is a lesson in that, one I have been too slow to learn.

When I now work with the people I have mentored longest in Jiki Shinkage-ryū kata ( I call my approach Gassankan Heihō instead of using the character 流, for all the reasons I describe in this essay ), I have contextualized them with information drawn from Yagyū kata and then explained at times what Shintō-ryū would do under the same circumstances. I also think my internal martial arts training, as well as focus on Jiki Shinkage-ryū basics, has allowed me to express a fair amount of power when I practice its movements.

This has been the case for some time, but I had a realization, in the spirit of Ri.

When conducting jigeiko recently, I noticed that each of the people I was mentoring, under stress, reverted to a different mode of movement, different to what I had been attempting to cultivate with or transmit to them:

• One person has a background in pugilism and was cutting upward with too small a motion, from too far away. I realized they were trying to throw an uppercut as opposed to cut upwards.

• Another could launch powerful attacks, but I realized he was doing so from the Fiore dei Liberi Italian long sword high guard called Posta di Donna (Lady’s Guard) over his shoulder instead of a Shinkage-ryū or Jiki Shinkage-ryū hassō. He could cut with dramatic speed and power, but it was not a skill he learned in our sessions — it was something he already brought to the table.

• A newer practitioner studies German medieval long sword inspired by the writings of Johannes Liechtenauer and Joachim Meyer. He also has primarily a dominant fencing aspect associated to that art, influenced by point sparring so darts in an out, abandoning advantage instead of pressing it.

Under pressure, we each expressed something that resonated with their body-mind and spirit. We each enjoy Jiki Shinkage-ryū practice and find it interesting, but other practices shine through.

The practice of Jiki Shinkage-ryū hōjō many believe teaches strong basics and can improve an existing swordsman’s practice. It can imbue someone with the ability to both generate and withstand immense psychological pressure. What I was witnessing recently may have been exactly that, instead of something to criticize. Our subset of Jiki Shinkage-ryū kata practice has improved each of our work, but we each remain something different: what we began as, amplified.

I don’t think we were unique in this regard. Several other strong arts, fully maintained into this generation and beyond, have been influenced by Jiki Shinkage-ryū kata or philosophy, taking parts of the art their founders and teachers have found useful into their own lines of practice.

After spending time conducting research on the art, I am beginning to realize why. Much of Jiki Shinkage-ryū’s practical curriculum, beyond its introductory kata that are practiced as a form of physical, mental, and spiritual forging, was historically transmitted through guided drills and pointing-out instructions on topics called koto (事; matters) or katsu (かつ; victories). I did not learn these advanced topics at the Hōbyōkan — nor did I learn the inner principles of the art, called gokui (極意) except for the capstone concept of marobashi.

I am discovering marobashi is enough.

This is the shu into ri phase, where we first establish a structure and then break it, not to destroy it, but to discover what could be hidden in the resulting fragments. I’ve used the image of kintsugi pottery, broken but mended by lacquer and silver or gold. In the case of kintsugi, the shape and size of the repaired pottery is the same. It doesn’t get larger for that process, but does become different, more refined.

For several reasons my teacher wound up suspending his practice of the art before completion, and spent the bulk of his later work fully realizing his practice of Shindō Muso-ryū jo and comparing different lines of transmission of Yagyū Shinkage-ryū. This meant Jiki Shinkage-ryū was an adjunct to his dōjō, even if it was the first kenjutsu he had learned. Because of his parallel study of other lines of Shinkage-ryū (Yagyū, Hikita), his partial study of Jiki Shinkage-ryū wound up not being a limitation.

Its focus on basics, spirit forging, and posture and power development, exquisite sense of ma-ai and the ability to maintain distance, timing, and range with an opponent, or pre-empt an opponent have become unlocked in my own practice through the application of jigeiko examining the quality of movement of the art through the lens of marubashi (marobashi).

The chasm is wider in terms of the jump from foundational to advanced, but it is still possible. If one is willing to pressure test their approach. For some reason Donn Draeger concluded shiai was too dangerous in koryū, and that view was adopted by many of his Shindō Muso-ryū students, including David Hall. But knowing that Jiki Shinkage-ryū favored shiai in the Ōdani-ha, and having adopted it myself, I am now able to apply Jiki Shinkage-ryū methods in dramatically different ways than I first imagined.

The key was being willing to break and then being open to the possibility of transcendence.

However, in doing so, I did not rely only on marobashi. David Hall had suggested that because of Jiki’s dense encoding and cryptic nature, I maintain my practice of Katori Shintō-ryū to have a set of tactics to draw upon. Over time, I did so: I now have a solo practice of a subset of Katori kata, using Shinkage-ryū body mechanics, divergent enough from orthodox practice that is must remain a solo endeavor. I use it as a place I can experiment, without changing the kata of Jiki Shinkage-ryū I am in the process of communicating to others.

A challenge for me is the tactics of Shintō-ryū did not in general improve my ability in free practice. They help contextualize for me what a Shintō-ryū kenshi might do and provide some points to compare and contrast with Shinkage-ryū analytically. But Shintō-ryū has not permeated me like other practices.

It is instead my deeper understanding in skill at Xingyí and Taíji that over time has allowed my skill to continue to improve. This is because of those arts’ focus on integrated, coordinated, movement and relaxation in their practice at higher levels. That same somatic sense and improved proprioceptive ability has done something I find fascinating.

I notice over time as I engage in free practice, I am able to be increasingly relaxed and still move with combative intent. In doing so, I wind up having what feels like much more time to react than otherwise. I notice movements closer to their inception. This allows me to respond much more efficiently than I otherwise might be able.

Previously in my martial arts career, during times of extreme training intensity, there have been moments where time seems to slow down and my awareness seems to float, momentarily, and I am able to strike another or execute a throw with impunity — often doing something intuitive that I had never explicitly learned. It was if the opponent is not moving or reacting. However, these rare psychological events were fleeting and never something that could be summoned on demand. The closest thing I can identify is the flow state researched by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi.

I am unsure I can convey that process well to others, within the confines of kata — but this is my current understanding of marubashi. On a psychological level, what I believe my internal martial arts practice over time has allowed me to do is to maintain that flow state at sufficient intensity (depth might be a better word) for longer periods of time, in a wider variety of circumstances. This has radically changed my kenjutsu, and it is not a skill I was imbued with because of Jiki Shinkage-Ryū kata.

Outlook

I hope the discussion above helps convey how far I have taken my practice. What then is it?

For a while, my sharing Jiki Shinkage-ryū was as a project to better understand its kata. Then, it became a vehicle by which I could continue to explore it in semi-free practice. I think that has worked out generally well. What I wrestle with is whether this should remain an adjunct to HEMA or how I should provide advice to align the practice with formal lineage. A ryū is much more than a set of kata.

In terms of Jiki Shinkage-ryū sina qua non Jiki Shinkage-ryū, the reason my teacher was allowed to show others what he had learned, and the reason he allowed me to do the same, was that Jiki Shinkage-ryū kata practice does not lend itself to solo work. It really needs to be done with another person, as an important quality of the practice is learning the concept of kage (影 or 陰; shadow or solidity).

In my own solo practice, which is how I increasingly spend my time, I do not attempt to reconstruct the long kata of Jiki Shinkage-ryū alone. Shintō-ryū lends itself much better to that. Instead, I drill a few important movements and try to work on my internal martial arts principles while doing so. Each time, I work on a few more, letting the selection fully take hold, deep in my tendons, sinews, and bones. This is my version of ri (transcendence), where I converge towards the center of a circle, reaching the origin or essence as best I can. It is also what I mean when I practice as a form of shugyō.

Each must find their own path, and as I wrote two years ago (although I ignored my intent and kept writing here, hopefully albeit to some good effect), the final level of Jiki Shinkage-ryū practice is silent.

In terms of foundational kata, we always can critique, we always can improve, but the two gentlemen I have been working with since 2018 now practice hōjō and tō-no-kata as well as I do, and have a grasp of what kodachi should be when done properly. I have passed the class I ran to their spring leadership.

The people I mentor, other than communicating walking and postural key points from Taìjí, and explaining five phase and four season structure of hōjō, do not train in internal martial arts. I think they will be limited in their approach for not doing so. What then is their practice?

I would like to suggest Gassankan Heihō is a selection of kata from the historical Jiki Shinkage-ryū of kenjutsu, performed in concert with free sparring using leather-wrapped shinai and protective gear favored by HEMA. This is something old and something new. While I practiced with someone who had permission to teach, they were not a master of the art, and in my own practice I am not a member of the ryū. So, my understanding is somewhat unique.

At Lonin League, a small number of HEMA practitioners find interest in exploring these older methods, and maintain a study of them. Their practice remains an adjunct to HEMA and other pursuits and I hope portions of it may benefit those who are interested, much as in the past Jiki Shinkage-ryū kata practice was of interest to many kendōka.

Conclusions

Inner Dharma served to document my experiences surrounding training in multiple approaches to martial arts, and reducing them over time. I am on the edge of reducing them once more, as my Jiki Shinkage-ryū students acquire greater skill at kata and need to begin their own Shu Ha Ri process. That is not something I can do for them, but I believe jigeiko and tameshi-ai practices are key to understanding what the art can be. Each person needs to come to their own core practice. A teacher cannot do that for them and I believe it is important to learn foundations in an orthodox manner, and then imbue or enrich them with advanced content (e.g., koto, gokui, Taìjí principles, etc.) rather than try to mimic an exceptional teacher’s synthesis, despite the inspiration one might find in someone’s skill.

One does not become as skilled as a teacher by observing and studying the spot where they stand – the mountain-top – but rather by walking the same paths they did, and then walking one’s own, to develop a personal understanding. If my teacher had mixed what he learned into a single expression I don’t think I would have been able to go through this process in kenjutsu study.

Jiki Shinkage-ryū is a path I initially found confounding, and almost abandoned several times until it reached a threshold where its simplicity and focus overrode the quick, maneuver-based approach to Shintō-ryū kenjutsu I had first learned.

Transcending means doing something new.

This note is a long way to say this may be my last post on Kashima-shinden Jiki Shinkage-ryū for some time. I have wrestled with these matters enough, and hopefully between the content here, the references provided, and my book on the art, I can provide a small window to others on what the art may once have been and what it might be able to be.

If you are interested in a little bit of my gloss of the art, please visit Lonin League and struggle with it as my students have done. If you want to have a full cultural experience and direct transmission, connect with people who are part of orthodox factions of Jiki Shinkage-ryū or related arts. More and more these arts are becoming accessible, in contrast to years past.

I have enduring gratitude to my late teacher for sharing his knowledge with others, and being an island of sanity in what can be a very unhealthy pastime, depending on who you encounter. I would rather limit my transmission of this approach to something partial but possessing fidelity to what he showed, and then imbue it with my own understanding, than take it too far into speculation, which he had the discipline not to engage in. I can keep that memory of his approach alive.

For me, having broken and repaired my kenjutsu practice, it is the precious metal of internal martial arts practice that holds the fragments together. In kintsugi, it is not that the vessel becomes something fundamentally different than it once has, having been broken and repaired. Rather, it acquires a new beauty and we can appreciate the random lines of precious metal, how light and shadow reflect off the materials.

Living in the northwest, I can only aspire to connect with the art of past masters like Okuyama Kyūbasai, about whom it was written:

或夜夢於神、記改神陰號神影。爾後舞剣如影形、警策且人以震感、風如影随。

Each person has to develop their own high-level skill — express their own art.