The goal is to survive and even thrive in situations that are essentially hostile to my energy and essence.

And here I begin to understand, more deeply, why martial arts keeps calling me, even though I do not now nor have ever lived in an atmosphere in which I experienced or even witnessed much physical violence. Because such arts are among the few ways available that are supposed to teach you how to survive raw, dangerous encounters.

I’m finding Peter Ralston’s Cheng Hsin: The Principles of Effortless Power, a book on martial arts philosophy, to have good application my struggle to extend my effectiveness “horizontally,” that is, to be effective in this reality, in a real-world way, rather than merely spiritually developed and practically weak.

Here’s an excerpt that discusses posture, in a way that I’d like to read as not merely about physical posture, but mental-emotional alignment as well.

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Though it may seem very abstract, this theme of forms has many direct applications, the most relevant one at the moment, for me, being in the field of interpersonal relationships.

The easiest way I can illustrate this is by evoking your own body’s experience of other people. There are people who just “push” you back. They have wide eyes, loud voices, forceful demeanors. There are other people who “suck” you in. They have soft voices and shy demeanors. There are people who don’t say what they mean, or whose smiles never reach their eyes, and they actually feel “slimy.” There are people who feel bright, people who feel dark, people who feel solid, people who feel frail. And this often has nothing to do with their physical body type.

This is the “form” of personality.

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My recent post, “Emulating Evil,” touched on violence as a metaphor, or an extension, of the constant need to negotiate with something outside oneself in order to survive and thrive in this dark world. Lately, then, I’ve been thinking about martial arts. I’ve been thinking about my experience a few years ago with Chen tai chi master Gianfranco Pace, and how seeing his awesome ability made me quit tai chi. I’ve been thinking about observing Shaolin master Wong Kiew Kit a couple of years ago, and how his ability made me drop out of kung fu class for awhile. I’ve been thinking about how I didn’t think I had the heart to learn how to fight.

But I’m beginning to realize that there might be a bit more complexity in my response than I gave myself credit for.

Let’s take a step back for a moment. Martial arts these days are practiced by many as a hobby. Even the masters of the art, what do they use it for? Do they do anything with it other than teach students and compete among themselves? Most of them don’t. Their hand-to-hand combat skills aren’t relevant in war these days, or even in private self-defense. A punk with a gun could shoot a famous xingyi master. So martial arts tend to devolve into their traditions and competitions. Are these things what it’s all about?

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Trying to engage the immanent, the Divine in the mundane things of this world, means running headlong into that which is petty, dark, impure, and even evil. Spirit shines freely where things are already pure, but that’s not the way most of the world is. And maybe that’s not even the way the world is supposed to be.

In the Jewish mystical text called the Zohar, there’s a little parable that talks about evil. Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan paraphrased it thus, in his book Jewish Meditation:

A king once wanted to test his son to see if he would be a worthy heir to the throne. He told his son to keep away from loose women and to remain virtuous. Then he hired a woman to entice his son, instructing her to use all her wiles with him. The Zohar then asks the rhetorical question: Is the woman not also a loyal servant of the king?

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Recently I read something that resonated with me, in a weird and oblique way. This is an excerpt from a blog post by a guy with a lot of real-life experience with violence.

One of the most basic problems is in the realm of how martial artists are taught to move. They are taught to move right. They are taught to strike or throw or lock correctly. This works, in a controlled environment.

It’s the same with basketball players: Throwing free throws, they can do it with precision and consistency that any sensei would applaud … but they can’t deliver that kind of precision in a free-for-all. At some point each player has to transition from moving right to moving well, just getting the ball through the hoop from an unstable platform against resistance.

Most martial artists take it to exactly this level with sparring and think it is enough. They forget (or don’t know) that all live training has built-in flaws for safety. At the best, the flaws become habits that can get you killed … at the worst, they become “the right way” to do the technique. The part about safety flaws is an aside. The meat is this:

Games are simple. Life and violence are not. If you take the basketball player who can really move well but suddenly the basket is defended by a rugby, soccer or lacrosse team, using their tactics, his moving well has to come to an entirely new level. When he is not allowed to know what kind of team he will be playing against in advance, that’s another level. And in real life, sometimes putting the ball through the hoop isn’t the way to score. Sometimes it is and you don’t know until you are there.

So most martial artists learn a collection of very specific ways to move. It’s like having a toolbox filled with pre-cut jigsaw puzzle pieces and jumping into a jigsaw puzzle and hoping to find a gap that happens to fit a piece you have. It works sometimes, but people in real life actually say, “He attacked me wrong.”

What the practitioner needs to do is to soak all of his puzzle pieces and mash it into a sort of paper mache that you can cram into any hole you can find. It won’t look pretty …

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I think I’ll have to admit that my relationship with martial arts will always wax and wane: I just started taking Shaolin kung fu again.

Of course, the same issues that drove me to quit kung fu before are still lurking. I suppose this time I have a little more insight and therefore am a little more honest about what I’m doing.

One thing that continues to be invaluable about this particular kung fu tradition is its effective teaching of qigong and building of energy, providing concrete experiences of qi that are then used and built upon. As I’ve said before, the qigong, particularly the stance training, has been the single most helpful activity to boost my physical energy. And since I’m finishing school and likely moving away in just over a year, I thought this was a good time to put in a little more time in another qi-building endeavor.

But of course, kung fu is still training for violence. And what of that?

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Last week I started a class on zhan zhuang, or stance training, which is one of the most fundamental practices in internal martial arts and, more importantly to me, is a core practice designed to build energy in one’s root.

A number of things are beginning to come together for me at this point. I’ve been practicing qigong, as well as a form of pranayama, for a year and a half, and the qi is coming more under my mind’s control. It’s feeling more and more palpable and malleable. I could definitely see how it could be harnessed for martial purposes, for instance, or magical ends, if my inclinations lay in that direction. But thus far, I’ve been content with getting it flowing regularly in my body. That’s been my daily exercise.

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I guess I never got around to describing how describing how my latest foray into the martial arts has gone.

Last year, I started taking lessons with my friend Anthony, who is an instructor under Grandmaster Wong Kiew Kit and is also in my class at the Oriental medical college. I actually made quite a big deal about it in a previous post, but then said nothing more about it.

So here’s the story.

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I have once again reentered the world of martial arts.

Last night I joined a Shaolin kung fu class, taught by a classmate from acupuncture school, in the Shaolin Wahnam tradition of Sifu Wong Kiew Kit.

I still question my motivations, primarily because, as I’ve said so many times before, I don’t want to train for violence. But if I get good at fighting, then it will be a tool I am more likely to use in difficult situations.

However, that wasn’t my primary consideration in joining the class. Mainly, I went because I want to be healthy.

In my ideal world, I would have tremendous strength and vitality to do whatever I want to do. If I want to live sustainably, if I want to build my own house or hunt/gather/raise my own food, or if I want to have a family and build a successful practice, that requires energy.

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Found a great little essay that speaks directly to some of my uncertainty around martial arts.

Ninjutsu Hiketsu Bun
(Essence of Ninjutsu)
by Toshitsugu Takamatsu

The essence of all martial arts and military strategies is self-protection and the prevention of danger. Ninjutsu epitomizes the fullest concept of self-protection of not only the physical body, but the mind and spirit as well. The way of the ninja is the way of enduring, surviving, and prevailing over all that would destroy one. More than merely delivering strikes and slashes, and deeper in significance than the simple out-witting of an enemy; ninjutsu is the way of attaining that which we need while making the world a better place. The skill of the ninja is the art of winning.

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