Bujinkan North Brisbane Dojo

DŌJŌ MUSINGS

There are those who, no matter where they go, struggle to accept the environment they wish to enter. Some drift from dōjō to dōjō, teacher to teacher, yet always seem to encounter difficulties with fellow students or instructors before moving on. Others arrive with preconceived ideas of what they believe a martial arts dōjō should be.

Some attend for spiritual reasons. Some simply want to fight. Some seek exercise and approach training with a sporting mentality focused on competition and medals.

All of these motivations must eventually become transparent if one is to understand the path of Budō.

There are even those who do not practice at all, yet write books, collect items or study history and believe they understand the martial arts. I once had an academic visit my dōjō and notice a tachi displayed edge-down on a horizontal rack. Assuming it was incorrect, he picked it up and turned it edge-up like a katana. I immediately said, “Dame!”

Firstly, one does not handle another person’s weapons in a dōjō without permission. Secondly, one should not presume to correct what one does not yet understand. I stopped him and firmly pointed out his mistakes. To his credit, he quickly apologised and recognised his arrogance.

There are also those who become involved with organisations that promise a black belt and teaching qualification within a few months. Such practices are deplorable.

This is not martial arts; it is business.

If one accepts such an environment as legitimate Budō, then one is living in a fantasy.

True Budō is neither trivial nor easy to find. Amid the distractions and misconceptions surrounding the martial arts, many become lost in their search. Eventually they settle for what is convenient or what conforms to their limited expectations of what a dōjō should be.

Many martial arts centres now present themselves primarily as sporting clubs, fitness centres, or places where the ego can be cultivated and rewarded. In doing so, they have bastardised the essence of the arts in favour of a society that often values sport more highly than culture and art.

The dōjō is a place where one strives to move beyond present limitations and courageously enter realms of challenge, hardship, and uncertainty—physically, mentally, and emotionally. It is a place of shugyō (austere practice). It is not a gym.

The dōjō was never intended to be merely a place to socialise, escape life’s difficulties, or seek comfort. Rather, it is a place where those difficulties are confronted directly.

If one cannot perceive the dōjō in this way, then one is not truly training.

The dōjō is a place of rehabilitation for all aspects of the self. It is important to take one’s practice seriously, yet not take oneself so seriously that one becomes rigid, stern, and unforgiving. Martial arts is ultimately about balance. Only through balance can the necessary transmissions enter one’s being.

If teachers spoon-feed their students, they may produce beautiful clones, but not individuals with genuine understanding. The timing, angle, and manner (kamae) of a teacher’s intervention are crucial. To control every step of a student’s journey is counterproductive, for it deprives them of the opportunity to discover their own strengths, weaknesses, and shortcomings.

One man from a karate background once remarked that he learned more in a single class at Bushinden Tasmania Dōjō than he had in a year at his previous karate school. He is a professional man who recognised both the limitations of his teacher and the limitations of the system in which he had been training.

For the first time, he felt a genuine sense of purpose in his practice. Previously, he was simply moving up and down a hall several times a week, repeating techniques without understanding why.

Every training session should be approached with purpose.

That purpose is to delve deeper into the heart of Budō.

At times the path will be challenging, painful, and unsettling. At other times it will be enjoyable, rewarding, and deeply fulfilling. Both sides are necessary. Through experiencing this duality, we cultivate a strong and compassionate heart while learning not to be overwhelmed by emotion.

This is fudōshin—the immovable heart.

Hatsumi Sensei once observed that weaker individuals may perceive you as cold-hearted simply because you do not become emotionally entangled in every circumstance. Many people become overwhelmed by events and lose their ability to continue living as they wish. They become paralysed because they cannot find the balance necessary to move forward.

The path of Budō teaches us to carry more, accept more, and endure more. Through training, we gradually develop a greater capacity for life itself.

In doing so, we come to understand what it truly means to be a bugeisha.

南虎

The dōjō is not a place of democracy, nor is it built upon a consumer mentality of “give and take” with the teacher. The dōjō and its learning environment exist to cultivate relationships that transcend monetary transaction and superficial exchange.

Isshin Denshin 一心伝心 is the direct and personal transmission of knowledge from teacher to student. It is individual in nature, unique to each person who courageously enters the dōjō and begins the path of Shugyō 修行.

The consumer mentality has no place within the dōjō. It is not a community centre, gymnasium, sports team, or social club. The dōjō is a place where spirit and body are challenged—often in chaotic and uncomfortable ways—in order to develop deeper understanding of the self.

The teacher ( sensei ) is not a coach or just a friend. At times, he must be “cruel to be kind,” addressing what is necessary for growth in accordance with the laws of nature. Training may feel unfair or inhospitable, but this too is life. Budō is life. It is not an art designed to shelter people from hardship, but rather a path that develops the fortitude and resilience necessary to survive and overcome adversity.

Those unwilling to delve deeply into the soul will not last in the dōjō. Even if they remain, their growth may only be skin deep. The dōjō is not a place that everyone can accept. There will be blood, sweat, tears, boredom, and periods of trial.

Yet it is through the spirit of Buyū 武友 ( martial friends) that such hardships become bearable—through laughter, camaraderie, and the brotherhood formed through shared hardship of spirit and body. The tatami may appear soft, but in truth they are a stony path requiring courage to continue walking and falling upon, no matter how painful, challenging, or difficult the journey becomes.

Budō teaches us how to persevere and endure hardship more skilfully within our lives. In turn, this opens the mind and heart to experiencing and appreciating genuine happiness and love. Through hard training we come to recognise the fragility within ourselves and others, hoping to eventually cultivate a balance and morep compassion in our lives.

毎日頑張って下さい
“Keep persevering and doing your best every day.”

南虎
武神館タスマニア
徳武流水道場

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Put an instrument in the hands of a beginner and instantly they are forced to admit their inability.
Allow a beginner into a Dōjō and they automatically believe they have ability and know how to use a sword.
The very fact that martial arts is the natural use of the limbs and body as a whole, more often than not gives people a feeling of confidence and an automatic sense of ability. This is both a good and bad thing.
Everyone can throw a punch, a kick and jump, and have done so in moments of their lives to some degree of ability. However, can they be taught to do so more effectively and according to the particular art they have walked into? Are they able to relinquish their own predetermined beliefs of ability and have the humility to be instructed beyond their self limitations?
Many do not. Once they come face to face with their inadequacies in the training, the realisation is too much and they excuse themselves, never to return. Or worse still, blame the teacher or the art form. Denial is the destroyer of growth.

My advice? Enter the Dōjō as you would a person wishing to learn the piano from scratch.

It all comes down to the persons innate nature.

南虎

True Budô evolved for survival. It is not practiced for sport or just concerned with strength or speed, but rather with a greater capacity to pragmatically engage in any way that ensures the continuation of one’s life.

It’s beyond the simple mindset of sparring,
practicing randori or just putting on the gloves and going for it with another like minded person. The essence of this post is to understand that fighting has no boundaries. If someone feels threatened, they may use a weapon of any kind, or call for the help of others to track you down later. Hiding is a skill used to ambush others when they least expect an attack. People use vehicles as tools for destructive purposes and train animals to fight and kill. These ways of fighting also change depending on culture and global location. In some places, people are forced to ride their bicycles with a pistol on them as criminals have been known to attack cyclists with weapons just to steal their bike. Sparring and randori practice won’t help you in that situation will it. Real world combatives requires a wider perspective of what ‘self defence’ and ‘fighting’ means. This is the essence of this post.

True Budô has no rules. If one truly contemplates and understands this, it is indeed an art bound by nothing and thus truly formidable.

南虎 Nanko ( Minami Tora )