| Moving
Zen: One Man's Journey to the Heart of Karate is a multifaceted
work with ever-surprising depths. It is the story of a young man
arriving in Japan to come to grips with an alien culture; his first
two, hard years studying the technique of, and spirit behind, Karate;
and, finally, the story of how he learned the art of gentleness
through strength.
Twenty-two-year-old
C. W. Nicol, born in Wales, a student of Judo since fourteen,
the youngest pro wrestler in England, and a member of three arctic
expeditions, arrives in Japan in 1962 to study Karate. He shortly
finds that the study of this martial art engages his whole being
and transforms his
outlook on life.
Joining the Japan
Karate Association, or Shotokan, he discovers that Karate, while
being extremely violent, also calls for politeness and a sense
of mutual trust and responsibility. He learns that the stronger
the Karateka,
the more inclined he is to be gentle with others. The dangerous
ones are those who have gained a measure of skill but have not
yet achieved spiritual maturity--a fact he observes not only in
others but in himself. Studying kata, he comes to realize that
these forms are, in essence, moving Zen and that the ultimate
goal of all the martial arts is tranquility.
Eventually C. W.
Nicol, through the help of many wonderful teachers, gains his
black belt. In the meantime he has taken a huge step forward in
achieving the goal of tranquility.
This saga--must-reading
for all martial artists and anyone interesting in "moving
Zen"--was first published in 1975 and has achieved the status
of a modern classic. C. W. Nicol is now a seventh-dan blackbelt
in the Shotokan Karate International Federation.
Previously published
as Moving Zen: Karate as a Way to Gentleness, but now with a new
foreword by Hirokazu Kanazawa and a new afterword by C. W. Nicol.
Read a "Moving
Zen" An Excerpt
Within two months
of Mr. Kanazawa's coaching, I had learned the movements of the
Tekki kata quite well. Mr. Kanazawa, being a tall, long-limbed
man, taught full, graceful and powerful forms, and I had begun
to gain great pleasure from practicing them.
One day, while practicing
the Tekki kata, I became aware of Takagi sensei watching me. When
I finished, he called me over.
"Nicol, you
are improving, but the end of your kata is not good. When the
movements of a kata are finished, you must have 'zanshin.' Do
you know what that is?"
"I think so,
sensei--it means 'perfect finish.'"
"Yes, it does,
but what exactly is a perfect finish? Zanshin is comprised of
two characters. The first one, 'zan,' means to remain, to continue.
The second one, 'shin,' means heart or mind. When the movements
of a kata are finished, do not think that the kata is finished,
do not relax your attention and spirit. You must come to the closing
position, keep your eyes ahead, your body and spirit ready for
anything. You must be aware of all
that is around you. Kata is not just a practice of movements,
and neither is it a way of retreating into your own self. When
you practice kata you must
be acutely aware. You must have a mind like still water, reflecting
all things. Finish your kata with zanshin, otherwise no matter
how brilliantly you perform it, it will be considered a failure."
From then on, I
watched the teachers and high ranking black belts much more closely
when they finished their kata. Their performance of kata flowed,
and the flow of the kata did not end with the cessation of body
movement. How difficult to catch this feeling, to explain it!
In perfect stillness,
they exuded strength. I saw it, and I thought of herons, poised
above a pool, ready to spear a fish; of high-soaring falcons ready
to swoop; of a cat, sitting patiently by a mouse hole; or indeed,
of an Eskimo hunter I'd known named Akeeago, poised, ready, yet
totally relaxed, waiting for a seal to come up a breathing hole
in the ice. And yet, even as these images came to my mind, I became
confused. Zanshin was not
these, for although they too were images of strength in stillness,
these were all of the "before." What my teachers demonstrated
at the end of a kata was strength in stillness, yet more, more.
I try to pin it down with words and it eludes me. "Perfect
finish" ... "remaining spirit" ... they will have
to do.
With lower-ranking
belts, even with most brown belts, the flow was cut off when the
kata movements were completed, like a clockwork doll that had
suddenly been switched off. Without good "kamae" or
readiness at the beginning of the kata, and without zanshin at
the end, the kata was only a physical exercise, and not a moving
practice of Zen.
Once aware of the
existence of this feeling, this continuation of spirit, I began
to see it in other Japanese arts and customs; in the tea ceremony
and
in flower arranging, in classical Noh dancing, or in that exquisite
moment of silence after the last notes of a fine piece of music
had faded into nothingness.
At first, I found
it impossible to achieve this "continuing spirit" or
"perfect finish," and I resorted to mental tricks. With
the movements of the kata finished, I would stand in the final
position, eyes ahead, body motionless--then I would run through
the kata again in my mind. When the mental rerun had finished,
I would relax and bow out. From an onlooker's point of view it
seemed effective enough, although I knew that it was not the real
thing. But it would do for the moment.
Months passed. I
became stronger, practiced harder. On Sundays I practiced sword
and discussed philosophy with my new friend Ikeda, and a couple
of times a week I began to go to the Tomisaka police dojo to learn
stick
fighting with my wife, Sonako. It seemed no time at all before
I was entitled to wear the brown belt.
I had been training
almost two years now, and it was no longer easy for the younger
and more inexperienced of the first dan black belts to beat me.
Brown belts fought very hard and rough. We beat the lower ranks
with an almost savage delight, and in our turn we were mercilessly
beaten by our seniors, who now enjoyed contests with us, for we
could give good account of ourselves, and force them into stronger
defense and sharper attack. I had
learned many techniques, and could execute them with a fair power,
although how much power, I could not tell. We broke boards and
tiles and took new delight in the calluses on our hands.
The days were long
for me. I left early in the morning, traveling on the crowded
trains to downtown Tokyo. After practice, I ate lunch with dojo
friends. In the afternoons I studied Japanese, or sometimes returned
to the dojo, or sometimes went to learn stick fighting, or sometimes
taught English conversation at a small school. I taught English
in the evenings too. It was the most popular way for foreign,
English-speaking students to earn enough money to live in Tokyo,
which was, even in the early sixties, an expensive place to live.
Rarely was it possible to get a seat on the train coming home,
and I would hang from a strap with one hand, holding a paperback
book in the other hand, bracing myself against the pressures of
close-packed bodies all around me, lurching and swaying in the
sardine-can carriages.
On one such journey,
around nine at night, I was unfortunate enough to stand next to
a very aggressive drunk. He was a laborer, muscular and brown,
a
small towel twisted and looped around his head, hair crew cut,
small stubbly beard. He was about forty years old, sober enough
to stand, but too drunk to keep his dislike of foreigners to himself.
As the crowded carriage swayed
and lurched he kept up a continual muttering, loud enough for
me, and for everybody else near us, to hear.
"In the war,
we Japanese defeated them time and time again. They have no spirit.
Only with atomic bombs could they defeat us. Trash! I am stronger
than he is. Look at him! Why does he come to our country? Stupid
fellow!
Just his size is big, not his heart! And our girls like them!
Huh! Trash! They're not Japanese girls, they are only whores!"
It was difficult,
but I ignored him as did the other stony-faced Japanese in the
carriage. They felt more embarrassed and uncomfortable than I
did. At first I was not even angry, for by now I had become used
to this kind of drunk. They were usually quite harmless.
But this one got
bolder. The carriage lurched, and he took the opportunity to swing
hard and jab his elbow upward at my ear. He was hanging onto the
strap with both hands. After he hit me he glared malevolently.
"Cowards, all
of them. See? I'm not afraid."
The carriage lurched
again, and sure enough I got his right elbow in my left ear again.
Very irritating. I put my book up on the luggage rack.
We had learned in
the dojo that a blow under the armpit would cause great pain,
and probably unconsciousness. A blow there from a master would
cause death. In the Tekki kata we practiced close, hooking punches
that started
from the side of the body and passed in front of the striker's
own chest. We practiced these powerful in-fighting blows with
a partner, and learned how to deflect the opponent's arm upward,
to expose the vulnerable underarm. In mounting anger, I now determined
to test one of these techniques, just hard enough, or so I thought,
to cause the bothersome drunk enough pain to make
him drop his arm and quit jabbing me in the ear.
I waited for the
next lurch, and as he began a jab at my ear I hooked a rising,
close-bodied jab with my right fist, at the same time bracing
my ankles, legs and abdomen, and deflecting his elbow upward with
my left hand. The punch went deep into his armpit, and to my great
surprise he dropped, falling in a heap on the lap of a gentleman
who sat reading a newspaper directly in front of him. So crowded
was the carriage that he could not fall
and stretch out on the floor, but he was unconscious just the
same. My fist had traveled less than eighteen inches. Minutes
passed, and he lurched to his feet, grabbing at people standing
there to help him up. I didn't know what to do, and said nothing,
ready to hit him and anybody else if need be.
But he did nothing,
and squeezed behind me and made his way to the exit, where he
stood staring at the rubber-edged crack between the sliding pneumatic
doors. At the next station he got off, and neither he, I, nor
anybody else said a word.
On the station platform
of Akitsu, I breathed a sigh of relief in the cool evening air.
Hell, I didn't really think that the blow would knock him out!
That rather unpleasant incident demonstrates why brown belts are
more
dangerous than dan ranks. I told myself I would not try out such
a technique again unless my life depended on it. If Kanazawa sensei
had heard about it, I would have been suspended from the dojo
for at least six months.
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