This title has probably been used from time to time over thousands of years.

At first glance martial arts might seem at odds with the peaceful life to which most of us aspire. But we Americans live in the most violent country on Earth at a time of constant international and civil warfare, committed to a war economy. The idea that any of us are living a peaceful life is not realistic.

Though ancient sword traditions may seem obscure to modern sensibilities, such traditions appear in almost every culture. The Japanese version, Kendo, the Way of the Sword, should not be confused with the modern sport of Kendo with its bamboo swords and full body armor, nor with antiquarian re-enactments, however authentic. Rather we are concerned with the actual Kenjutsu traditions that reached their highest development in the Edo period (1600-1868) in Japan, and have continued unchanged to the present day. This Way is not a sport or a hobby, but a way of life.

The Japanese traditions, like other sword arts, developed in times of violent conflict, but under more intense social pressures than most. The times were marked by constant competitive friction between warlords, maintained by a warrior elite with absolute impunity in their fiefdoms, and absolute loyalty to their feudal overlords. Sword fighting took on an aesthetic sensibility like poetry or flower arrangement or the Tea Ceremony, and leisure-class cultural activities were imbued with the life-and-death immediacy of deadly conflict, combining beauty and terror in every cultural expression.

This elevation of combat to an artistic and spiritual level, and of gentler pursuits to matters of life and death, is very much at the heart of the Way of the Sword. It is just here that we might find an answer to the riddle posed by the strange spectacle of modern people in pursuit of the obsolete killing arts of a long-vanquished feudal elite. It is one thing to read about ancient warriors and their exploits, or become fascinated by the incredible, still-unequaled artistry of their weapons; it is quite another to experience firsthand the way of being required even to contemplate that kind of combat. It is only because of the qualities inherent in traditional training methods that remain to the present day that we may have access to such experience in our own time; and these traditions remain, precisely because of that combination of intensity and serenity, of terror and beauty, forged in the ancient Japanese Dojo.

As with any warring society, in Feudal Japan the strength and agility of younger warriors was a constant threat to those in power. They had to dominate hearts and minds by means that transcended physical strength and, of course, numbers; so they devised a precise and rigorous science of combat arts. The principles they developed and tested over centuries are as effective between individuals as between armies, business entities or great nations. This is what the Ryu, the traditions handed down through generations, were intended to maintain and transmit.

Because these sword-scientists were so successful, and their educational system was so effective and reliable, they guarded their hard-won knowledge carefully; and thus the arts they taught became legendary. Although it enhanced the mystical aura surrounding these traditions, secrecy was more a quality control than a security matter. Most Ryu passed into oblivion on the death of the master without a designated successor, so high were their standards. Those who compromised in this doomed their art to mediocrity. In this pressure-cooker environment, with competition so intense, and stakes so high, martial artists explored every possible variation in body mechanics and technical refinement.

Eventually there remained but one area in which decisive advantage could still be attained: the Mind. This was summed up nicely by Takeda Sogaku, considered the last of the great Samurai warriors, who said, more or less, this: "Aiki is defeating your enemy with a glance." He was not speaking metaphorically or hyperbolically, but in the most concrete and practical of terms. Such a thing is not only possible, but when it became possible, it instantly became necessary. A Daimyo who did not possess this ability in some degree had not long to live in such times.

"Defeating your enemy with a glance." For this we require total freedom from the false identity we call "I." The voice in our heads that talks most of the time, or as the old joke has it, the voice that you may hear saying: "What voice? I don't hear anything..." Without ego, which is to say, without Meaning, who is the enemy? Rather than producing an answer, the mere asking of such questions changes the questioner irrevocably. It is exactly so with training in the Way of the Sword: unanswerable questions become the rule. Achievement loses its value almost entirely. We search in vain for a frame of reference other than the Instructor, the tatami, this imprisoning lump of obstinate flesh. The next cut is all that matters; then only this cut. The only way to hold on is to let go. Let go of letting go. Something odd happens to time. The blade whistling toward one's head no longer occurs as a terrifying blur of inescapable death. It becomes just one more piece of the ever-changing puzzle of life.

Over several hundred years of unbroken lineage, the educational approach embodied in the Dojo became something independent of technology or setting, a distinct educational template. Content is independent of method: arranging flowers, serving tea, writing with a brush, or wielding a sword, it is all the same as regards the transmission of knowledge from instructor to student, or more accurately, master to disciple. Unlike what we are used to in the West, instead of providing ways for students to change the world, this form of education changes the student. A person so educated is armed with more than a large amount of information. Graduates of this form of schooling are practiced at facing the unknown. They tend to come alive when things are least certain. They thrive in chaos.

It is not for everyone.

For perspective, here is a death poem, written by a man named Sunao, who died in 1926 at the ripe old age of 39:

Spitting up blood

clears up reality

and illusion alike.

© Peter Barus, 2008