contemplating the possibilities

The other day, I joked that I was considering joining the circus. Unless my phone interview goes poorly, that's probably not in the cards, but doing so would probably vastly improve my martial arts skills.

You read that correctly.

My training as of late has largely revolved around the staff. Over the years, I've developed a method of training the staff and I've been studying and practicing the best ways to transmit that knowledge. For many students, the staff just isn't that interesting in contrast to a sword, nunchaku, chain whip or any other flashy weapon. Heck, just putting a spear head on the end makes it considerably more interesting.

The problem with this, I feel, is that a lot of good lessons are being overlooked and the staff is one of the safest training weapons for developing a variety of attributes which will help you learn to manipulate that broadsword, 3 section staff, rope dart, whatever. These students never learn to connect the dots between moving the weapon and moving their body, and the result is an awkward, disconnected mess. They may be able to drop into a REALLY low stance and kihap until they start coughing blood, but these are just poses. When I judge weapon forms, I pretty much ignore the poses because I want to see how the person got from point A to point B.

How does the circus come into play? My key study of the staff is exploring the lanes of motion around the body and how to interact with the staff to keep it in constant motion. I require my black belts to be comfortable with approximately 10 different skills. In addition to these skills, they need to be able to smoothly transition from one to another. Now go to the circus and watch the jugglers. They have always been in touch with these lanes, and by not having to worry about the constraints of tradition and practicality, they have opened in these lanes in ways that would make a "pretty good" student of the staff drop their jaw.

Lately, I've felt my staff techniques, while solid, were getting a little stale. Then I saw this:



This method of staff manipulation is referred to as "contact staff." A lot of it is basically tricks and juggling and has hardly any martial value on the surface. It would be extremely popular in a circus, especially if you lit the ends on fire.

Some of these tricks have worked their way into the open tournament scene. Jennifer Espina pops up in my head immediately.

Here's another inspirational clip:


I've been watching the playpoi clips for the last few years and have gained a lot from his method of explanation. Watching this clip was rather eerie for me for many reasons:

1. Our school has always emphasized using a long rope to develop staff skills. Learning to smoothly play the rope really improves your understanding of patterns and lanes.

2. Nick uses a lot of the same language and examples that I use when I teach.

3. Nick is much, much better with the meteor than I am. :)

So for all of your serious martial artists out there, go to the circus and watch the jugglers. After you're done puffing out your chest and talking about how they are just playing, reflect on how they've probably practiced more in the last week than you have all year. That should release the air quite nicely.

You might find that we have more in common with the "trickers" than you think: a dedication to hard work, practice, perfection and sharing our art with others.

Re-Reading your Journal

In a previous post, I was asked how often I go back and reflect on what I've written in the past. To be honest, I don't re-examine my writing very much upon completion. When I do, sometimes the process can be very humbling.

Think about how much you've grown as a person since High School. For me, it's been a little over 13 years, and when I stop to consider how my thoughts, opinions and emotions have changed over those years, I can't help but wonder how irritated I would be with the writing I produced then. Luckily, not much of it exists, but I'm sure it's all very embarrassing.

I didn't take many notes as a Gup student, but I can imagine that reading them would make me realize how big of a pretentious, annoying doofus zealot I was (was?) at the time. I'm not sure how my instructor tolerated my perceived level of knowledge!

A few weeks ago, I looked at my journal entries from when I was a Cho Dan. I had some interesting notes and observations about what was going on around me. Some things I had completely forgotten about over the years. Other things were best forgotten. :)

So while I tend to feel that my journal output has a fairly short shelf life, there are occasional gems which I am very thankful for recording on paper. Most often, I look at the last few weeks of notes to see trends in my classes or what I've been contemplating. I try to write down a little before each class, sort of a guiding theme or set of reminders. If I forget to mention it, I circle it for the next class.

At the very least, reading my journal reminds me to occasionally write things down.

Change vs. Tradition...

...At least, that's how most people frame the debate.

Have you ever noticed that from one school to another to another, techniques are performed differently? Sometimes the difference is obvious, and other times it may be a subtle aspect of position, angle, transitional movement or anything else. If you look hard enough, you'll even see this difference within a single school. The old guard may have learned a technique one way, where the newer students have been exposed to a different line of thought or a modification in the technique. Talk about a headache for the head instructor who has to keep track of 50 ways of doing a single technique. Eventually the instructor has to make some sort of decision, and the students either adapt or leave. Even in schools with an extremely rigid curriculum, where everything is spelled out, these changes can and do occur.

How does such a thing happen? There is a term for this in the Korean arts: Ryu pa (流派). Ryu pa translates literally to "water flowing divided." Think of how a stream splits in half due to an immovable object and we now have 2 streams, moving alongside each other, sometimes spreading out even further and further away. These two are now separated, gathering their own momentum until they too eventually must split. Some streams become larger, gaining tributaries, and cut easily through the ground. Some splits are too small to flow on their own, become a trickle and dry out.

The same thing happens with changes in a martial art. Either the new stream will do well and grow, or it will die out. In an odd way, change is traditional. Change keeps the martial arts alive and moving forwards. Stagnancy in a stream results in death.

When we try to artificially interfere with ryu pa, bad things tend to happen. The green belt who decides that they have mastered everything in Tang Soo Do and wants to create their ultimate hybrid art will probably not be around in 5-10 years. The same happens if we try to stifle creativity by damming the stream. The output of the stream is lessened while a backlog of potential waits behind the dam. Too much pressure, the dam explodes and that potential is lost forever.

Quite often, change for the sake of change is unhealthy, and the best changes happen unintentionally, over time.

So how do you deal with such issues as they arise? The answer may be as simple as waiting patiently.

Regional Championships

This weekend, our studio participated in the Region 5 Championship. It is a 3 day, action packed event featuring a black belt test, tournament and clinic. Sometimes, I even find time to eat AND sleep.


2 of my students tested for Cho Dan, and I am very proud of their efforts. Both students excelled in their demonstration of what a BTSD Cho Dan should look like. They were physically well prepared, spiritually very focused, and did an excellent job on the written exam, scoring a 100 and a 98, respectively.

I had the opportunity to judge at the tournament and saw a few competitors who have made great strides in their technique and ability over the years. On Sunday, I was honored to teach staff skills at the gup clinic, and listen to Grandmaster Shin's discussion on Ki Gong. The weekend was well worth the 9 hours of driving.



However, my favorite part of the weekend wasn't on the training floor or while wearing a dobohk. It was on Sunday morning before the clinic as we ate breakfast. Eating together on trips is a long tradition in our club, and it was very nice that everyone was together (it was quite tempting to get that extra hour sleep and roll out of bed for the clinic) laughing and enjoying each others company. From there, we arrived at the clinic about an hour early (oops!) and some of us realized how very tired we were. At that point a strange thing happened.

We played baseball.

Well, kinda. After I changed, I was warming up with my staff - trying to decide what I wanted to convey -- when one of our students found a softball sized rubber ball in the bleachers. I casually joked for someone to toss it at me so I could hit it with a staff technique.

From there, everyone in our group became engrossed in this weird hybrid of baseball, cricket and Tang Soo Do. As students from other schools entered the gym, they were half-amused, half-perplexed by what greeted them.

Just a bunch of tired college kids being goofy before things got started.

Tang Soo!

My little black book.

My name is Tom, and I am a prolific note-taker. I keep a little notebook with me wherever I go, solely for writing notes to myself. Sometimes they are reminders to do something later (I used to try to keep a specific book just for that, to keep this one "pure" but I tend to lose/forget it.) but it is largely an idea repository.

Ideas don't always conveniently materialize in class. Often, it is while I'm walking from the car to my office, or while reading a book or article. Meetings are often great inspiration for me to retreat into my mind and think about Tang Soo Do. For this reason, the little black book pops out and I can record my thoughts quickly for a later time.

I've encouraged readers to keep a training log in the past. I combine my training log with my idea log to keep them in the same book and cut down on the number of Moleskine's I'm carrying around at any given time.

How do you get into the habit? Here's a few pointers I'd like to offer:

Carry it everywhere.

This is the key to getting in the habit. How else do you take advantage of those moments when your brain actually has a great idea? Trust me, saying to yourself "I need to remember that" does not work reliably, if at all. This is why I like the notebook sized Moleskine. It easily fits into a jacket or back pocket. Sometimes, I even slip it into the front of my dobohk in the pouch created by the uniform fold and belt.

Carry a Pen, too.

Well, duh. Can't write an entry without a pen. Get a pen you like, and keep it with your notebook at all times. Besides, carrying a pen makes you look prepared and industrious, not to mention ready for self-defense.

Write!

How often do you avoid writing things down because it's "not important enough" or "you'll remember it later?" Write it down, even if it is just a snippet, so you remind yourself later. Maybe you have an incomplete thought... Who cares? The journal is for your eyes only, and no one else will judge it. If it really bothers you later, cross it out and put a note next to it like "sorry, i was drunk."

Don't be shy. As soon as class lets out, get out your notebook and write what you can. If you are at a seminar, respectfully ask the instructor if you can take notes. They may say no, especially if this is the first time anyone has ever asked. If so, tough it out and remember key points to write down during a break. I can't tell you how many gems have slipped out of my head as I go from one breakout session to another at clinics.

Look at it during downtime.

Yes, you have downtime. At lunch, waiting in line at the grocery store (sure, put your list in their too!) sitting at a red light, waiting for a meeting to start, number 2 moments, whatever. Looking at what you've already written down serves to remind you of your great ideas, and to get the juices flowing for a followup entry. And since you have your pen with you, maybe you've got enough downtime to add a few more notes as well.

Expand on it later.

Often my notes are to spur later thought, or notes for when I'm preparing to speak to a group. I may take a short entry and decide to blog on it later, add it to my research, etc. Either way, revisiting your material is a great way to connect seemingly disjointed thoughts into something more coherent for later use.

Go buy a notebook. Start using it. Thank you.

Failure

“I’ve missed more than 9000 shots in my career. I’ve lost almost 300 games. 26 times, I’ve been trusted to take the game winning shot and missed. I’ve failed over and over and over again in my life. And that is why I succeed.”

who said it?

a time for concepts and a time for techniques

This month, I'm set to visit some friends in Chicago and teach a nunchaku seminar. Nunchaku have a special place in my heart. I've been playing with and using them since I was about 10 years old. It was a bonding between my dad and myself. As a teenager, my dad took karate classes and his instructor would show a few tricks with the nunchaku. The 1970s were the peak of nunchaku mania in the US, and my dad was part of that trend.

When I was 10, I found my dad's hiding place for his nunchaku and asked if he could show me a few moves. After all, I was 10 and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles had assumed the role of nunchaku ambassador to my generation. He flipped them around a few times, and then proceeded to give me my first of two lessons: forward and reverse figure eights. Practice this technique, he advised me, and everything else will come out. (For those of you wondering, the 2nd lesson was how to bounce the nunchaku off the leg without needing an ice pack.)

Fast forward about 11 years, and I'm taking martial arts as an adult. My instructor gives me a staff to practice with in class. Shockingly, we practiced the same thing: Figure eights. Repeatedly. Eerily enough, his advice was the same. Everything comes back to those figure eights and their planes of motion.

My instructor taught me to use the staff on a more conceptual level, reinforcing his lessons with concrete examples. In other words, he didn't show us 20 tricks and then try to improve them. Instead, we spent time focusing on using gravity, momentum and leverage to our benefit and then would use a technique to teach that lesson. In fact, most of our time was spent on what he called "dexterity skills." I always thought this a bit odd given than our instructor was not one to spend time on frivolity.

It took me a few years to wrap my head around this way of thinking. As I teach staff and nunchaku now, I find myself returning more to this method of teaching. To me, the weapon is not the lesson. In fact, the weapon is a prop for the lessons I want to teach. It is the applied version of the planes of movement. Learning to appreciate how the weapon travels along these planes, and how to transition from one plane to another with smoothness, efficiency and power. From there, take those lessons to everything else: staff, chain whip, rope dart, whip, sticks, empty hand techniques, and more. Learn from feeling and experimentation.

That's what I hope to share with my audience in Chicago.