Traditions. Dave Lowry
of a readership for such a column. But I took the offer anyway. And as it has been more than once in my writing career, my editor was correct. I began to hear from readers in response to my columns.
I learned, in writing about the traditions of the budo on a regular basis, that there was a wide readership of intrigued individuals who were taking a deeper look at the budo, understanding that there may be something of value in these Ways, not immediately evident. Not incidentally, the same has come to be true on the antiques scene. Newly involved collectors are discovering that what they previously regarded as old trash, may be a connecting element to earlier times and the ownership of these objects can bring satisfaction and even a certain stability to daily life.
The sincere martial artist shares at least one other similarity with the antiques enthusiast. Both must traipse through a lot of junk and a lot of imitations before they find the real thing. Age alone does not elevate a thing to the status of antique, nor does its immediate appearance guarantee quality. Likewise, there are plenty of martial arts (and what have been ambitiously or fraudulently labeled as martial arts) that have been practiced for years, despite the fact that they’re largely nonsense. There are many imitations that can look most convincing, even if they are not authentic.
It is discouraging. But those who have a real interest in the budo as they were originally practiced have a responsibility to understand them as well, so that these wonderful Ways may be accurately preserved, like my Puritan chair, for future generations. That has been the audience for my writing over the past ten years. I hear from them frequently, when I have made a mistake or when they disagree with something I have written. I am happy to say, however, that far more often, readers write to tell me they have enjoyed the columns and have learned from them.
“I always knew there was a lot more to the martial arts than what I was learning,” one reader told me, “and your column has encouraged me to investigate.” These sentiments, expressed in one way or another over the years, have left me with the feeling experienced by the antique collector who, through his own enthusiasm, inspires others to begin appreciating the things of the past. That is what my writing in these columns has been about, in a real sense. Poking about in the attic of the budo, bringing down the interesting and intriguing odds and ends to be found there, to show them to others who share my preoccupations. I have been encouraged by readers to collect some of these columns and to publish them in the more manageable and presentable form of a book. I have, and that is what you are reading now.
Some of these essays deal in broad terms with the traditions of the budo; others are concerned specifically with the Way of karate. I hope that those martial artists whose Way is not that of karate and who instead practice aikido, kendo, judo, or some other budo, will read these anyway for two reasons. One, I believe that karate, more so than the other budo, has suffered badly at the hands of Hollywood and others intent upon presenting it as a brutal form of violence, a machismo-flavored soupcon of egotism and boorishness. Karate is much, much more than most Westerners (and regrettably I include most Western karateka in that group) understand it to be. It is partially my intention here to present some of its philosophy and ethos.
Secondly, I think it is important for martial artists to realize that all the budo are, at their core, alike. They are, to think of it in a different way, various climbing routes up the same mountain. Several excellent (and some perfectly lousy) books have been written detailing the climbing routes of aikido or the Way of the sword or some of the other Japanese budo. But the Western reader interested in karate’s particular path to the summit has had little to go on. Perhaps these essays will provide some insights for him and for other martial artists. In any case, it is my intention that this modest collection will reveal at least a few glimpses of the traditions that make up all of the Japanese budo.
They are unique, the budo, modern forms of self-discipline and aesthetic sensibility and moral reckoning with deep and powerful roots in an ancient age. They offer a lifetime of study and effort and contemplation. Neither my writing, nor any other, is going to build a foundation for you that will allow you to benefit from these Ways. That is a process that can only be accomplished through your own severe and dedicated efforts in concert with the guidance of a competent teacher or guide. Instead of a foundation, I present here for you a little corner of the attic, one filled with antiquities and curiosities. I offer this little space under the eaves for you to explore, in the sincere wish that you will find something of interest and worth. Something like the baby chair of the Puritan Age that I have, some things which are worth taking down and studying and appreciating and making into a part of your daily life.
The Spears of Hozoin
“Any instant is the same as thousands of infinite eons.
And thousands of infinite eons are the same as a single instant.”
—Kegon-kyo (“The Sutra of Flowered Splendor”)
From its outward appearances, this temple-monastery was little different from others of the Buddhist faith throughout 17th-century Japan. It contained a main dojo, or votive room, with a great wooden effigy of the Buddhist patriarch Tojun in the center of its altar. There were spacious abbot’s quarters, and other buildings for the monks, retired abbots, and those who frequented such temples in their travels. Spaced throughout the grounds were the customary gardens, their perfectly placed stones and cultivated trees intermingled with more prosaic varieties of growing things useful to a monastery of hungry holy men: daikon radishes, scallions, beans, and other vegetables.
There were some characteristics distinguishing this temple. It was one dedicated to the Kegon sect of Buddhism, which accounted for the statue of Tojun, known in China as To-shun, one of the religion’s primogenitors. It was favorably located on the crest of steep Abura Hill, in the shady middle of a grove of evergreen cryptomeria that funneled the coolest breezes of summer over its walls and sheltered the temple too, from the harshest gusts of winter. Looking out in one direction from the temple walls, one could spy the tiled roof of a public bathhouse in the forest below, one that had been commissioned in the 14th century by the Empress Komyo. From another vantage point, the towering outline of Mt. Kasuga loomed. Then too, this particular temple had a certain “air” about it. The sharp scent of pepper to be exact. The temple was famous for the spicy pickled vegetables its monks fermented in wooden vats in their kitchen. Yet what really set this temple apart from others was the long bladed poles that were stored under the eaves of the monk’s quarters, their oaken shafts polished with use, their steel edges kept razored with care. For this temple was the Hozoin, and its monks were the feared and respected spearmen of the Hozoin ryu, one of ancient Japan’s most feared schools of spearmanship.
The Hozoin was consecrated to the Kegon sect of Buddhism. Kegon, known as Hua-yen in Chinese, was formalized in China very early in the T’ang Dynasty (618–907 A.D.). Kegon sprouted at almost exactly the same time another school of Chinese Buddhism came into prominence, the Chan or Zen sect, and in many ways, Kegon was an intellectual approach to Buddhism, complementing the more spontaneous methods of Zen. Kegon drew its inspiration from the Avatamsaka sutra, a sacred text that based enlightenment upon adherence to the principles of the Ten Mysterious Gates. In simplified form, the doctrines of Kegon maintain that all existence is dependent upon a vast, interlocking network of karma, or personal actions. In Kegon thought, the universe is like an enormous machine, one with millions upon millions of cogs, each of them turning in relation to all the others. Enlightenment comes to the Kegon practitioner when he realizes independence is illusory and that existence is an ultimate interdependence upon others, past and present. And so, the follower of Kegon Buddhism seeks to integrate himself into the world, understanding the greater scheme of things by understanding his own little cog.
Exactly when Kegon Buddhism was imported to Japan is a mystery. But by the 16th century, there were several temples there dedicated to it. One of these was in Nara, named the Hozo, after the Japanese pronunciation of Fa-tsang, the Chinese priest who formalized Kegon teachings. For many years, the Hozoin monks lived in simple solitude, making their renowned pickles and contemplating the scriptures of Kegon thought. It wasn’t until about 1620, with the appointment of Kakuzenbo Innei as