The section titles of this essay are drawn from the shichijō no tachi of Kashima Shintō-ryū — seven essential articles of kenjutsu, encoded in TSKSR as three kata and in Kashima Shintō-ryū as seven.
引ノ太刀 · Hiki no Tachi : Whence Katori
From 2005 to 2015, I actively trained in a line of Katori Shintō-ryū maintained at Capital Aikikai. I was introduced to what at the time was a small study group there by Bob Galeone, my teacher in Gao Lineage Bagua. The group practiced the art as transmitted by Sugawara Tetsutaka, who had been a kiyoshi in the main line of the art before leaving to run an independent organization. His version of the art is popular in some Aikidō circles. Over the years, I learned a large portion of the curriculum they taught and received their first rank, called mokuroku. Afterwards, the leader of our training group was deployed to Afghanistan and I continued to train, but missed having regular instruction.
I now live in an orthodox Katori nexus of sorts, with the U.S. hombu dōjō of the main line of the art not far away from where I live, but I have decided to stick with Jikishinkage-ryū kenjutsu, even though training logistically is difficult. This essay is about the process of arriving at that decision.
車ノ太刀 · Kuruma no Tachi : The Pull of Kashima
Eventually I began training in Kashima-shinden Jikishinkage-ryū on the recommendation of a long-time budō colleague of mine, who was learning Yagyū Shinkage-ryū at the Hōbyōkan. I wanted to learn Jikishinkage-ryū because I was intrigued by its connections to Chinese martial arts (albeit in the early 17th century), interested in practicing a sword art that influenced Sokaku Takeda (since I had practiced Aikidō-inspired goshin-jutsu for a long time), and was curious about what sword arts associated to Katori's sister shrine in Kashima were like.
Jiki Shinkage-ryū kenjutsu traces itself back to the teachings of Matsumoto Bizen no Kami, who founded it out of a synthesis of the Kage-ryū of Aisu Ikō and kenjutsu he learned at Kashima Shrine. Kashima Shrine is the birthplace of these arts and the home of Kashima Shintō-ryū. The full name of what we affectionately call “Jiki” today is Kashima Shinden Jiki Shinkage-ryū — the divine tradition of Kashima. It is unclear what level of influence Kashima Shintō-ryū had on Jiki Shinkage-ryū, but both arts to this day have powerful nagashi movements instead of the smaller kaito or linear movements found in Katori Shintō-ryū. It is thought that Kamiizumi Ise-no-kami studied Shintō-ryū as well as Nen-ryū — likely the Kashima variant, although that is uncertain. In the past, there were different dōjō of Katori Shintō-ryū and Katori was famous for long weapons (naginata, spear) while Kashima was considered the place to learn sword (tachi, ōdachi). Maybe a long time ago Kashima and Katori were not as different as they are today.
Jikishinkage-ryū was an arduous practice and brought its own benefits to my distance, posture, timing, stability, and power. In some ways, Jiki Shinkage-ryū is exemplified by its aggressive, dominating aspect and emphasis on kiai, which translates into stability and cutting power. Yagyū Shinkage-ryū is exemplified by timing, precision, and perception. Today, Katori Shintō-ryū is, in contrast to both those arts, exemplified by mobility, positioning, and speed. The long introductory kata of Katori serve to develop stamina in its students, but as one advances through the system, a great emphasis is placed on rapidity and posture in practice.
違ノ太刀 · Chigai no Tachi : Divergence
A side-effect of my exposure to Jikishinkage-ryū is that the more I practiced it, the more I questioned Katori Shintō-ryū. At first I thought this productive; having more than one perspective on budō can be useful.
In Katori, a primacy was placed on speed, and while in initial phases of training precision and ma-ai were emphasized, many practitioners lost a sense of timing (hyōshi) and advantage (sen) and centerline (chushin). So much focus is placed on these latter ideas in Jiki Shinkage-ryū that I was unable to simply turn that part of my training off. By simply not yielding when a partner failed to take center line, the progression of the kata could be slowed or stopped — which would be normal in many styles, but in Katori, long introductory kata are strung together and meant to be done in a fluid stream. Skilled practitioners could adapt smoothly, so I knew in principle the pedagogy had a sound core, but others got flustered and confused.
At first, I thought I could keep a Shintō-ryū practice going, not worry about becoming a teacher, and just practice the kata at my own speed. I focused on Jiki Shinkage-ryū and also wound up learning some of the older kata of Yagyū Shinkage-ryū. I continued to practice Katori on my own, thinking if I ever moved somewhere a mainline or Sugino group practiced, I could come back to the art. Over time, I began practicing Shintō-ryū with a Jiki feel to it, and felt it improved my example of the art. However, I realized while Shintō-ryū was quite interesting, I did not really need it in order to have a complete approach to kenjutsu. I got to the point where I could not easily “turn off” the Jiki influence on my movement and attitude when I was doing Katori, and that was interfering with the formal practice.
When people got excited in their practice, the pace of kata in Katori could accelerate very quickly, and this can cause a reversion to external approaches — the intensity of the practice can be easy to get caught up in. Sometimes when a person moves through the kata very quickly, they can lose track of initiative and centerline. My holding centerline then provides a problem for my partner to solve without resorting to brute force. My mindset, posture, movement, rhythm, and timing had become more and more a product of my Chinese training and my exposure to Jiki Shinkage-ryū than a pure expression of Shintō-ryū. Was I being a good training partner in Katori with that approach?
I stopped training at Capital Katori not because its lineage was heterodox (the Jikishinkage-ryū I learned was also an unofficial line of practice) but because I found the two approaches divergent and I felt Jikishinkage-ryū to ultimately be better suited for me. With limited time, I wanted to focus on the art better suited to both my body and my personality.
払ノ太刀 · Harai no Tachi : What Shintō-ryū Provided
Katori can be very exciting to watch. The speed and agility of advanced practitioners are sights to behold. A real benefit a study of Katori Shintō-ryū provided for me is that it has both advanced and fundamental level kenjutsu. Because Katori Shintō-ryū is a sōgō budō (comprehensive budō) — even though the line I practiced did not teach its jūjutsu, shuriken, and esoteric practices — a lot of time is spent exploring proficiency in a variety of arms in order to be complete: its iai, omote no tachi, and particularly its naginata versus tachi kata serve as an excellent foundation for kenjutsu practice, while its gogyō and shichijō no tachi are subtle practices that imbue the earlier kata with additional layers of meaning. Shintō-ryū is a sword tradition, ultimately, so even though the senior side of the kata (uchi) uses the tachi, and is ostensibly in teaching mode, the benefit of the kata can often be viewed as being for uchi. I found a lot of value in its basic teachings.
Being exposed to Shintō-ryū has its benefits, from the perspective of understanding some of the components of swordsmanship that Shinkage-ryū attempts to counter or encode the essence of, depending on one's perspective on the art. The core kata of Shinkage-ryū is called Empi-no-Tachi, a set of six teachings that may be drawn from or a reaction to an upper level teaching of Katori Shintō-ryū called empi. Kamiizumi's innovation from his earlier study of Aisu's Kage-ryū led him to choose the name Shinkage or “New Shadow” as his school's name.
Even after I ceased formal practice, I continued to practice a subset of the Shintō-ryū kata I knew as a personal misogi (purification) and shugyō (asceticism). I used wooden swords from Kashima Shintō-ryū and Nen-ryū for my practice, so that I had an implement that could be the same across the different kata I had learned, with the length and heft of a traditional Japanese sword (nihontō). I practiced the omote-no-tachi, gogyō-no-tachi, and shichijō-no-tachi with the longer weapon and focused on keeping zanshin between segments of the form. I focused my cutting actions to be universally that of Jiki Shinkage-ryū where there was overlap between the arts. In an instant, you can only cut once.
薙ノ太刀 · Nagi no Tachi : Gogyō Exegesis
Take as an example the set of kata called gogyō no tachi and consider the meaning of the names of the kata and the postures. The name as written means “five teachings” and there are indeed five kata, but when heard, it is a homophone for “five elements” from Taoism. If so, there is a puzzle, as uchidachi (senior) and shidachi (junior) have the same stance in each of the kata to begin, so it seems to violate on the surface (omote) level the basic idea of yin and yang. Is that a mistake, a misinterpretation, or a riddle to be solved?
I believe the latter.
On the surface, because the gogyō no tachi start out of balance like that, overly symmetric, it provokes a sudden attack. Maybe uchidachi is supposed to capture that moment of kuzushi, where nothing is possible and all things are possible, and interrupt the opponent. That might be an example of sen sen no sen. Shidachi has to recover, suddenly and engage. That might be an example of sen no sen. Maybe you then need to go back and play with different timing. The three initiatives of go no sen, sen no sen and sen sen no sen) each correspond to one of the three kata in the Katori Shinkage-ryū set called shichijō no tachi.
Jikishinkage-ryū is very different from Shintō-ryū but is not lacking in hidden meaning. In its foundational kata, directly modeled after five element theory in Taoism, the kata start with kamae that are balanced in terms of yin and yang. There is a very direct relationship between each of the five major kamae (postures) and an element and how to choose a kamae based on what an opponent presents. However, maybe that is too literal for Shintō-ryū. Gogyō no tachi are not foundational kata, but an advanced set focusing on unarmored dueling that is also supposed to inform the first set of kata, adding a layer of meaning to them.
Maybe it is the case that the gogyō no tachi each symbolize a different element (metal, water, wood, fire, earth), but in a more subtle way. Their names do not help decode this (mitsu, yotsu, in, sha, hotsu) very easily. Instead of five element (wǔxíng) theory, consider for a moment that the gogyō no tachi might be driven by the idea of Fudō Myō-ō and the Four Heavenly Kings or Shitennō (四天王), who are sometimes arranged in mandala at the cardinal directions with Fudō Myō-ō at the center. Katori is heavily influenced by Shingon, a tantric form of Buddhism that includes some Taoist ideas. David Hall wrote an excellent book on their specific veneration of The Buddhist Goddess Marishiten. The last kata of the gogyō no tachi begins in a posture (kamae) with the sword held in front of the body, vertically, much as Fudō does in common depictions.
Maybe without the Shingon ideas, Shintō-ryū does not make sense.
I think if Katori is missing a key to decode it, then it is quite natural to either push one's natural skill as much as one can (maybe it all is ultimately just about speed, as disappointing as that conclusion might be) or fill in the container or vessel of the art with other teachings, because there is something wrong with the art without the inner layer of meaning. I was excited to get a copy of Sugino's book titled Katori Shintō-ryū Kyohan from 1941, which has been recently translated into English. It is very interesting in that it is very explicitly an instruction manual, speaking to the art very directly and benefiting from the input of several instructors of the art in its compilation. It also provides a window into the art as practiced before the end of World War II and I recommend it highly.
縛ノ太刀 · Baku no Tachi : What May Have Been Lost
Tenshin Shōden Katori Shintō-ryū is one of the most respected Japanese koryū. It might be shocking to read a critical analysis like this one, which may conclude there are problems with the art. I have been impressed with the limited demonstrations I have seen in person of mainline TSKSR and I did train in a renegade branch of the art (albeit one still based in Japan). I first saw TSKSR demonstrated at an enbu in St. Louis where I first met Ellis Amdur in person, and it was quite the privilege to be able to see arts I had only read about previously. Still, in this essay, I have stayed away from some of the common criticisms of Shintō-ryū that have been made generically over the years in the kobudō community. Some include:
- The long kata provide endurance but can limit zanshin and kime in many practitioners.
- Because ma-ai is increased for safety or to hide techniques, practitioners can have difficulty adapting to actually apply technique.
- The kata are practiced at a speed that is impractical for use with a real sword.
- The flowing nature of the kata causes the roles of uchidachi and shidachi to blend, making it difficult for students to understand what are the tactics of the art and what are the teaching actions.
Leaving those problems aside, which I found my practice of Jikishinkage-ryū addressed (even if it led me to be unsatisfied by actually going back to the far, fast, light practice of Katori Shintō-ryū), I still wonder what Shintō-ryū actually was, once upon a time. I do not think it is as unchanged as the holders and maintainers of the art would like us to imagine.
All arts change over time. Consider how aesthetic choices compound: compare Kashima Shintō-ryū to modern variants of Katori Shintō-ryū — the latter having preserved possibly more sets of kata (iai, bō, naginata, yari) but evolved to place a priority on celerity, to the point of using a bokutō that is no longer representative of a sword, weighing half as much (e.g., 600g vs 1300g). How does that aesthetic choice affect the movements and assumptions of its practitioners? If reverse breathing practices are added to your art, does it change the way you cut? A glance at Jikishinkage-ryū versus Kashima Shintō-ryū says very much so.
Because Jiki is more constrained in what it is doing and focused on stability and sudden power, I found the Xíngyí and Tàijí I was learning in Yin Cheng Gong Fa very helpful in my practice of Jiki. But that help was about how I held my posture and walked, as opposed to changing anything in the angles or tactics or timing of the art. Our line of Jikishinkage-ryū had already made some small changes to the walking and postures based on several people's practice of Tàijíquán. The late Katō-sensei also practiced Tàijíquán and thought it was important to practice Tàijíquán if you did Jiki in order to balance out the art. Some of the postures we practice are done with hips facing forward and forward weighted as in Tàijíquán instead of open to the side. Aside from those small changes, I believe that Jikishinkage-ryū contains a form of hard internal nèigōng, possibly not as explicit as in Chinese internal arts but ultimately compatible with six harmonies (liùhé) and other concepts.
When I cut men in Jiki, it is very similar for me to the pīquán I practice from Xíngyíquán. For certain, doing Xíngyí and Tàijí has improved my Jikishinkage-ryū. I also think Jikishinkage-ryū can be a stand-in for the kind of basic stance and posture training people assume already exists in students when they walk in the door to learn internal martial arts.
A question I kept in mind, and I think is often ignored, is whether by adding to a practice, you diverge so much you are no longer doing the art. Attempting to do Katori with ideas drawn from Tàijí while keeping the rapid furtive pace and large distance between uchi and shi was problematic, because those facets of Katori are in conflict with Tàijí principles of listening, smooth movement, and close-range engagement.
At the 2014 annual seminar in DC, I did not understand more than one advanced practitioner's approach to the art — at times the roles of uchidachi and shidachi lost their meaning in a pure quest for speed. The speed may be a mechanism to test how relaxed one can be under pressure, how efficiently one can move and react, and how well one knows the kata under duress. It seemed to me, however, almost as if the art had come to be viewed as a form of aiki-ken versus a manifestation of teachings from Marishiten. In contrast, I very much appreciated admonitions to be soft and precise in our movements. That resonated with my interest in Tàijí, but how to do so at such speed?
For those whose focus is Shintō-ryū, I think independent research is very important to delve deeper into the art, beyond the surface level of the kata. Ellis Amdur's research on Shintō-ryū is illuminating — highlighting extant lines of the art not commonly known of which may have preserved more (or different aspects of) the art. I think advanced practitioners are not wrong to fill in Shintō-ryū with their own perspective, now that they are teachers. Maybe I also was right to largely abandon it, because I was not sure I could fix it, based on what I felt in the experience of practicing the art.
We seem to be able to answer, in different ways, the question of what Shintō-ryū could be. Maybe that will have to be enough.
乱ノ太刀 · Ran no Tachi : You Can Only Cut Once
After moving to Seattle in 2016, I had to adapt to my new environment, with a priority on solo practice and sparring, until I could find people to work with who were interested in Shinkage-ryū. I found a sparring partner who trained in a different tradition than my own who was interested in free practice. We used heavy Nen-ryū style fukuro shinai popular among Kashima Shinryū, along with lacrosse goalie gloves and HEMA fencing masks. I noticed that for me, Shinkage-ryū worked much better than Shintō-ryū in free sparring, although bits and pieces of Shintō-ryū seemed to be effective when just outside of grappling range. This observation, repeated over many sessions, caused me to more and more focus only on Shinkage-ryū over time.
It is dangerous in martial arts to become overly self-referential in one's training. If you practice inside a closed ecosystem and never stress what you are doing, how will you understand your limitations and the limitations of your tactics and how to distinguish between them? Without that knowledge, it is hard to continue to grow past a certain journeyman level of skill. This is why what we call classics in Chinese martial arts are important — to provide a connection to the inspiration of the founder of an art, so that the art can be living inside of you, possessing you fully, instead of a dim echo of the original insight, lost through the caverns of time.
It is equally dangerous to become overly distracted with competing approaches to the point where you train in so many different approaches you are effectively no longer training at all, because the efforts are not aligned and cancel each other out as opposed to balancing or reinforcing one another. Training runs a danger of becoming irrelevant if you spend too much time switching approaches, running from shiny object to shiny object.
Some questions linger. If you practice more than one approach, what is the common theme that transcends the individual arts? How do the strategies align or diverge? It is all well and good to do the kata of each art correctly. One can probably succeed in doing that well enough, so that only master-level practitioners can notice the influence (or contamination) of different themes. The leitmotif of Shintō-ryū in my Shinkage-ryū. Kaito affecting nagashi. Furi in turn affecting makiuchi.
I believe one should cultivate a practice that is not insufficient and not superfluous. I am in the process of striving and focusing. Striving forward to get a deeper understanding of the arts I have chosen to focus on and focusing the teachings I practice. They each have intrinsic value but in an instant, once again: you can only cut once. You do not have time to select from a menu of ryūha when under stress. For me, internal martial arts is the core of my practice, so only what I am able to align with those ideas should survive. All of this requires looking past individual technique and dedicating to a small set of paths.
Katori, like Nen-ryū, is said to be the sword that protects, and Jiki said to be the sword that dominates, but one should not ever be found wielding a sword of doubt.
I remain impressed with the precision and dedication of the small groups of dedicated martial artists I have encountered in the Pacific Northwest. The more I train, the more I realize the current limits of my skill but also the continued path I need to walk in order to progress.
