Wednesday, 10 September 2014

A Journey to Nowhere

On my way to work, I encounter, briefly, many other drivers on the road.  I am astounded by how many of them drive above the speed limit; in fact, many of them seem to regard the road as a private racetrack.

I try to understand before I form an opinion, so I imagine all kinds of reasons for the speed at which they drive.  If someone in the car is seriously ill, needing urgent medical attention, their rush to that destination is understandable.  Maybe they really have to be somewhere at a certain time?  I can never know their routine, so that may also be understandable.  The thought came to me that, for whatever reason, every one of them has their mind fixed on their destination, and wants the journey to end as quickly as possible.

In the early days of my employment, I thought in much the same way.  Inner concerns about getting to the office on time saw me switching my view between the road ahead and the clock on the dashboard.  Sometimes this was interspersed with thoughts about something that had happened the day before, how it might affect me during the current day, and often a wish that it would not happen again.  Occasionally, my focus would drift to how I have less time to spend with family and friends.  At work, I became preoccupied with what I would do at the end of my working day, or what was in store for me later.

If our mind is not focused on the present moment while we are travelling, or when we reach our destination, then are we really present in the moment, during the journey, or at the journey's end?  If thoughts of what has been and what might be cloud our minds, then we are not truly present.  In effect, our journey has been one to a place where we are not.  The drivers speeding along the carriageway, caught up in their thoughts of the day ahead, regarding their journey as a waste of time, have managed to make it exactly that.

As I drove to work this morning, I brought my focus to the journey.  For a large part of the duration, I have the mountains to my left and, to my right, the sea.  I travel through tunnels, and pass by many other structures built by human hands which, when I truly think of them, are wondrous feats of engineering.  I pass many small towns and villages, and wonder what life is like for the people who live there.  I think of my mode of transport.  In modern times, my car is regarded as nothing special.  What would people a hundred, or even fifty, years ago think of this machine I am piloting?  I could so easily miss all of this, if my focus were not on the present moment.

I arrived at the office with a smile on my face.

Throughout my day, I hear so many people who are not truly present in a conversation.  They are simply thinking of what they will say next, and not really listening to the other participants.  How much they miss by acting this way!  At work, too, it could be argued that we work for the money we receive in exchange for our labours.  We spend many hours there, though.  Should those hours be wasted, wishing we were somewhere else?  Maybe such thoughts condition us to work with the mindset that we would rather not work.  I have found that I am much more effective when the greater part of my concentration is on the task at hand.

I must take this attitude with the study of martial arts, too.  Am I learning wing chun to defend myself from attack, or to increase my grade for the sake of my ego?  Maybe a bit of both.  How about I learn wing chun to learn wing chun?  Rather than lamenting my lack of progress towards an abstract concept of perceived fighting ability or rank, shouldn't I just be absorbed in the learning process?  Everything else will come in time.

It's easy to imagine that such a way of thinking is alien to us.  We are so accustomed to our regrets over past mistakes or anxieties about the future that we find it difficult to cast them aside and just focus on the present.  Such focus seems to be beyond our ability, and yet this is probably the default mode of operation for children.  As a child, it is likely that you cared little about the past and worried even less about the future.  More likely, you had the ability to fully absorb yourself in whatever you were doing.

Call it mindfulness, if you like.  It's simply an ability to be fully in the present.

Monday, 18 August 2014

Four Years of Wing Chun

Today marks four years that I have been learning wing chun.  I still consider it to be the most effective street defence method available locally, but any of these arts are only as good as the student.  When I was learning jujitsu, I overcame the limitations imposed by my illness by studying ancient forms of the art and related arts, when everyone else was goofing over Brazilian jiu jitsu and the UFC.

Did it work?  Well, one of my reasons for leaving that class was that no one wanted to train with me any more; I'll leave their reasons for avoiding me to your imagination.  Incidentally, when some Lithuanian sombo practitioners joined, no one wanted to train with them either.

I don't know how to achieve the same thing in wing chun.  Sometimes I think that a long fist style would add something to the close quarters nature of wing chun; at other times, I think that practising arnis is the perfect way to overcome my inherent deficiencies in strength, speed, coordination and mobility.

Recently, I suffered badly in a sparring encounter.  Initially, I felt terrible about it.  The instructor pointed out that I had taken too many hits, because my footwork was practically non-existent.  After the class, he said that this form of panic was common amongst those who were not used to wearing head guards, and suggested that I do my solo practice at home wearing my head guard.

To be honest, I found myself outclassed.  My opponent was someone with whom I train regularly, and his interest in other forms of Chinese martial arts has made him a well-rounded fighter.  His time spent learning wing chun alone is about double my own.  He trains outside of the class regularly, with one of the other well-rounded fighters in the class, who came to wing chun initially because his Muay Thai instructor recommended the art as a way to learn good defensive techniques.

I can accept all of the above excuses internally, because they make sense.  What is harder to accept is that illness may mean I never reach the same proficiency in wing chun as my classmates.  I have had more of a challenge dealing with my fellow wing chun students than I have with the students of any other art I have practised.  The difference I have noticed is that most of them are not just good martial artists, but also competent fighters.  If you ask me whether wing chun attracts good fighters or creates them, I really don't know.  Maybe someone else could answer that.

Is my wing chun useless, given my physical limitations?  Far from it!  My time at a local eskrima club strengthened my faith in what I have learned, and surprised me.  It is said that we are our own worst judge, and that was certainly true in my case.  When they handed a padded stick to me, and told me to spar, I thought that their student, with years of experience in stick fighting, would make short work of me as an opponent.  After a few minutes, they stopped the exchange.

I was told that I should stop thrusting the stick into the body of my opponent.  Such a tactic, I was told, would cause serious injury, might constitute a foul in competition, and was generally a nasty thing to do.  It was also noted that the short, hacking movements I favoured were indicative of a bladed style, rather than a stick-based art.  I was puzzled by this, until I realised I had been applying the principles of wing chun to stick fighting, under pressure, without even thinking about it.

When the eskrima instructor went on holiday, he left his assistant in charge of the class.  An uneven number of students had attended, so he decided that he would be my training partner and ended the class with a free sparring session, to "test" my wing chun.  His history as a competitive taekwondo practitioner and student of Brazilian jiu jitsu meant that I had to maintain focus, because he was more than comfortable at sparring range.  His intention to use me for target practice came unstuck, however, when he realised that every attempt to come forward and push an attack led to the attack being neutralised and a simultaneous shot being landed by his opponent.  The exchange ended with him receiving a kick to the midsection, which winded him enough to put him on his knees.

Towards the end of my eskrima training, I put on some 16 ounce gloves, as did one of the other eskrima students.  This was an attempt to teach the techniques of Filipino boxing, with which my training partner was already very familiar.  It started well, and continued in such a way, until the instructor decided to ramp up the pressure by telling us to speed up.  I honestly tried to stick rigidly to Filipino boxing.  An upper cut came towards my midsection, or ribs.  A jum sau and punch with the same arm proved effective against this attack.  Again, he tried his attack.  Again, a jum sau and punch checked the attack.  Various combinations were met mostly with variations of pak sau and jum sau with a counter punch, much to my surprise.  The "seed" hands of taan sau, bong sau and fook sau were nowhere to be seen.

In desperation, he ducked and rose again to aim a hook at the side of my head.  The gap in his defence created by this made it easy for me to close the distance to one more comfortable for a wing chun fighter.  Unfortunately, my trained reactions, in wing chun and other non-competition arts, led me to simultaneously aim a well-timed elbow at the biceps of the attacking arm.  The fight was stopped, leaving me stunned by the speed of my entry to the range where I could execute an elbow strike.  By this time, I had become somewhat disillusioned by the style of eskrima they taught, though I still have great respect for Filipino martial arts in general.  When I found out that the club did not have insurance, my time there came to an end.

Everyone will have their own interpretation of what they learn: a pre-existing frame of reference through which each new piece of knowledge is filtered.  For me, reading Tao of Jeet Kune Do many times over, and doing the same with books on the ancient principles of tai chi, permanently affected how I see combat.  I subconsciously relate everything I have learned before or since in the martial arts to the underlying principles I learned through those books.  I dare say my fellow wing chun students do a similar thing with their previous experience, whether they realise it or not.  Maybe that is why everyone's way is so different.

Fighters with more experience, and perhaps similar experience, will probably get the better of me.  I'm ill.  I have to come to terms with that.  So, what about the times I have been a worthy opponent, as in the eskrima class for example?  The Japanese Zen masters call it "mushin" - the mind of having no mind.  I would personally say it as the mind of unconscious action.  Bruce Lee, in the aforementioned Tao of Jeet Kune Do, said that we should simply let our arms and legs work themselves, in accordance with the discipline in which they have been trained.  Could it be that, in a wing chun class, I am trying to stick too rigidly to wing chun?  Maybe the fighters of YouTube, trying to give a good impression of their art, are doing the same.

Yip Man is reported to have said that we should be masters of our kung fu, not slaves to it.  I've heard wing chun instructors - most of them very highly respected - say that the principles of the art are far more important than any set movement.  As usual, I think writing this stuff down has allowed me to see a way forward.

Monday, 4 August 2014

Thought for the day, via Bruce Lee

"Do not deny the classical approach, simply as a reaction, or you will have created another pattern and trapped yourself there." ~Bruce Lee

It is often said that Bruce stood in opposition to classical martial arts, but the truth is somewhat different.  Jeet kune do, as developed by Bruce, was more a philosophical framework than a martial art as such.  The weaknesses he perceived in his knowledge of fighting, in his style, were the targets of his own personal interpretation of jeet kune do.

Of the people who Bruce certified as instructors, James Yimm Lee and Taky Kimura were certified as instructors of jun fan gung fu.  Only Dan Inosanto was certified as an instructor of jeet kune do.  People who have said that Dan's JKD is more like a Filipino martial art these days have completely missed the point.

The central principle of JKD, and one which Bruce himself advocated time after time, is to take what is useful and discard what is not.  As martial artists, this is what we do naturally.  If something does not work for us, we do not use it again.  In this way, my interpretation of the art I practise will be different from that of anyone else, as will yours.  Dan Inosanto has taken various martial arts and made them uniquely his own: this is jeet kune do.

My belief is that, when Bruce criticised the classical approach, he was echoing Ip Man's assertion that we should be masters of our art, not slaves to it.

Friday, 25 July 2014

Wing Chun for self defence? Learn Biu Jee!

Yesterday, I posted a short krav maga video on a social media site.  I like what I see in the video, and I will take concepts or techniques from wherever I find them, if they work.

A fellow wing chun student said that he was impressed by the block.  Fair enough.  My instructor's reply set me thinking, however, as his replies often do.  "Biu Gee, end section", he said.  A lot of Bil/Biu Jee/Gee/Tze (however you want to romanise it) looks abstract and esoteric to us, and often we wonder how it can be put to use in actual combat.  Many people who criticise wing chun do so because the forms look strange to them, they don't necessarily understand them, or they watch wing chun fighters who don't necessarily understand them.

It makes sense that a krav maga movement corresponds to our third form.  The essence of third form is that we have made a mistake, from which we need to recover.  Krav maga, so I have been told, assumes we are starting from a position of disadvantage.  During my short time learning Filipino boxing, I've also seen techniques which correspond to our third form, including the elbow block featured in the video.  When you consider that Filipino boxing is mainly a system of self protection, rather than a sport as such, you can see a pattern emerging.

How does any of this relate to self defence?  No matter how good you think you are, you will often find yourself at a disadvantage in an encounter.  It is said that Bruce Lee developed jeet kune do because he found himself facing larger opponents in the US.  It is also said that Bruce never learned the third form of wing chun (accounts differ - one has him learning the third form in the last months of his life; if that is true, we will still never know how it would have affected his wing chun).  Jeet kune do, and the arts Bruce learned to create his personal style, seem to be Bruce's way of substituting that missing knowledge.  As it happens, this took him in another direction entirely, but one which still drew on the wing chun that he knew.

Watch a true master at work.  Notice how those movements which were once large, wild movements have become more condensed and seemingly effortless.  Wing chun starts at this level, and yet some of the movements of biu jee are suspiciously large by comparison.  Why is this?  Is it closer to the Shaolin roots of wing chun?  Again, biu jee is about recovering from a vulnerable position, and such recklessness, by wing chun standards, may be justified.  Some say biu jee further develops the power which we gain through practising the earlier forms.  This would make sense too.  Other arts going in the opposite direction does not mean there is a right or wrong: the focus is different, owing to the environment in which the art developed.  Take the example of Filipino martial arts, which train weapons techniques first.

The embarrassment of videos posted on the internet haunts wing chun practitioners.  In forums hosted all over the world, the art is parodied and ridiculed.  Shouldn't we first question what we are watching?  If you show me a professional fighter, to whom combat is a daily concern, pummelling someone who has not learned the full system, don't even talk to me about the wing chun you think you see in that exchange.  The wing chun people who comment on the structure or footwork being wrong also miss the point.  Does it look like wing chun?  Are they using wing chun principles, no matter how shaky their practical skill?  If so, they are doing wing chun, but have not reached a level where they are a challenge to the other fighter.  Eventually, they may match, or even surpass, the skill of their opponent.

Geoff Thompson, who gets a lot of respect for injecting some realism into martial arts, mirrors my view that most encounters will be something akin to an ambush attack.  He talks of training techniques until they are second nature.  Again, we are singing from the same hymn sheet, as it were.  I don't subscribe to the belief that traditional martial arts, as we call them, have no relevance to the modern world.  You must learn them, though.  Learn as much as you can, and practise, practise, practise!

If someone is going out to test their art against others, they deserve respect for that.  Those who post videos of this with art versus art titles are deliberately misleading the greater martial arts community, however, because it may be an individual taking their first steps in testing their art against someone who has tested theirs many times over.  Always question.  Always.

Sunday, 6 July 2014

What have we learned from MMA?

In the beginning, mixed martial arts contests like Pride and UFC were created with the aim of testing different arts against each other.  The question being asked was which, if any, martial art would dominate in the ring or octagon.

It is tempting for a practitioner of a classical art, like myself, to say we have learned nothing from mixed martial arts contests.  The steady torrent of abuse from those who insist that classical martial arts are dead causes unnecessary animosity between traditionalists and those who practise the more modern arts.  There is a similar line from Krav Maga practitioners, for example.  Such animosity is, as I have often said, unnecessary.

MMA, Krav Maga, Jeet Kune Do and various modern arts were not plucked out of the air.  What they did was to survey the arsenal of classical arts, absorb them and adapt them to a particular environment.  Jeet Kune Do, in particular, continues to survey the spectrum of traditional martial arts and "absorb what is useful."

So, what have we learned?  Muay Thai, which was once a minority art in the western world, when compared to the more established arts of Karate, Judo, Kung Fu and others, came to dominate as a striking art.  In the early years, the Brazilian Jiu Jitsu of the Gracie family similarly dominated.  So, these must be the most effective arts, right?  Wrong!  All we know is that a vast majority of mixed martial artist are able to make this combination work for them.  Before practitioners of both arts start lambasting me, allow me to explain.

I have great respect for Muay Thai - in the hands of a master, it is a devastatingly effective weapon.  Similarly, I grew up on Judo, from which Brazilian Jiu Jitsu claims its ancestry, so it would be foolhardy to write it off.  Have both these arts had success in UFC and other contests?  Yes!  Have other arts been successful?  Yes!

My chosen art of Wing Chun has had limited success in the octagon.  We claim this is, quite rightly, because Wing Chun is basically for life and death situations, not winning prizes.  However, Karate practitioners have had successes in the octagon, and Karate was most definitely a combat art when first developed.  What's going on?

If you look closely at Muay Thai and BJJ, one thing becomes clear: sparring is an important part of training.  Karate, Judo, Wrestling, and other arts that have been successful in the ring or octagon, also emphasize the importance of actually fighting to obtain the skill of fighting.  Wing Chun?  Not so much.  My own experience of this came when sparring with a practitioner of Tae Kwon Do, BJJ and Eskrima.  It's true that the moves I had repeatedly conditioned into muscle memory allowed me to give a good account of myself in that exchange, but I initially found it difficult to make the transition from my training to having a live opponent trying to get the better of me.

I see a similar thing when Wing Chun practitioners, and those of other traditional arts, enter the arena.  I take the resulting videos with a large pinch of salt, however.  Is the art useless?  Have centuries of development been wasted?  Is it true that what once worked on the battlefield can not adapt to the modern age?  No, no and thrice no.  What has changed is the way we train.  Mixed martial arts is nothing new.  The people who developed the traditional arts did so from their own experience of combat, and even stole what worked from others.

Furthermore, if you believe the art you study is the same as when it was first developed, you are fooling yourself.  Some have been subject to "cultural considerations": the more deadly aspects of the art were deemed unacceptable, and so were removed.  Others may have escaped such a fate, depending largely on where they developed.  People ask why some arts were practised in secrecy, or only handed down within families.  Well, I have just answered that particular question.

We are not immune to this in the modern age either.  If we gouge eyes, strike to the throat or break bones, our laws may judge that the force we used to defend ourselves was unreasonable.  Similarly, arts where throws are a mainstay of the arsenal become impractical when we are faced with throwing an attacker onto tarmac or concrete.  Serious injury, or death, may be the result.  Then again, punching someone could also lead to them falling awkwardly and the result may be the same.

Despite what some MMA enthusiasts insist, the traditional arts are not useless.  When I see someone lose in the ring or octagon, whatever their background, my conclusion is the same.  Whether it is lack of experience, fear, choosing the wrong technique or simple incompetence, they have failed to make their art work for them.  We must also ask, if one martial art was useful to everyone, why are there so many of them?  If we are unable to make our art work for us, it may not be the art which is at fault, and we may also say we are not at fault.  Maybe choosing the correct art is also a part of making it work for us.  If karateka, wrestlers and boxers can do well in octagon, maybe it is because they learned how to make their art work for them.

So, what have we learned from MMA?  First and foremost, we must be able to make our art work for us.  This may mean stepping outside of the boundaries of our art and making it our own.  If we are unable to do this, we must reconsider how we train and, possibly, what we train.  Second, and linked to the first point, we must spar.  Ideally, we should spar against martial artists of other styles.

MMA's contribution to the continuing development of traditional arts?  We must make that which we have learned work for us, in whatever situation we will need it to work for us.  Many of us already knew this; MMA just might have awoken those who were ignorant to the reality of training for combat.

Tuesday, 24 June 2014

Miss Smith

I just found out that someone I know has died, and I had to find out via Facebook.  She's one of those people who don't fit neatly into a "friend", "acquaintance" or other category.  Mostly, she would ask me about my cousin, because her and my cousin were best friends.  The last time I saw her was outside the hospital, where I had an appointment.  I can't even remember why I was there; it was a few years ago now.  I remember her telling me that something was wrong, and that she was scared.  To be honest, she wasn't someone I spoke to a lot, but that last conversation was something like a call I would have taken as a Samaritan.  I don't know whether she was just scared, or she wanted to confide in someone and felt more comfortable with someone she didn't know so well, but I got to know her better in those few minutes than I had before.  I feel guilty now that I didn't wait around for longer, because she made it clear that no one was there with her.

Back in the days when I drank more than was healthy, I saw her with some friends.  She looked miserable. "Nobody loves me," she said.  "I do.", I replied, heavily under the influence of alcohol.  Her friends left us alone, not realising I had meant it in a platonic way, and she sat staring at me, neither of us knowing what to say.  After a few minutes, she left too.  For a while, whenever I saw her, she would criticise everything I said and did.  In truth, she was quite mean to me.  I asked a mutual friend what I had done.  "You didn't make a move," he said.  I didn't understand.  "You had a chance to make a move, and you didn't."

I don't know what else to say.  People I know would probably think I'm not affected by things like this, or that I didn't know her well enough to be upset.  What I heard from other people was how tough she was, but what I saw in my few interactions with her was her vulnerability; her humanity, I guess.  That last time she spoke to me, she said that people had her all wrong, that they thought she was something she wasn't.  I don't know about that, but I wish I had known her better.

Tuesday, 17 June 2014

Thought for the day: tolerance

Each of us have people in our lives who are a source of irritation.  They may seem to take pleasure in annoying us, or it may apparently be something they do with little conscious thought.  Imagine, however, that their behaviour were a symptom of some great internal turmoil or mental anguish.  What then?