Dave Blazer’s meditations on The Way

Although I was officially now a shihan, a sensei in my own right, sensei Cain continued to advise me on the finer points of my personal practice and methods of instruction. I visited him often and received on-going lessons on karate-do, and life. Cain calmly accepted the course of his own life. The world of our dojo members was rocked by his sudden death from complications relating to his kidney transplant.

Near the end he extracted a promise from me to continue to support hanshi Nakazato for the rest of his life, and to help sensei Cain’s remaining students in their practice. His passing took the wind from my sails. Cain was my teacher and my good friend. I was determined to fulfill his wishes.

Then, Cain’s senior students started drifting apart, but still came together occasionally to train. I was still teaching some of sensei Cain’s students but now other, higher ranked sempai were stepping in to fill the void Cain left:

Cain was my teacher and my good friend. I was determined to fulfill his wishes.

Kyoshi, 7th dan Sam Ahtye, sensei of the San Francisco Shorin-ryu Shorin-kan Kumemura dojo, (named in honor of the Chinese community’s connection with Okinawa since the 14th century) held a memorial workout to help us regain our equilibrium after our loss.

In bushido, the code of samurai caste, sensei Cain frequently quoted Miyamoto Musashi:

Generally speaking, the Way of the warrior is resolute acceptance of death.

Cain contrasted this with his own example:

The Way must also include resolute acceptance of the life we are given to live.

After my brief, though rewarding last meeting with hanshi Nakazato, which came at the annual El Centro camp in California in 2004, I realized my health was suffering, limiting my practice.

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I could work out in the morning, but then I would have to go to my room and pack ice on my shoulders and back because of the pain I felt from arthritis and the old injuries sustained. Half days were all I could manage, and at times I had difficulty standing with my arms extended for any period of time. I decided to stop hard training in favor of trying to feel better.

I would have to go to my room and pack ice on my shoulders and back because of the pain

In 2005 I found a highly qualified teacher of Chinese i-chuan (mind or intent boxing) at the Consolidated Chinese Benevolent Society in Portland. His name was sifu Gregory Fong and I studied with him for eight years, until he too died in 2014.

I–Chuan was my first serious outing into Chinese martial arts, and it was a very interesting contrast to the Okinawan martial art that I was more familiar with. I was able to revert to being a student, which I enjoyed very much.

Sifu Fong’s approach was less physically intense, but no less precise or difficult. He was good at keeping students in the moment, constantly adjusting his method of teaching in order to keep our interest focused on the present action.

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Following the precepts of sifu Fong, I can still work on balance, muscle tone and coordination without injuring myself. I-chuan practice is very personal and introspective. It is more focused on individual development and less focused on the quality of a group performance. The exception is public demonstrations.

There was no philosophical discussion at all. Sifu Fong never talked about abstract concepts like equanimity.

When hanshi passed I felt my giri had been fulfilled to sensei Cain and hanshi Nakazato.

Then Hanshi, judan (10th rank) Shugoro Nakazato passed away in 2016 at the age of 96. He never wrote a book about his experiences. Master Nakazato’s son, Minoru Nakazato, became the president and chief instructor of Shorin-ryu Shorin-kan after his father’s death. When hanshi passed I felt my giri had been fulfilled to sensei Cain and hanshi Nakazato.

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In 2016 I retired from regular karate practice. I still do what I can to retain some of my knowledge of karate, but now I move around for my own self development. I no longer have active students.

After so many years studying karate, did I find equanimity? It’s still a work in progress, but perhaps it can be defined:

In Buddhism, equanimity (Pali: upekkhā; Sanskrit: upekṣā) is one of the four sublime attitudes and is considered: Neither a thought nor an emotion, it is rather the steady conscious realization of reality’s transience. It is the ground for wisdom and freedom and the protector of compassion and love.

I asked Dr. Randall Havas, professor of philosophy at Willamette University, about equanimity. He observed:

“I would be inclined to say that equanimity is produced by or is the result of such things as a “steady conscious realization of reality’s transience.” Of course, it is also true that equanimity is probably required for a proper realization of reality’s transcendence; they reinforce each other.

There’s a huge literature on the so-called “immeasurables” or “Brahma viharas” (“divine abidings”). I guess I like Stephen Batchelor’s versions the best. He focuses on the idea of “vihara” — which means “dwelling” (monasteries are called “viharas”).  I don’t know what part of speech it is in Pali, but the basic idea is that it’s a way of living, a human form of life in which …. in the case of equanimity, one isn’t caught up in/identified with transient phenomena.

The difficult thing about the notion is that people tend to associate it with stoical indifference, but that can’t be right, I think. Sometimes people use the notion of being philosophical in this sense: your dog has just died, and and someone commends you for being “philosophical” about it, meaning that you appeared somehow abstract, indifferent, to be seeing it all from a very high altitude.

I do believe that I have experienced true equanimity,

That is, indeed, what Greek thought sometimes advocated as the path to peace: increasing detachment. And maybe that’s what some Buddhists think as well. But the idea or ideal seems to many to be rather a complete immersion in phenomena without the aforementioned identification. So: non-attachment, not de-tachment.

The thought is that one gets attached only to what seems like it’s worth getting attached to.  And given the motivation for attachment — roughly, fear of death/annihilation — one tends to attach only to those things that seem to be permanent.  But, damn it all!, nothing is permanent.

And then the thought is that seeing the “emptiness” of all things is supposed to make room for the compassion that is squelched by always looking out for number one.

Sounds good on paper.”

I do believe that I have experienced true equanimity. But as professor Havas said, it’s more like a feeling that arises in certain circumstances than a mental place where you can choose to go, or dwell. It’s volatile and temporary.

The challenges we face when we try to find balance arise from within and without. After reading my working definition of equanimity, Doug Cort, a clinical psychologist, and the Director of the psychology training program at Adventist Health, commented. He said that to find equanimity:

I would add the need for balance in behavior and relationships. Behavior includes biological balance sustained by diet, exercise, sleep and communication. The latter entails risking being vulnerable. It also means in some way being attractive to others by having qualities of kindness, compassion, and generosity.

This brings into clear focus the internal/external nature of the equation. To reach equanimity, you need a well-balanced, healthy mind and body coupled to a high degree of receptivity. You need to be open to people, situations, and events.

Temper your impulsiveness, which is triggered by anticipation.

Don’t think of your chosen actions in terms of their possible consequences. Concentrate on your goals. Move forward resolutely. Have an open mind. Let go of hesitation and doubt. Temper your impulsiveness, which is triggered by anticipation. Language, with all its power and subtlety, fails us. It is the body that connects the mind to the world through movement. As Ram Dass said: Be here now.

All the same, I realize that what I say doesn’t always make sense to my students, instead the individual associations the listener has with the words I use gets in the way of communication. Are they really hearing what I’m saying? The causes of these misunderstandings fascinate me. I continue to investigate this aspect of the teaching and learning process.

I have reacted to my experiences in life as they arise, bidden or unbidden. I have dealt with them; sometimes I learned from them. Sometimes not. Sometimes I was rash, on other occasions I over analyzed everything. There is a Middle Way out there, but my middle way is not yours.

We can’t find out who we are by living our lives through other people. Emulation of others only takes us so far. To get struck by the lightening of insight, we have to get out into the rain of experience. Personal involvement is imperative. Your truth is not to be found in the history of others. Their targets are not in your sights. We only need to follow other people’s paths until we see our own, unique path.

There is a Middle Way out there, but my middle way is not yours

If only you really knew what you wanted! No one else can guide you the entire way. But if you don’t know what your goal is, you’ll never reach it. Then, when you arrive at your goal and look back at the path you took to reach it, you may feel foolish. Your real goal, when discovered in full, will probably be a surprise.

When we set out on our quest to be something, we are seeking to change and acquire desirable skills and abilities. So, we look for a vehicle to take us towards this new state of being. For nearly 50 years my vehicle was karate. It can be hard work. One of my long-time favorite truisms I use as a guide has been Robert Heinlein’s T.A.N.S.T.A.A.F.L. There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.

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That applies heavily to the costs of a decades-long period of consistent, rigorous martial arts training coupled with the study of material related to the development of the desirable associated mindset. To be technical for a moment, in its totality, karate training is an extensive, in-depth course of operant conditioning which alters your self-image, your personal subconscious system of object relations, your priorities and your relationships. Karate for me was a system of defined stresses, intelligently applied, which over time facilitated my adaptation to a new reality for my body and mind, and my very sense of place in the world. Karate required a serious commitment. It was a high personal priority and it involved an enormous expenditure of time and effort.

I use as a guide has been Robert Heinlein’s T.A.N.S.T.A.A.F.L. There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.

There are physical injuries. Karate happens in a high speed, energetic environment. Collisions occur, tempers flare. My years of effort have come at a cost. Here I would like to point out that, if the vehicle you have chosen to help you reach your own goal is very physical, remember that one of the central concepts of martial arts training is self-defense. Don’t hurt yourself.

I would suggest that anyone looking for deeply significant changes through martial arts training, who is willing to put in the kind of work necessary, carefully consider the consequences of living continuously in the state of steady conscious realization and alertness discussed above. Is that what you want?

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Aside from adrenalin generating surprises, ‘This too shall pass.’ is a phrase from the Arabian Nights that encompasses nearly all of life. It’s an attitude of equanimity. But, in my experience, adopting an attitude of non-attachment can dull happiness, comfort and joy, as well as mitigate disappointment, discomfort and sadness. In the absence of attachment, the now is always fleeting, never at rest.

I don’t feel that I can tell you what you need to do in order to stay on your path. I don’t know about you or your true goals. If you are young and looking for guidance, instead of reading this, start on your journey of a thousand miles. Take a single step.

Success, if it comes, may hinge on the direction in which you choose to take that first step. Try to see your goal clearly. I try to help other seekers of this Way of Life when I can, but I am now more focused on my own direction in my senior years, trying to play my end game well.

I’m sure that my scattered approach to life was caused by an untreated attention deficit disorder. It could be that I’m just wired a little differently. I have always had a problem finding an end to a story. This outing has been no exception.

Master Nakazato’s last message to me, which I received in a letter, included his wish that I would find my truth in karate-do. I believe he was more interested in my finding of that truth than in the practice of karate do. Karate was my vehicle for discovery, not the discovery itself.

I want to know everything, forever outward, never finding the end. For me, the adventure continues.

“Buy the ticket, take the ride” as the late, great Dr. Hunter S. Thompson said.

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Dave Blazer is a retired financial securities industry manager and technical expert with a life long interest in Asian philosophy and martial arts. He is also a struggling left handed Blues Guitarist. He served as a cryptographic and systems management technician in the U.S. Navy for nine years, and attended the Dominican College of San Rafael, CA. He was involved with the securities industry for nearly 30 years.

Movement is everything

By Dave Blazer

We returned to California from Okinawa with a new kinesthetic understanding of what constituted a strong karate practice. We had seen hints of it from sensei Cain’s approach before we went, but three weeks of focused intensity had imprinted a sense of urgency on the students. The experience changed our view of what it meant to work hard and practice the art of karate correctly.

When we met with hanshi for the last time before we left Okinawa he told us through an interpreter with great seriousness, that the chain of black belt ranks is only as strong as the weakest link, and he asked that we maintain the standard that he demonstrated. We had no reservations about that at all, and vowed tireless effort.

This new level of intensity was welcomed by the majority of the senior students, but it took a toll on some of the younger, less experienced students. Sensei Cain was fully engaged in the practice of karate-do, he wasn’t there to make money or provide daycare for other people’s children.

As we returned to the mix of other dojos other students and instructors we noticed that the sense of urgency we had, and the importance we attached to our efforts, was lacking elsewhere.

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There are significant cultural differences between American and Okinawan students. In Okinawa, teachers are highly respected; students subordinate themselves to their teacher’s vision; students work hard to be part of the same lineage as their teacher and are grateful for instruction.

In America, on the other hand, people tend to think of themselves as paying customers; there’s a debt of service owed them. It is almost impossible to reconcile the two outlooks. Often, though not always, Western martial artists dismiss the deeper cultural aspects of their fighting art of choice and focus on the mechanics.

A lack of giri makes it much more difficult for teachers in the West to transmit the full message of their martial art.

Often, westerners want to acquire the skills, but they tend to dismiss the philosophy of the art and the significance of its cultural setting. In particular, the Japanese concept of giri*, the reciprocal commitment to effort, does not always carry over to America, or feature in many teacher-student relationships.

As I saw these differences and understood them, it aided me in the process of teaching, but generally speaking it made me feel frustrated. A lack of giri makes it much more difficult for teachers in the West to transmit the full message of their martial art.

I read a paper that hanshi Nakazato wrote concerning the sporting aspects of karate that are opposed to the original intent of karate and he made the point that working at play and working at combat are two separate things. In one you get the reward of a trophy, while in the other you get to live. These two are very different viewpoints to keep in mind when developing a training program.

There is a group dynamic which is part of any exercise involving synchronized movement; in this case the performance of kata. Roughly, if you have eight people engaged in a difficult physical activity and bring in two novices, the newcomers will strive to acclimate. But if you have two adepts and bring in eight newcomers, you lose the right balance.

During a formal training session with the students of a high-ranking sempai, one of sensei Cain’s students and I were giving it our all. A senior student of that instructor, seeing this, said:

Take it easy. Pace yourselves.

The best we could manage was a sidelong glance, but the message was:

This isn’t The Way.

The keepers of Shorin-ryu’s history lean heavily toward a first person, oral tradition and over time they have written little concerning the mechanics and goals of the practice. The reason became apparent: you can talk about intensity and focus, and even show videos, but the only way to fully capture it is through guided discovery.

The teacher must take the student to that place where they can feel what it actually is that you are talking about, and then you have to keep them in that state long enough to imprint the feelings associated with that state on the student’s mind and body.

I realised that I had always desired equanimity; I had always wanted to have a neutral, objective and informed view of the world.

One of the requirements for the highest ranks, 9th dan and 10th dan, and the hanshi level is unclear: you are required to be a man of broad vision. There is no written description of what it means to be a man of broad vision, but the trustees and the senior members of the ryu know what the phrase means through a hundred year tradition. They were shown what it means to be a man of broad vision by their sempai, who embodied the principle.

I realised that I had always desired equanimity;  I had always wanted to have a neutral, objective and informed view of the world. This equanimity is similar to the feeling demonstrated by the still-minded judo players described in an Alan Watts book I first read in the 1960s.

Shortly after we returned from Okinawa, sensei Cain shared devastating news. He had lost a kidney in a training accident during his military service. His remaining kidney was failing. Cain remained active, but at one point he had to begin dialysis and later on he underwent a kidney transplant; the kidney was donated by one of his siblings.

This threw me into a demanding role at the dojo. He needed me to lead more class activities. When he returned to training, he limited brisk physical contact with students and relied on me and other senior students for that. His focus was on ensuring that we maintain the energy, urgency and serious intent of our training. Now, where he couldn’t lead, he pushed.

At the same time, I was reading all about martial arts and Eastern philosophy. I was also in formal education; I studied anatomy and physiology, judo and body conditioning at a California community college, and to earn money to live I worked at less demanding jobs. This enabled me to focus on my training and school.

Life pressures were difficult to avoid. I changed jobs to one where I needed to commute to the San Francisco Bay Area. I still lived in the same town as the dojo, but my commute made it more difficult to maintain my karate training and teaching schedule.

After receiving my associate degree in science, I transferred to the Dominican College of San Rafael (The Dominican). For two years I was enrolled in their Movement Education Program. The core of the curriculum was built on identifying and remediating movement related learning disabilities, something that I thought melded well with my intention to become a sensei.

Dr. Pat Hegerhorst, director of the program, contrasted the aims of her program to a similar programme at University of California at Berkeley like this:

If you go there, they’ll teach you how to measure how many children in an age group fall downstairs, I will show you how to teach them not to fall.’

I was a ‘two left feet’ type of guy. I thought I could better prepare and improve my own movements, as well as learning how to provide others with the guidance they would need to succeed.

I felt I had to move closer to the action and went to live in Berkeley. I was still driving to Fairfield for sensei Cain’s classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and also to Benicia, where I had started teaching my own karate classes to a small group of students on Friday nights and Sunday mornings. I did so in hopes that sensei Cain would recommend me for my instructor’s certificate.

I ran into the same problem of motivation I had been seeing there. They usually had prior martial arts experience, but were not easily brought into the routine. They weren’t used to working this hard, really pushing themselves both physically and mentally, but to their credit they began to get it.

Sensei Cain came to teach my small class once, and worked us all into a wet, steaming frenzy. It was cold in the Benicia dojo. Columns of steam rose off us while he talked.

If you are in peril for your very life, and you have one chance to make one more move, how much effort will you be willing to put into it?

Find that level and bring it into every move you make, even into the period of relaxation between moves. Never back off.

I had encouraged them to aspire to that level, but he made them feel it.

I was promoted, first to 2nd dan, then 3rd dan. The tests didn’t feel novel or dramatic any more, though they were still very demanding. I was used to the process of being examined and tested and becoming good at it. This raised the question in my mind. Was that real equanimity, or was it simply a state of calm competence coming from experience? My concept of the goal I was seeking was changing – not always consciously.

Was that real equanimity, or was it simply a state of calm competence coming from experience?

Fighting is part of all the promotion tests for adult karate students. It is something that initially is universally dreaded. But familiarity, and success, lower your anxiety. Sometimes you fight someone from a lower rank, sometimes a higher rank.

Cain would at times put you up against two people, and later even three opponents. The rules were spartan; no direct attacks to the eyes or throat, no attacks to arm and leg joins against their regular range of motion. Start when sensei says start! Stop when sensei says stop! Or suffer the consequences. Beyond that, anything went. On a hardwood floor the chances of getting bruised, scraped and dented were right there at 100%.

Around the time I was nervous while testing for 2nd kyu at brown belt level, sensei took me aside. He gripped my upper arm tightly, and in a low serious voice said:

Forget what you know or don’t know! Forget what you’re worried about! Relax! Give up! Go into it!

Yagyū Munenori would say this to you: ‘No design! No conception!’

And then he sent me out to fight.

I fought better than I ever had done, and remembered in Okinawa hanshi who told us that when we were concerned about the effect of something:

Find out what the effect is!

Studying at Dominican I began to see the interrelationships between the writings and thoughts of people like Michael Polanyi, Mircea Eiliade, Jean Piaget and Melanie Klein. This greatly expanded my understanding of both the teaching and learning processes. We depend upon movement to live. We can’t learn or teach, explore or guide without communicating through movement. Speech is movement. Movement is everything.

We depend upon movement to live. We can’t learn or teach, explore or guide without communicating through movement. Speech is movement. Movement is everything.

Michael Polanyi, especially, influenced me. You can learn everything there is to know about a subject, but fail to gather direct, personal experience. Polyani differentiates between having information about rather than true knowledge. His ideas are expressed economically in his book The Tacit Dimension (1966). Polanyi says: We can know more than we can tell. Not only is there knowledge that cannot be expressed in words, but all knowledge is rooted in what he called tacit knowledge. To me that meant experience. To learn karate is a place I could lead you to physically, but I can’t talk you there.

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At Dominican two other courses influenced me: Theories and History of Personality given by the late Dr. Robert Shukraft, and Anthropology of Religion with Dr. Philip Novak. The first gave me greater insight into the way we think and relate to others, the second helped me become more aware of the frangiblity of the view humankind has of itself and the approach we take to exploring our world.

To learn karate is a place I could lead you to physically, but I can’t talk you there.

Dr. Shukraft suggested that our personalities consist of a collection of stories we tell about ourselves; some entirely true, some embellished or rewritten in our minds, some a memory of what we would like to have said or done and others outright fabrications. I was dumbstruck. I felt as you might if you were caught naked in a library.

How does he know that about me?

I was stimulated into to a new level of genuine honesty, or the best I could manage in order to maintain my positive self-image. Over time I was developing a much more refined filter with which to view my own life and activities. I favored action over theory.

Karate was created and developed in an atmosphere influenced by Buddhists and Chinese thought; a teacher at Dominican gave me a quick and dirty explanation of the relationship between Theravada and Mahayana Buddhist thought. She said:

Theravada, the lesser wheel, commits you to enlightenment in this body, in this lifetime, Mahayana, as the greater wheel, commits you to staying in the world until all things are liberated from attachment and suffering.

Zen is moving forward in practice as fast as you can while helping anyone on a similar path to advance, as long as it doesn’t diminish your personal effort. It’s a balance. It’s the Middle Way.

After I graduated from Dominican in 1989, I got a job as a stockbroker at the invitation of one of my karate students. I went through the Dean Witter Reynolds company’s stock broker training program at an office in Northern California. Even so, I managed to maintain my training schedule for many years with little interruption. Still, real life was beginning to encroach.

Do shihan have the kind of equanimity I was looking for in my youth, or are they just supremely confident as a result of practice and experience? Is there a difference?

In 1991 my girlfriend and I decided to live on the Western Slope of the Sierra Nevada mountains. After 10 years of consistent attendance, my regular attendance at the Tuesday and Thursday dojo classes was interrupted. But soon I was soon commuting to the Bay Area for work, and was I able to resume class attendance and work toward my shihan* license.

Ten years after our memorable visit to Okinawa, Hanshi Nakazato came to Chico, California in 1994. The camp training sessions were held at Chico State University. Many people attended from all over the US. Sensei Cain, some of our other dojo members, and I spent a little time with him; we joined in with master Nakazato’s training sessions.

At the camp I made friends with Gamini Soysa. I am still in contact with him. Karate practice, quite naturally, has always helped form bonds of friendship -perhaps similar to those bonds formed by people joined together in other difficult endeavors. Respect is given and received in acknowledgement of levels of effort and accomplishment that are known and understood. This is the camaraderie of serious athletes.

Do shihan have the kind of equanimity I was looking for in my youth, or are they just supremely confident as a result of practice and experience? Is there a difference? I thought about it without reaching a conclusion.

Fighting is the thing I like least about karate.

When I was tested for 4th dan and the fighting segment came around, sensei Cain asked:

Are you worried?

No. I answered.

Do you need any guidance on how to deal with your opponents?

No thank you, Sensei.

I don’t remember enjoying the fighting, but I was happy with it because I was relatively unscathed. Fighting is the thing I like least about karate. This seems like a contradiction, but it is not. After the testing and awarding of our certificates he took me aside and said,

You don’t have to fight in the future if you don’t want to, unless I need you to help someone.

Why, sensei?

He said, Because you’re not afraid of it any more.

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I gave up my classes in Benicia and started teaching at two dojos; one in Elk Grove, CA and another in Shingle Springs. I trained and taught at the former on Thursday nights on my way home from work in the Bay Area, and gave a morning class, to children and younger beginners on Saturday mornings, but the intensity of my own training was definitely on the wane.

Sensei Cain recommended me for my instructor’s license. I received it from hanshi Nakazato in April 1995. At this point, I suppose I should have tried to open my own dojo. Instead I spent less time on karate. In the mountains I had to work hard; I had to gather wood to keep us warm in winter. I needed to continue working in the Bay Area to finance our life in the Sierras. I was still functioning at a high level, I was not advancing significantly in my personal performance.

How did I feel about that after 20 years of hard work and loyalty? It felt good. Extremely good.

I started attending an annual camp in El Centro, California run by kyoshi, 8th dan, Nabil Noujaim, who I had met at the 1994 camp in Chico. In 1998 sensei Cain recommended me for promotion, which turned out to be my last. I was tested and promoted at the El Centro camp to 5th dan by a panel of three 8th dan kyoshi. To be honest, that was my peak as a performer of kata.

I was strong, and never got stronger.

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Hanshi came one more time in 2004. There is a photo of hanshi and I shaking hands was when he recognized me at the 2004 El Centro camp. He saw me, stopped a hundred or so people working out in the gym, and called his photographer over for a picture. How did I feel about that? After 20 years of hard work and loyalty? It felt good. Extremely good.

After that, I focused on learning more and refining technique rather than trying to increase my strength. Being able to endure has become more and more vital to me.

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*Shihan is an honorific title for expert, master, or senior martial arts instructors and is created using two Japanese characters: shi (師) meaning example or model and han (範) meaning master or exemplary practitioner.

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Dave Blazer is a retired financial securities industry manager and technical expert with a life long interest in Asian philosophy and martial arts. He is also a struggling left handed Blues Guitarist. He served as a cryptographic and systems management technician in the U.S. Navy for nine years, and attended the Dominican College of San Rafael, CA. He was involved with the securities industry for nearly 30 years.

A 50 year journey through oriental philosophy and Karate

By Dave Blazer

I don’t really remember when the martial arts and their related philosophy first came into my consciousness. I’m going to guess it was through something in entertainment, such as a rerun of ‘Bad Day at Black Rock’ with Spencer Tracy demonstrating some judo moves. Perhaps I saw something similar in a war movie of the time, probably in the late 50s to early 60s. 

I do remember clearly what motivated me to start my 50 year journey along the paths of Asian martial arts and Buddhist philosophy. The older sister of a friend was studying philosophy and German at Rutgers. She was three years ahead of us in school. In the summer of 1968 I was about to start my last year of high school and she was about to be a junior at Rutgers.

After a couple of talks about her interests, I mentioned that I hadn’t bonded with Christianity. She pointed out that there were other options – a fairly unusual point of view in rural Ohio in the 60s. She gave me her copy of ‘The Spirit of Zen’ by Alan Watts. Reading that first Watts book I was intrigued by the reasons he gave for why martial artists were drawn to Zen. He said it was for the development of a still, balanced and ready mind.

I wanted that thing I called calm fearlessness.

As a smaller than average, near-sighted and anxious young man, that idea appealed to me more powerfully than anything else I had encountered up to that time. More than any proficiency at sports, or my previous hobby, shooting, I wanted that thing that I called calm fearlessness.

To describe the 16-year-old me as jumpy is a real understatement.

At some point while reading Watts, Philip Kapleau, and trying on D.T. Suzuki (which I found too scholarly) and moving on to Shunryū Suzuki, I got the idea that martial arts were, or could be, a ‘moving’ Zen practice as opposed to sitting meditation; doing something to find the goal in spiritual terms, rather than doing what to me was ‘nothing’, holding still to find something.

Exactly how to explain what that meant at the time escapes me to this day. I do know that I was terrible at holding still, a combination of impatience and probably more than a little ADHD, coupled with over-easily activated adrenal glands prevented me. To describe the 16-year-old me as jumpy is a real understatement.

There wasn’t much going on in the martial arts or Asian philosophy in rural Ohio in the late 60s,

It was a chance to get somewhere without having to settle myself down; which I later realized should have been my initial goal. I didn’t want to be a scholar; I wanted a tangible, physical result. I didn’t know where I wanted to go exactly, so that complicated the process of finding my way.

There wasn’t much going on in the martial arts or Asian philosophy in rural Ohio in the late 60s, so other than reading the material available locally courtesy of Andrew Carnegie, the action portion of my quest was on hold until I went into the Navy in 1971. After training in cryptology, I was deployed to the Philippines at the end of that year.

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The isolated base I was stationed on, Naval Communications Station San Miguel, San Antonio, Zambales Province, was on the beach on the west coast of Luzon about 60 miles away, as the crow flies, from Manila – twice that in actual road miles. It was really a beautiful place, but the first thing I noticed was that a karate class was available on-base. It was run by some young adherents of the Shotokan school of Japanese karate, a very well developed and respected school. I started spending what leisure time I had with them.

I only knew that karate was difficult; physically demanding and that it was intimidating in the extreme to do karate in real life.

I worked hard at learning the kata. These are movement forms that are shorthand versions of fighting techniques. They have a logical order and are practiced for muscle memory, and a sort of operant conditioning to alter your reflexive response to stimuli. Over many years the concept of visualization of an opponent enters into play, but initially just remembering the movement patterns was challenging enough.

I got a good start over two years. At that time I only knew that karate was difficult, physically demanding, and that it was intimidating in the extreme to do karate in real life. Also, the weather in the Philippines was punishing. Sparring, a loosely controlled form of near fighting, was daunting.

In some respects, doing a kata well is like the pinnacle of dance performance

It’s possible to learn a lot about a physical sport/activity without experiencing the full range of mental, emotional and physiological stresses present. Having experience of that same activity is a different story. I adapted, but the reality was an eye opener in that regard. 

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In some respects doing group kata well is like the pinnacle of dance performance, what Wm. McNeill addresses in his book ‘Keeping Together in Time: Dance and Drill in Human History’. The class resembles choreographed rugby, at full tilt. Imagine doing kata at high speed, using all of your strength, and for two hours. Then, line up 8-12 individuals and have them do it together at the same time. It’s like riding the biggest wave you’ll ever find.

Doing Karate well is like playing choreographed rugby, at full tilt.

When I returned to the U.S. I sampled a couple of other schools, or ‘ryu’, but nothing really grabbed my attention. I tried judo at a community college with a highly qualified Japanese American sensei (teacher), a sixth dan (rank) from the Kodokan, the recognized world headquarters of judo. I also had some experience of Aikido with a well-respected teacher in the San Francisco Bay Area. Judo had a very competitive aspect, which didn’t really interest me, and Aikido was a bit too esoteric for my mindset at the time.

I vaguely wanted results without actual defined goals. During that time I met a student and qualified teacher of Shorin-ryu Shorin-kan karate of about my age who was teaching in the Bay Area town of Fairfield, California where I was living. Shorin-ryu is a very well known ryu in Okinawa, one of the originals. I went to see his class in operation and it was much more intense, fast-paced and demanding than anything I had been involved with previously.

I was both intimidated and impressed, but ready to see where it might take me. The instructor had spent years on Okinawa serving in the Air Force, and was a dedicated student and teacher, and more importantly for me a direct student of Hanshi, judan (10th rank) Shugoro Nakazato, the grand master of Shorin-ryu Shorin-kan. In my mind at the time, the real deal. 

If you weren’t there, dressed and ready at 7:30 pm you couldn’t come in. There was a formal bowing. No talking, leaning on walls, or other distractions.

My teacher’s name was Gary W. Cain, at the time ranked yondan, (4th rank) and a certified shihan (certified instructor/model teacher) he put forward the idea that if you know that the material is comprehensive, and leads to the goal you seek; you can feel confident to just do the work and realize the benefits of the training for yourself. I set out to do that to the best of my ability. 

The training was physically demanding, and the dojo rules were strict. If you weren’t there, dressed and ready at 7:30PM you couldn’t come in. There was a formal bowing. No talking, leaning on walls, or other distractions.

We trained from 7:30-9:30PM two nights a week, sometimes later. I began to see a correlation between my feelings of anxiety over being there on time, knowing the material and performing well the rituals of the classes. I could see that the framework for improving my abilities in those areas presented an opportunity to reduce my anxiety. 

I could see that the framework for improving my abilities in those areas presented an opportunity to reduce my anxiety. 

In our time away from the formal classes students were encouraged to practice what we were learning, and to work on cardio, lightweight training, and anything else that would increase our endurance, strength and agility. I didn’t have a lot of local friends at the time other than from the motorcycle dealer where I worked, so this opened a door to a new circle of friends.

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The social aspects of the dojo became an important part of my life. We started hiking, camping, fishing and otherwise enjoying the outdoors in Northern California. Sharing karate with people I knew well enough to discuss my fears, hopes and concerns with enriched the experience for me. As in any social group, we had people come and go through personal crises, military transfers, loss of interest or motivation, and other reasons.

There was always a core group of 6-8 students who had the drive, energy and commitment to be there; to learn the formal exercises which are divided into kihon (basic drills) and kata (forms) properly takes around 3-4 years of pretty constant work and attention.

I was tested, usually twice a year, in the spring and fall. The tests were grueling; half-day marathons of exercises

There are six basic blocking and punching drills and 14 open hand kata. The kata consists of a pattern of predetermined movements, most having between 30 and 50 component moves. Each of the moves is either part of the kata or stands alone as an application, or bunkai. These, more or less, are the rules of the game, and then you have to work on the practice. 

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I became friends with another student, who came to the dojo from Oakland on Thursday nights. We would meet in the park and start practicing before class to get some extra time in and for me to help him with his forms. The repetition by teaching what I had learned, and verbalizing and physically actualizing it, built further self assurance and confidence in my new skills. That friendship and mutual effort continues to this day, now over 40 years later. 

I was living with a woman … she understood my motivation and didn’t challenge karate for my attention. 

Together with some of the other students, we started informal classes. It was just kata practice a couple of days in the week; in the park, or in the garage of one of the members, or wherever we could find a quiet space. I threw myself into it and had few distractions. I was working at an easy job that allowed me to devote my main focus on the practice and go to school, and I was living with a woman who participated in the class initially and, although she eventually dropped the practice, she understood my motivation and didn’t challenge karate for my attention. 

As time went by I was tested, usually twice a year, in the spring and fall. The tests were grueling; half-day marathons of exercises, performance of the forms and demonstrations of knowledge of the bunkai. To do 1,000 setups, 1,000 pushups, and 1,000 jumping jacks was a regular warmup for the rest of the day.

I reached 1st kyu, brown belt, in the fall of 1983.

We operated within the Japanese rank system, for ten kyu and ten dan, “place” and “rank” respectively, which was first introduced in the 17th century by Honinbo Dosaku, a grandmaster of the Japanese two player logical board game ‘Go’. He introduced the system, as a method of handicapping the game. It was adapted first by the judo community and then expanded to include other Japanese and Korean martial arts. Over the next three years I was promoted through the kyu levels, advancing every six months to a year, until I reached 1st kyu, brown belt, in the fall of 1983. 

I found my confidence rising and my anxiety about confrontations, physical, verbal and emotional, fading noticeably.

As I began to advance in knowledge and experience. I found my confidence rising and my anxiety about confrontations, physical and verbal and emotional, fading noticeably.

One of the key ideas put forward by Master Nakazato was that the ultimate goal of mankind should be co-prosperity in peace, and another that students should develop a democratic spirit, with which they should feel free to speak their minds on social issues. He believed that in the absence of fears related to conflict, a more receptive, relaxed and confident person would benefit their society through strength of character, not violence.

I have always been a non-violent person, but out of fear and anxiety. To be that from a position of strength was an enormously powerful idea for me.  After three and a half years of working on performing the kihons and kata and learning the bunkai, our teacher proposed an adventure.

One of the precepts put forward by Master Nakazato was that the ultimate goal of mankind should be co-prosperity in peace, and another that students should develop a democratic spirit,

Three of us were eligible in all respects for promotion to shodan, the 1st level or rank of the black belt. He suggested we plan a trip to Okinawa to test for our black belts before master Nakazato and the association members. The idea was to go for as much of a month as time and money allowed.

I had been saving for a newer car for a couple of years, my first marriage had ended at the same time as my decade of naval service, and money was in very short supply. I had about $3,500 saved toward the car, and immediately decided I’d rather go to Okinawa for a month and drive the old one as long as I could. A chance to travel to Japan, and see real karate at one of the true sources of the practice. How could I refuse? 

Three of us were eligible in all respects for promotion to shodan, the 1st level or rank of the black belt

After comparing everybody’s windows of opportunity it was decided that we could all go for three weeks in the spring of 1984. Four of us, sensei Cain and three 1st kyu students would go. My job in a large multi-franchise motorcycle business was slow in the spring, and my boss said I could take a month off, unfortunately without pay. That was daunting at the time, but I decided to just go with it and I am and will remain eternally grateful that I made that decision.

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Dave Blazer is a retired financial securities industry manager and technical expert with a life long interest in Asian philosophy and martial arts. He is also a struggling left handed Blues Guitarist.

He served as a cryptographic and systems management technician in the U.S. Navy for nine years, and attended the Dominican College of San Rafael, CA. He was involved with the securities industry for nearly 30 years.

His martial arts career has spanned 50 years.