The greatest martial artist acknowledges his fear, his anger, his pain. He acknowledges his weaknesses, he acknowledges his tendencies. The greatest martial artist uses his knowledge of these things to attack his opponent.
But he does not attack with flailing emotion, with structureless, animal, primal rage.
His anger is directed, like flaming gas through an engine, to exactly where it needs to be.
His is a poet’s rage: functional, efficient, and contained.
There are no fixed rules in the ring. Every fight can surprise you, and you will be forced to adapt accordingly. Wrestling with your opponent you will realise they are a more complex beast than you could ever have anticipated before you challenged them.
But still, the greatest martial artist practises menial and repetitive drills, hoping to subject his base, instinctive, creative impulses to drilled-in restraint. He feigns the motion of a thousand moves, despite the knowledge that such perfect movements alone will never win a fight.
He does this because this is the only way towards discipline; and discipline is the engine of the heart. Without discipline, our emotional fuel is burned up in barrels, into the open air where it dissipates in a pathetic, wobbling cloud. But with discipline, the martial artist can turn a key on the tiger’s cage within him, unleashing a fiery beast that will bite exactly what he tells it to bite, and when. He possesses the engine of the heart, and he can use it to drive his opponent to the mat.
The term ‘martial art’ originally referred to the combat systems of Europe as early as the 1550s, but currently holds more connotations of Asian practises. The term is derived from Latin and means “arts of Mars” - the Roman god of war.
But he does not attack with flailing emotion, with structureless, animal, primal rage.
His anger is directed, like flaming gas through an engine, to exactly where it needs to be.
His is a poet’s rage: functional, efficient, and contained.
There are no fixed rules in the ring. Every fight can surprise you, and you will be forced to adapt accordingly. Wrestling with your opponent you will realise they are a more complex beast than you could ever have anticipated before you challenged them.
But still, the greatest martial artist practises menial and repetitive drills, hoping to subject his base, instinctive, creative impulses to drilled-in restraint. He feigns the motion of a thousand moves, despite the knowledge that such perfect movements alone will never win a fight.
He does this because this is the only way towards discipline; and discipline is the engine of the heart. Without discipline, our emotional fuel is burned up in barrels, into the open air where it dissipates in a pathetic, wobbling cloud. But with discipline, the martial artist can turn a key on the tiger’s cage within him, unleashing a fiery beast that will bite exactly what he tells it to bite, and when. He possesses the engine of the heart, and he can use it to drive his opponent to the mat.
The term ‘martial art’ originally referred to the combat systems of Europe as early as the 1550s, but currently holds more connotations of Asian practises. The term is derived from Latin and means “arts of Mars” - the Roman god of war.
The Martial Artist
From arts of Mars the martial artist draws;
Alone, his wisdom directs every blow;
For humble repetition structures wars,
As any Battle-God by now should know.
His mind is fertile turf; his masters sew
All necessary waza seeds and spores
Between the irrigated tracks. Like so,
From arts of Mars the martial artist draws.
On mental saplings now the artist pours
A steady stream of study, so they’ll grow;
‘At last,’ his masters cry, ‘your mind is yours.’
Alone, his wisdom directs every blow.
‘Now you must not let fertile fields fallow;’
His masters urge, ‘so practise. Never pause.
From repetition nature’s powers flow,
For humble repetition structures wars.
‘To imitate the brainless rush of boars,
Allowing primal instincts chance to throw
You into battle is a hopeless cause,
As any Battle-God by now should know.
‘Embody balance. You will beat your foe
By guiding beasts’ and seeds’ brute natural force
With rigid repetition. This shall show
Why masters don’t distinguish nature’s laws
From arts of Mars’
From arts of Mars the martial artist draws;
Alone, his wisdom directs every blow;
For humble repetition structures wars,
As any Battle-God by now should know.
His mind is fertile turf; his masters sew
All necessary waza seeds and spores
Between the irrigated tracks. Like so,
From arts of Mars the martial artist draws.
On mental saplings now the artist pours
A steady stream of study, so they’ll grow;
‘At last,’ his masters cry, ‘your mind is yours.’
Alone, his wisdom directs every blow.
‘Now you must not let fertile fields fallow;’
His masters urge, ‘so practise. Never pause.
From repetition nature’s powers flow,
For humble repetition structures wars.
‘To imitate the brainless rush of boars,
Allowing primal instincts chance to throw
You into battle is a hopeless cause,
As any Battle-God by now should know.
‘Embody balance. You will beat your foe
By guiding beasts’ and seeds’ brute natural force
With rigid repetition. This shall show
Why masters don’t distinguish nature’s laws
From arts of Mars’
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