What Wu Means
Posted: Tue Sep 16, 2003 3:14 am
Greetings,
Up until now, I have avoided discussion in the “restraint vs. none” thread. I have seen various versions of this kind of discussion on other forums in the past, and they tend to take a direction that becomes unpleasant, especially when participants begin to introduce personal testimonials about their defensive encounters. It is inherently an emotional issue, and I understand the emotions involved.
I think the question about whether or not traditional taijiquan teachings contain specific injunctions about appropriate restraint or action in defensive situations is a fair one. I can only speak from the perspective of my own training and study, and my conclusion is that there may not be any such formal injunctions. However, I do think that there is an identifiable taijiquan ethos that is rooted in a wider tradition of martial and civil virtue. It is contained in the various written classics, in personal guidelines transmitted from teacher to student by word and example, and, importantly, in the very body mechanics of the art itself.
I‘ve posted a few times on this board my thoughts on what I see as a clear influence of Sunzi and other early bingfa (militarist) ideas on taijiquan theory. One could easily argue that Sunzi’s influence pervades Chinese culture in general, but I think that a special case can be made for taiji theory, where almost verbatim quotes of material from the Art of War can be found, and where stratagems for troop management seem to have been appropriated into the somatic grammar of a martial art stressing individual self-cultivation. I would urge taijiquan practitioners to not only study the taijiquan classics to supplement and enrich their physical training, but also to study and ponder Sunzi’s Art of War. It was born in the crucible of a time of devastating, ongoing warfare in early China, and it is both a sober recognition of the reality of violence, and an assertion of the undesirability of war—that wasting of human life, even the lives of enemies, is to be avoided if at all possible.
Another thing one should be aware of is that from a very early time in Chinese culture there has been an impetus to negotiate and achieve a balance between martial (wu) and civil (wen) culture. This ideal can be found in the Confucian Analects, and in countless historical and philosophical texts. If anyone has any doubts about whether the balancing of wen and wu have anything to do with taijiquan, I would just suggest that they read the Yang Forty Chapters, where there are documents that explicitly express the need to achieve this balance as a prerequisite for genuine accomplishment. For example, in text #14, it states, “The spiritual [wen] without martial training [wu] is essence without application; the martial [wu] without spiritual accompaniment [wen] is application without essence.” (Wile, Lost T’ai-chi Classics, pp. 70-71)
Further, it’s important to understand that the concept “wu” has connotations that are rather different from the sense of the English word “martial” meaning “inclined toward war.” In fact, it’s almost the opposite. Consider this story from a very old text, the Zuozhuan, a famous commentary to the Chunqiu, the Spring and Autumn Chronicles. The reference to “prowess” in the account is the word “wu” as in “wushu.”
At the conclusion of a huge battle, an officer suggested to his lord, “Why should your lordship not signalize your triumph by making a mound, and collect in it the bodies of the Tsinites so as to form a grand monument? I have heard that sucessful battles should be shown to posterity, so that the prowess [wu gong] of them may not be forgotten.” The viscount responded, “You do not know what you are talking about. The character for ‘prowess’ [wu] is formed by those for ‘to stay’ and ‘a spear’ . . . Thus military prowess is seen in the repression of cruelty, the calling in of the weapons of war, the preservation of the great appointment, the firm establishment of one’s merit, the giving repose to the people.” (Legge, trans., The Chinese Classics, v. 5, p. 320.
I only discovered this story a couple of years ago, but I learned of this etymology of the character wu many years back. In fact, it was my first taijiquan sifu from whom I learned it. He made a point of teaching his students the meaning of this word, and explaining to us that martial arts were developed not to learn how to do violence, but how to avoid and control violence.
Another thought, regarding the notion of progressive response to attack. Before I found a taijiquan teacher back in the seventies, I studied another martial art, jujitsu. (The “bushido” of Japanese martial arts is in Chinese, “wushudao”—the way of warrior arts.) The lineage I trained in incorporated Karate as well as the more “gentle” avoidance, sweeping, and throwing techniques. My school also explicitly taught a very strict doctrine of “doing the least harm,” and of a progressive response of techniques that became more capable of doing harm in direct correspondence to the type of attack encountered. We therefore learned a variety of wrist, arm, and body release techniques designed to get free of an attacker, then an array of techniques for more serious grappling, should the attacker persist, and on up through progressively more serious and damaging strikes and kicks.
When I first began taijiquan, I wondered why we didn’t seem to be learning anything approaching the sort of systematic inventory of techniques that I had been required to learn in jiujitsu. Then one day my sifu was demonstrating the array of application possibilities in “Needle at Sea Bottom.” There, unfolding before me, I saw a beautiful progression of techniques, from a simple wrist release, to more involved joint locking, on up to serious disabling strikes. Moreover, they weren’t a bunch of inventory items that we had drilled in separate operations, but rather they were strung together in a logical series of responses to the actions of a persistent opponent. I was beginning to learn that taijiquan differed from those martial arts that taught inventories of techniques. The skill of taijiquan goes much deeper than that.
I’d also like to repeat the words of taiji master Shi Ming (who in turn was quoting Sunzi): “Self-defense that cannot avoid hitting and hurting people is an expression of martial art that is still not at a sufficiently high level. The highest aim of martial arts using fighting techniques is to ‘defeat the enemy without doing battle.’ [Sunzi, ch. 3] At the highest level, no one can even pick a fight with you. The effects of the highest techniques and principles are completely consonant with the highest morality.” (Shi Ming, Mind Over Matter, trans. Cleary, p. 101).
I don’t think Shi Ming’s statement is particularly remarkable. I’ve heard other taijiquan masters say similar things. He’s talking, of course, about the ‘highest level,’ which seems mighty elusive to this practitioner. Nonetheless, that’s the sort of thing I’d like to think I’m training for.
Take care,
Louis
Up until now, I have avoided discussion in the “restraint vs. none” thread. I have seen various versions of this kind of discussion on other forums in the past, and they tend to take a direction that becomes unpleasant, especially when participants begin to introduce personal testimonials about their defensive encounters. It is inherently an emotional issue, and I understand the emotions involved.
I think the question about whether or not traditional taijiquan teachings contain specific injunctions about appropriate restraint or action in defensive situations is a fair one. I can only speak from the perspective of my own training and study, and my conclusion is that there may not be any such formal injunctions. However, I do think that there is an identifiable taijiquan ethos that is rooted in a wider tradition of martial and civil virtue. It is contained in the various written classics, in personal guidelines transmitted from teacher to student by word and example, and, importantly, in the very body mechanics of the art itself.
I‘ve posted a few times on this board my thoughts on what I see as a clear influence of Sunzi and other early bingfa (militarist) ideas on taijiquan theory. One could easily argue that Sunzi’s influence pervades Chinese culture in general, but I think that a special case can be made for taiji theory, where almost verbatim quotes of material from the Art of War can be found, and where stratagems for troop management seem to have been appropriated into the somatic grammar of a martial art stressing individual self-cultivation. I would urge taijiquan practitioners to not only study the taijiquan classics to supplement and enrich their physical training, but also to study and ponder Sunzi’s Art of War. It was born in the crucible of a time of devastating, ongoing warfare in early China, and it is both a sober recognition of the reality of violence, and an assertion of the undesirability of war—that wasting of human life, even the lives of enemies, is to be avoided if at all possible.
Another thing one should be aware of is that from a very early time in Chinese culture there has been an impetus to negotiate and achieve a balance between martial (wu) and civil (wen) culture. This ideal can be found in the Confucian Analects, and in countless historical and philosophical texts. If anyone has any doubts about whether the balancing of wen and wu have anything to do with taijiquan, I would just suggest that they read the Yang Forty Chapters, where there are documents that explicitly express the need to achieve this balance as a prerequisite for genuine accomplishment. For example, in text #14, it states, “The spiritual [wen] without martial training [wu] is essence without application; the martial [wu] without spiritual accompaniment [wen] is application without essence.” (Wile, Lost T’ai-chi Classics, pp. 70-71)
Further, it’s important to understand that the concept “wu” has connotations that are rather different from the sense of the English word “martial” meaning “inclined toward war.” In fact, it’s almost the opposite. Consider this story from a very old text, the Zuozhuan, a famous commentary to the Chunqiu, the Spring and Autumn Chronicles. The reference to “prowess” in the account is the word “wu” as in “wushu.”
At the conclusion of a huge battle, an officer suggested to his lord, “Why should your lordship not signalize your triumph by making a mound, and collect in it the bodies of the Tsinites so as to form a grand monument? I have heard that sucessful battles should be shown to posterity, so that the prowess [wu gong] of them may not be forgotten.” The viscount responded, “You do not know what you are talking about. The character for ‘prowess’ [wu] is formed by those for ‘to stay’ and ‘a spear’ . . . Thus military prowess is seen in the repression of cruelty, the calling in of the weapons of war, the preservation of the great appointment, the firm establishment of one’s merit, the giving repose to the people.” (Legge, trans., The Chinese Classics, v. 5, p. 320.
I only discovered this story a couple of years ago, but I learned of this etymology of the character wu many years back. In fact, it was my first taijiquan sifu from whom I learned it. He made a point of teaching his students the meaning of this word, and explaining to us that martial arts were developed not to learn how to do violence, but how to avoid and control violence.
Another thought, regarding the notion of progressive response to attack. Before I found a taijiquan teacher back in the seventies, I studied another martial art, jujitsu. (The “bushido” of Japanese martial arts is in Chinese, “wushudao”—the way of warrior arts.) The lineage I trained in incorporated Karate as well as the more “gentle” avoidance, sweeping, and throwing techniques. My school also explicitly taught a very strict doctrine of “doing the least harm,” and of a progressive response of techniques that became more capable of doing harm in direct correspondence to the type of attack encountered. We therefore learned a variety of wrist, arm, and body release techniques designed to get free of an attacker, then an array of techniques for more serious grappling, should the attacker persist, and on up through progressively more serious and damaging strikes and kicks.
When I first began taijiquan, I wondered why we didn’t seem to be learning anything approaching the sort of systematic inventory of techniques that I had been required to learn in jiujitsu. Then one day my sifu was demonstrating the array of application possibilities in “Needle at Sea Bottom.” There, unfolding before me, I saw a beautiful progression of techniques, from a simple wrist release, to more involved joint locking, on up to serious disabling strikes. Moreover, they weren’t a bunch of inventory items that we had drilled in separate operations, but rather they were strung together in a logical series of responses to the actions of a persistent opponent. I was beginning to learn that taijiquan differed from those martial arts that taught inventories of techniques. The skill of taijiquan goes much deeper than that.
I’d also like to repeat the words of taiji master Shi Ming (who in turn was quoting Sunzi): “Self-defense that cannot avoid hitting and hurting people is an expression of martial art that is still not at a sufficiently high level. The highest aim of martial arts using fighting techniques is to ‘defeat the enemy without doing battle.’ [Sunzi, ch. 3] At the highest level, no one can even pick a fight with you. The effects of the highest techniques and principles are completely consonant with the highest morality.” (Shi Ming, Mind Over Matter, trans. Cleary, p. 101).
I don’t think Shi Ming’s statement is particularly remarkable. I’ve heard other taijiquan masters say similar things. He’s talking, of course, about the ‘highest level,’ which seems mighty elusive to this practitioner. Nonetheless, that’s the sort of thing I’d like to think I’m training for.
Take care,
Louis