Conflict is not a problem.

The real problem is distorted action within it.

In the previous episodes, I developed a model of action based on six concepts.

Zanshin is a state of awareness and the starting point. Self-control is action grounded in this awareness—not driven by internal impulse, but adapted to a situation. Discipline stabilizes self-control over time.

These three concepts form the foundation of the system. The remaining three shape its practical application.

Compassion means seeing others without projecting emotional states onto them. Responsibility is the moment when we recognize that we are committed to action. Respect guides our action. It means allowing or supporting others to grow according to their inner nature.

This system, grounded in martial arts experience, is not a code of conduct. It is a model of correct action.

Now we should ask: what happens when this structure encounters resistance?

This brings us to the concept of conflict.

1. Conflict Is Not Violence

As a martial artist and a philosopher, I deal with both physical and intellectual conflicts.

However, it may be argued that conflicts in martial arts and philosophy are not real conflicts. They take place in controlled environments. Real fights and real arguments in everyday life are very different.

This is true. However, the difference lies not in the essence of conflict, but in the level of violence involved.

Conflict is a situation in which we encounter opposition while trying to realize our aims. This may happen when goals diverge, structures collide, or action encounters resistance.

Conflict is unavoidable in life. Even refusing conflict is already a response to it. Therefore, the problem is not how to eliminate conflict completely. The problem is how to act correctly within it.

Violence, on the other hand, unlike conflict, is not a situation. It is a form of behavior—an act intended to harm someone physically or mentally.

Therefore, conflict and violence are not the same.

Conflict without violence is possible. For example, proponents of different philosophical theories may remain in conflict while proposing contradictory solutions to the same intellectual problem.

Violence without conflict is also possible. A school bully may completely overpower a victim who offers no resistance. Where there is no resistance, there are no sides in conflict—only a perpetrator and a victim.

So conflict and violence are not identical.

2. Reaction and Response

Violence triggers emotions such as fear, anger, or humiliation. Therefore, the higher the level of violence, the easier it becomes for emotions to distort perception.

As a result, instead of responding to the actual situation, we react to our internal states. Driven by uncontrolled emotions, the structure of action may collapse. Therefore, the basis of functioning within conflict is learning how to work with emotions.

Martial arts and philosophical debate, because of their relatively low level of violence, create a kind of laboratory of conflict. In controlled environments, where conflict is partially separated from its distorting factors, it becomes easier to maintain discipline and self-control.

Consequently, it becomes easier to train zanshin.

Zanshin is the state of awareness that creates distance from emotions, allowing response instead of blind reaction.

In the episode on emotions, I described three ways of working with them. These same modes also apply to conflict situations.

The first way is to consciously allow emotions to drive action. This may be risky. It can easily slide into violence and generate even stronger emotional distortion. Nevertheless, such a strategy may sometimes be appropriate.

For example, in a fight—a direct physical conflict—we usually need some degree of aggression. There is no such thing as a completely non-aggressive punch or kick. Even in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, control is often established through pain.

Similarly, in everyday life, anger may sometimes be appropriate. Anger can indicate that someone has crossed our boundaries and that further discussion is no longer possible.

The second way is to let emotions pass without suppressing them.

This begins with recognizing emotions clearly instead of reacting automatically to them. Recognition itself often weakens emotional pressure and allows action despite internal states.

This is especially important in stressful situations such as competition, where emotions must be acknowledged without taking control of action.

However, some situations are overpowering. Simply accepting emotions may not be enough. Therefore, it is useful to prepare for conflict in advance.

This is the third strategy: cognitive reappraisal. Philosophical and martial arts training both prepare us for conflict by reframing how we perceive such situations.

Through training, we begin to perceive conflict more like a structured game. We perceive the opponent’s actions as a sequence of moves rather than chaotic force.

This makes the situation more comprehensible and allows more accurate action.

Zanshin, however, remains necessary throughout the entire process. It maintains proper distance and protects rational action from emotional distortion.

In the end, thanks to zanshin, we stop being reactive and become responsive.

3. Violence and Avoidance

Every conflict situation activates the fight-or-flight response. These two extremes form a spectrum within which most conflict behavior takes place.

On one side lies uncontrolled violence. This is where someone attempts to destroy an opponent at any cost.

There are situations where such behavior may be justified. But these are extreme cases—situations in which we encounter the same level of violence directly threatening our lives.

On the other side lies uncontrolled avoidance. This is where someone attempts to escape conflict at any cost.

There are also situations where such behavior may be justified. If we are certain that resistance will only result in death, avoidance may become the only rational option.

Most ordinary situations lie between these extremes.

In such situations, violence creates excess of action. Avoidance creates absence of necessary action.

Naturally, each person tends to move more strongly toward one of these directions. Therefore, maintaining the proper structure of action often requires correcting ourselves.

These tendencies manifest themselves emotionally. Therefore, maintaining distance from emotions becomes essential. This is why training in zanshin is fundamental.

Through zanshin—the state of awareness—we notice what emotions indicate to us without blindly following them. This creates freedom in choosing how to act.

This enables self-control. From the state of awareness, we become capable of acting according to the situation rather than according to internal states. Discipline stabilizes this action over time, gradually internalizing the correct structure.

Zanshin, self-control, and discipline form the foundation of the system. They create the basic structure of correct action.

Now it becomes important to examine how the remaining concepts apply within conflict.

4. Compassion Within Conflict

Compassion becomes especially difficult during conflict. When we encounter resistance while trying to realize our aims, it becomes easy to perceive others merely as obstacles or enemies.

Nevertheless, zanshin helps preserve compassion and interrupts emotional distortion.

First, it allows us to see others more clearly, rather than through the lens of emotional projection.

This is because compassion is not an emotion. It is understanding others within the context of a broader situation. Therefore, it becomes easier to respond according to the situation itself rather than react emotionally.

This reduces excess in action. Our movements become more precise and more appropriate to particular circumstances.

This idea appears clearly in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu terminology. A fight is often called a game, and practitioners are called players. This is a very useful analogy.

Second, compassion prevents us from sliding into violence. Understanding another person as a human being shaped by their broader life situation creates distance from their aggression.

Imagine that someone verbally attacks you by calling you useless. Most people respond to such emotional violence with further violence.

But imagine understanding that the person became a workaholic because of suffering in their private life. Would you react in the same way?

Probably not.

Understanding the situation itself creates distance from aggression.

5. Conflict and Respect

Compassion alone, however, is not enough. Another concept from my model becomes necessary here: respect.

Acting respectfully requires two things.

First, we must understand others as living beings.

A plant grows by adapting to its environment. The same applies to people. Human beings also struggle to preserve and develop their potential within changing circumstances. Their actions emerge from this struggle.

Second, respectful action means allowing, protecting, or supporting growth according to one’s inner nature.

This applies both to others and to ourselves. We must protect our inner nature just as we protect a plant from harmful conditions.

Avoidance becomes a mistake because it allows others to cross our boundaries. Repeated situations of this kind—such as bullying or domestic violence—damage growth across time.

Violence is also a mistake. It is often driven by fear that someone might hurt us. As a result, violence may become an attempt to harm others in advance, before any real boundary has been crossed.

Conflict reveals itself at the level of boundaries.

We must prevent others from crossing our boundaries without crossing theirs in return.

This is difficult, and we should not pretend otherwise. Conflict situations easily deteriorate either into domination of an overly avoidant person or into mutual violence.

Nevertheless, according to my model, we should still attempt to act correctly.

Compassion does not mean weakness or agreement. It means perceiving another person as they actually are. Without this, proportionate action becomes impossible.

6. Responsibility Within Conflict

We should act respectfully toward ourselves and others. But how do we recognize situations in which action becomes necessary?

This is where responsibility appears.

Responsibility means recognizing that action is required from us. It is neither a feeling nor a duty imposed externally. Responsibility emerges from objective circumstances themselves. It does not depend on our emotions or on social expectations.

So how do we recognize such situations?

I would argue that whenever the protection or development of someone’s inner nature depends on us, responsibility emerges.

A simple example is caring for a plant. Its growth depends on us, and therefore we become responsible for acting appropriately.

This is why responsibility toward children is fundamental. But the same principle applies more broadly: whenever another being’s development genuinely depends on our action, responsibility emerges.

We are also responsible for ourselves. For example, self-destructive behavior harms our own growth.

Once responsibility appears, how should we act?

Respectfully.

This means supporting growth—or at least not interfering with development.

The same principle applies to conflict.

If our boundaries are crossed and our inner nature is threatened, conflict may become unavoidable. Avoiding such situations often means allowing harm to continue.

This is precisely where responsibility emerges.

The situation commits us to act.

7. Martial Arts and Conflict

Martial arts are often misunderstood.

Some people see them as systems of violence. Others interpret them as systems of peace.

Both views are insufficient because they describe opposite extremes: violence and avoidance.

In my view, martial arts are systems of functioning under pressure.

Their purpose is not aggression, but neither is it passivity.

Proper martial arts training develops the abilities described in this model.

First, it trains zanshin: awareness and clear perception. Some martial arts, such as iaido or kyudo, place particular emphasis on this dimension.

Second, martial arts train emotional regulation and self-control. Training sessions become environments for practicing different ways of working with emotions, especially under pressure.

Third, martial arts cultivate discipline through repeated action and long-term commitment.

The remaining concepts—compassion, responsibility, and respect—also find practical application within martial arts training.

Together, these elements create a structure for functioning within conflict.

Therefore, martial arts are not systems of violence and not systems of peace.

They are systems of correct action under pressure.

And ultimately, martial arts—like philosophy—teach one more thing:

There is no development without conflict.

We must struggle both with others and with ourselves. Only then can the structure of action be tested and refined.

8. Conflict on the Path

Now let us move to a more general level.

The continuous realization of this structure over time is what I call a path.

Different forms of conflict appear along this path. Some emerge during sparring or competition. Others arise in everyday life.

But the most persistent conflict is always the conflict with ourselves.

Martial arts demand consistent practice despite momentary impulses, emotions, fatigue, or distraction. Discipline must be maintained despite changing internal states.

Training therefore reveals our internal fragmentation:
impulsiveness,
fear,
instability,
and emotional reactivity.

To remain on the path, we must learn to work with these conditions rather than blindly follow them.

This is why motivation alone is insufficient.

In fact, the days when we are not motivated are often the most important ones.

Maintaining the correct structure of action despite lack of motivation reveals what the path actually means.

That is real training.

Because in the end, maintaining the structure is everything.

Outro

This was the Budo Mind Podcast.

In this episode, I examined conflict as an unavoidable part of life both inside and outside the dojo.

First, I distinguished conflict from violence. Conflict is a situation in which action encounters resistance, while violence is a form of harmful behavior.

Then, I distinguished reaction from response. Reaction is impulsive behavior driven by emotional states. Response emerges from zanshin—the state of awareness.

I also described violence and avoidance as two opposite distortions of action.

Violence creates excess of action by crossing boundaries aggressively. Avoidance creates absence of necessary action by allowing boundaries to be crossed.

Next, I examined conflict through the practical concepts of the system.

Compassion allows us to perceive another person clearly rather than through emotional projection. Respect guides action toward protection and support of growth. Responsibility emerges when a situation commits us to act.

Finally, I argued that martial arts are neither systems of violence nor systems of peace.

They are systems of correct action under pressure.

Because conflict reveals whether this structure truly exists.

True simplicity is not a style.

It is what remains when excess disappears.

In the previous episode, I explained the concept of do as the long-term realization of a structure through disciplined action.

What happens when this structure becomes stable?

The answer is austere simplicity.

1. Artificial and Natural Simplicity

Daisetz T. Suzuki, in his classic book Zen and Japanese Culture, recalls a story about a student of Sen no Rikyu, the famous tea master.

For a tea ceremony, the student chose old, broken utensils. His intention was to create the atmosphere of austerity characteristic of the wabi-sabi style. Rikyu, however, admonished the student that intentionally produced wabi is not true wabi. It is only imitation, lacking the spirit of wabi-sabi.

Minimalism and the aesthetic of simplicity have become modern fads. What Suzuki describes clearly distinguishes these trends from the original concept of wabi-sabi. One is artificial. The other is natural.

In the artificial case, simplicity becomes an external goal. It is assumed that reaching this goal will produce a calm and simple mind. Therefore, people often focus only on the superficial aspect of minimal aesthetics, hoping to achieve inner calmness.

In the natural case, the clear mind is not the result, but the starting point. Such a mind focuses on what is essential and eliminates excess. Simplicity is what naturally remains as a result of this reduction.

Artificial simplicity may work in the short term. Creating a minimalist space may temporarily calm the mind. But in the long run, it usually fails.

This is because living in a simple environment requires continuously maintaining that simplicity. If the mind itself is not simple from the beginning, it will eventually recreate excess.

Moreover, as Michael Easter argues in Scarcity Brain, minimalism may arise from the same mechanism as maximalism. Reducing possessions to the minimum, like accumulating them, may provide a sense of control. Then another fear appears—the fear that too many possessions, or too few, will lead to a loss of control.

The root of the problem is not material excess, but mental excess: emotional noise, intrusive thought, and impulsive reaction. Such states fragment attention and weaken our response to a particular situation.

Unnecessary action does not come from the environment itself. It comes from the mind.

This is why there was no true wabi-sabi spirit in the ceremony prepared by Rikyu’s student. His mind needed to be prepared first.

2. Simplicity and Excess

The Japanese concept of wabi is not merely simplicity. It is what I call austere simplicity.

It is not the result of seeking comfort or relaxation. On the contrary, it emerges from the awareness created by the discomfort of simplicity.

Therefore, my model of action begins with zanshin—the state of awareness.

Zanshin creates distance from emotional states. It allows us to observe them instead of automatically following them. In this way, impulsive reactions and habitual behavior may be interrupted.

Emotions are not our enemies. They indicate that we recognize a situation and already possess a prepared response to it. In many cases, this shortens reaction time. This can be very useful.

However, automatic responses do not always fit a particular situation. In such cases, emotions distort perception. This distortion creates excess. We react too quickly or too strongly.

This is how fear may lead both to maximalism and minimalism. We may accumulate unnecessary objects, commitments, and distractions. But we may also attempt to eliminate everything excessively. In both cases, there is excess of action.

At the same time, we possess the capacity not to follow the impulse. Zanshin is what makes this possible.

It interrupts the process by creating distance between perception and action. It stops emotions from turning directly into reaction. Under these conditions, selecting what is essential becomes possible.

This is how zanshin leads to simplicity.

Discipline stabilizes this process across time.

In martial arts training, action is inefficient at first. There is too much tension, too much force, and movement is excessive.

Through repetitive exercise, unnecessary thinking gradually disappears. Self-control becomes easier. In the long run, disciplined action reduces excess even further. Movement becomes smaller, quieter, and more precise.

But everything begins with the mind and the elimination of mental excess.

This makes disciplined action possible.

Discipline shapes simplicity.

Similarly, in everyday life, discipline may gradually simplify our habits, priorities, and behavior. Not because we pursue simplicity directly in order to make life easier. The aim is not simplicity itself, but clearer awareness.

The clear mind clears the path, so we can walk it straight.

3. Simplicity and Stability

This is how the system operates.

Zanshin enables self-control and discipline. When the structure remains stable across time, austere simplicity gradually emerges as the result.

However, one additional condition is necessary for long-term stability. That condition is identity.

If zanshin, self-control, and discipline function like a motor, identity functions like the oil that keeps the motor running smoothly.

As I argued in the previous episode, disciplined action alone is not enough to constitute a path. We may perform many actions in a disciplined way. But for something to become a path, it must shape who we are.

Disciplined action must remain consistent with our values and worldview. If our actions contradict our identity—or remain emotionally indifferent to us—it becomes difficult to sustain them over time.

To make martial arts a genuine path in life, it is not enough to enjoy training, stay healthy, or learn how to fight. You must see yourself as a martial artist.

Once this identification becomes stable, additional justification becomes unnecessary. You continue because it is already part of who you are.

Identity simplifies the relation between the person and the practice.

The same mechanism appears in everyday life.

If you want to build a lasting habit, the habit must become part of your identity.

For example, someone who wants to eat healthy food must gradually begin to see themselves as a healthy person. Otherwise, the habit remains external and unstable.

Habits imposed from outside rarely stabilize over time. Without identity, discipline remains fragile.

Therefore, working with identity is one of the first necessary steps on the path.

But over time, identity simplifies action.

4. Simplicity and Freedom

Everything I have described may appear to limit freedom.

This is because freedom is often associated with increasing possibilities.

However, this understanding describes only negative freedom—freedom from external restraint. Complete negative freedom is not realizable. Some limitations always remain.

But there is also positive freedom: freedom for development. A plant growing in its natural environment is free—not because it lacks all constraints, but because it can realize its natural potential.

I do not want to reject negative freedom. However, every additional impulse competes for attention. Unlimited possibilities therefore often create fragmentation, paralysis, and inconsistency in action. Excessive possibilities also generate excess in action.

For example, in martial arts, it is usually unhelpful to follow too many teachers simultaneously. One teacher may instruct you in ways that contradict another. Both approaches may be correct within their own systems. But your own practice becomes incoherent.

The fewer unnecessary reactions control us, the less fragmented our action becomes. Action gains coherence and direction.

Today, we possess an unprecedented degree of negative freedom. We can choose from a multitude of paths. This situation has clear advantages. But it also creates constant distraction.

Once we choose a path, we should follow it consistently. Otherwise, we become like a plant that is constantly repotted and therefore cannot take root anywhere. Development becomes blocked.

In this way, unlimited negative freedom may ultimately deprive us of positive freedom.

5. Correct Action and Simplicity

Returning to Rikyu’s remark, we should stop pursuing false simplicity.

Some people imitate external simplicity through minimal aesthetics, ritualized restraint, and performative calmness. But external reduction does not create true simplicity. Sometimes it only conceals internal chaos more effectively.

True simplicity cannot be separated from the structure of action. Simplicity alone is not a criterion of correct action.

Without zanshin, simplicity becomes passivity. Creating a minimal environment, we eventually find ourselves without stimuli that encourage action and development.

Without self-control, simplicity becomes suppression. External calm may temporarily reduce tension, but internal chaos remains unresolved.

Without discipline, simplicity becomes only a temporary mood. There is no lasting stability of mind.

As Rikyu suggests, simplicity should never become a direct goal. When pursued directly, it easily turns into ideology or aesthetic performance.

Instead, simplicity should emerge indirectly.

As perception becomes clearer, impulses weaken. Action becomes more coherent. Excess gradually disappears. What remains is simplicity.

Therefore, austere simplicity is not the purpose of the path.

It is one of the consequences of walking the path correctly.

Outro

This was the Budo Mind Podcast.

In this episode, I examined the concept of austere simplicity.

It is not minimalism, aesthetic performance, or self-denial. It is the reduction of unnecessary elements in perception and action.

Zanshin makes this simplification possible across time. Over the long term, simplicity may gradually become part of identity.

Simplicity is not created by reduction. It is what remains when excess disappears.

The path already exists.

But it is never given to you.

In the previous episodes, I developed a model of action composed of six elements: zanshin, self-control, discipline, compassion, responsibility, and respect. Together, they describe perception, regulation, and action.

But one question remains: what makes this structure a path? And how does this path exist across time?

To answer these questions, we need to understand the concept of dō.

1. Dō as the Natural Path

There are many layers of understanding dō.

In one of my previous episodes, I explained its broader meaning.

The term dō originates in Chinese philosophy. In general, it refers to the natural way things are. A sage is someone who lives in accordance with the natural order.

A plant remains in harmony with nature. Therefore, it grows and develops its natural potential.

Similarly, if we remain in harmony with dao, we grow. If we act against it, we decay. The same is true for individuals, societies, and states.

In this fundamental sense, the path is something that extends beyond ourselves. Therefore, the path we choose must remain in accordance with this natural order.

This removes many common misunderstandings. Dō is not a lifestyle. It is not something fancy that makes us look impressive in front of others. Choosing a path means submitting to something greater than ourselves. Therefore, humility is the proper attitude.

2. Dō as a Shared Structure

The next layer is the social meaning of dō.

The concept appears in many areas of Japanese culture. There are shodo, chado, judo, and many other different dō. They are ways of remaining in accordance with nature. This is why they enable human development.

All of them are socially transmitted structures of practice developed across generations.

Such a path still exists before you. It is not something you invent for yourself. It is something you choose to follow.

The social path provides a structure of action. We do not need to invent the path ourselves. We need to do what the path requires from us.

3. Dō as Individual Realization

Yet there is another layer of understanding.

There is the way of a plant, different from the way of an animal. But there is also the way of an individual tree that makes it unique in the world.

Similarly, there are social paths we may choose. But there is also the individual path of each human being.

The social path is shared with others. But walking it is always individual.

No one can see your situation for you. No one can take responsibility for you. No one can perform your actions for you. In the end, you always walk your path alone.

This means that the path can be socially transmitted—but it cannot be transferred. The structure remains the same, but every situation is different. Therefore, the path is always individually realized.

As a result, the outcome of action is always unique. This is the individual path.

4. Structure and Realization

This leads to a crucial distinction.

There are two aspects of the path we need to consider: structure and realization.

The social aspect of a path is its structure. This is what teachers transmit to students. And this is what we mean when we speak about following a path.

Realization is the individual effort to approximate the ideal structure.

A teacher can show you what proper action looks like. But they cannot act for you. The teacher shows you a structure. It is up to you to realize it.

In other words, structure defines how to act. Realization is the actual acting.

Without structure, there is no path—only chaotic action. Without realization, the path remains an empty form.

We can say that there is aikido, iaido, or judo. This means there are socially established practices that provide structures of behavior.

But every practitioner has their own aikido, iaido, or judo. Each person realizes the same structure differently.

5. The Structure of the Path

Each individual path is unique. Yet what makes something a path, rather than chaotic behavior, is the structure of action.

In the previous episodes, I developed a model of such a structure. I will now use it to explain how the individual path is realized.

Zanshin is the foundation of the system. It is a state of awareness that interrupts impulsive reaction. This creates distance.

Distance makes self-control possible. Self-control means acting not from impulse, but in accordance with the situation itself.

Discipline is the stabilization of self-controlled action across time.

On this foundation, the practical side of the system emerges.

Zanshin enables compassion. Compassion is the ability to see others, including ourselves, without projecting our emotional states onto them. It enables understanding instead of impulsive reaction.

Responsibility emerges when understanding becomes action. Once we clearly see a situation, there is no neutral position anymore. Once responsibility is recognized, there is no way back. We are committed to act.

Respect answers the question of how we should act. Action grounded in zanshin and compassion enables others to grow according to their own nature. Sometimes this means letting go. Sometimes it means supporting others.

This is the structure of the path in its individual realization.

The path is the continuity of this structure across time.

6. Discipline and the Path

This brings us closer to the concept of discipline. The path and discipline are closely related, but they must be carefully distinguished.

Self-control enables action that is not driven by impulse, but adapted to the situation. Discipline stabilizes this behavior across time. It enables consistent action despite changing internal states.

For example, in iaido, we practice the same kata repeatedly while trying to maintain proper structure.

Repeated action creates the conditions for self-control. It allows us to refine technique during a particular training session.

Over time, discipline stabilizes action across years of practice. Not only a single technique becomes refined. Our iaido itself becomes more refined. We gradually move closer to the ideal structure transmitted to us by the teacher.

The individual path is not something we simply follow. It is something we create through disciplined action.

However, disciplined action alone is still not enough to create a path.

I may drive a car, manage finances, or clean my room in a disciplined way. I may do these things consistently and maintain proper structure. But this alone does not create a path.

Disciplined action becomes a path only when it defines self-identity.

This process also works in a feedback loop.

For example, a certain self-identity led me to begin practicing iaido. I had to become a particular kind of person to be interested in such practice.

But the practice itself deepens my identity as an iaidoka over time. The longer I practice, the more stable this identity becomes.

Therefore, walking a path requires more than consistency. The practice must also remain consistent with who we are, with our values, and with our worldview.

Budo is not only a set of techniques. There is also the identity of being a martial artist.

7. Path and Drift

Following a path requires maintaining proper structure. We drift away from the path when this structure is lost.

Ultimately, drift begins with the loss of zanshin.

Without zanshin, we react to situations through habit or impulse.

Good habits may protect us from drifting to some extent. But not every habit is appropriate to every situation. Habits may still weaken coherent action. Impulse is an even greater threat.

Structure, on the other hand, is grounded in zanshin. Zanshin enables action based on perception rather than impulse. This preserves consistency and direction in action.

Once we choose a structure to follow, the path is not something we need to search for. It is what remains when drift is eliminated through zanshin.

Zanshin gives us clarity. Most of the time, we already know what the path requires. But without zanshin, perspective becomes distorted by ineffective habits and momentary impulses. This leads to inconsistent action.

8. Final Integration

Now let me bring the entire system together once again.

Zanshin is the foundation of the whole system. It is the state of awareness and alertness that enables clear perception.

This clear perception makes self-control possible. Self-control means acting from perception rather than internal impulse.

Discipline stabilizes this action across time.

The system also works as a feedback loop. Discipline strengthens self-control over time, while greater self-control enables more effective zanshin.

Zanshin also enables compassion, its practical counterpart. Compassion is seeing and understanding others without projecting our own emotional states onto them.

While zanshin is the general foundation of the system, compassion is the foundation of its practical application.

Compassion enables clear understanding. Responsibility emerges when understanding demands action. Responsibility is not a feeling. It is direct cognition.

Once we clearly see our responsibility, failing to act becomes irresponsibility.

Respect defines the general direction of action. It means enabling others to develop according to their own nature.

A path emerges when this entire structure is continuously realized across time and becomes part of self-identity.

Only then can it truly be called a path.

Outro

This was the Budo Mind Podcast.

In this episode, I examined the concept of dō.

First, I briefly discussed its broader meaning originating in Chinese philosophy. In this sense, the path refers to the natural order with which every individual path must remain in accordance.

Then I turned to the social meaning of the path. This is the structure transmitted across generations by teachers and practitioners. It is the path we choose and follow.

But there is also the individual meaning of the path. This is the individual realization of the structure by each practitioner.

Individually understood, the path is the continuous realization of structure across time. But to truly become a path, this realization must shape self-identity deeply enough.

The path is shared in its structure. But it is always individual in its realization.

It exists before you. But it becomes real only through your action.

Without structure, there is no path. Without realization, the path remains empty.

In the next episode, I will examine a specific value that emerges from following a path: austere simplicity as the result of disciplined action.

Responsibility is not what others impose on you.

It is what remains when you clearly see a situation—and cannot pretend you don’t.

In the previous episodes, I explained that compassion is not a feeling. It is the ability to see others from a distance—as they are—without projecting your own emotional states onto them.

This distance enables understanding. And on that basis—respect: a form of behavior that allows the other person to grow according to their inner nature.

In this way, the practical implications of the system become clear. Compassion is the condition of correct perception. Respect is the form of action.

But one question remains: How do we know when to act?

This brings us to the final concept—responsibility.

1. Responsibility Is Not Duty

As in the previous episodes, let’s begin with what responsibility is not.

The key distinction is between responsibility and duty. These two are often confused. But they are not the same.

We can act out of duty without being responsible. And we can be responsible without acting out of duty.

Duty is tied to social roles. A doctor has duties. A pilot has duties. A teacher has duties.

These duties arise from social expectations. If they are not fulfilled, we say that someone has failed in their role.

In this sense, duty is external. It does not require understanding. It only requires compliance. You follow the protocol. You do what is expected.

Duties are also limited. They can be negotiated. They are often written into contracts.

This is why codes of conduct often confuse responsibility with duty. They attempt to formalize responsibility as a fixed set of obligations.

But this does not work. There are always situations that exceed what is written—and yet still demand action.

Consider a simple case. A rule may prohibit an action in general—yet in specific circumstances, that same action may be expected or even required.

The conclusion is this: Duty does not guarantee correct action.

2. Responsibility Grounded in Compassion

Let us return to compassion.

Compassion is the ability to see and understand others as they are—without projection. It is not a feeling. It is a cognitive condition.

Responsibility is grounded in this condition. Compassion allows us to see the situation clearly. And that includes our relations—to others and to the world.

Responsibility emerges from these relations. For example, a sensei has to see their position clearly in relation to their students. If this relation is understood correctly, responsibility follows.

This leads to a definition: Responsibility is the moment in which understanding commits you to action.

Because compassion is not a feeling, responsibility is not a feeling either. It is a consequence of understanding.

This raises a further question: What, exactly, in a situation commits us to act?

This is where responsibility connects with respect.

Respect, in my definition, is allowing others to grow according to their inner nature. So a situation creates responsibility when we see that someone’s growth depends on our action.

Let me use a simple example. A plant.

If you own a plant, you are in a relation to it. That relation makes you responsible. To be responsible means to support its growth.

With people, the structure is the same. We may stand in relations where we are mutually responsible. But the principle does not change: Responsibility means supporting the growth of what depends on us.

A more complex case is a teacher and a student. The teacher is not responsible only for safety or protocol, but for recognizing what kind of support each student requires. This cannot be reduced to a fixed rule—it depends on correct perception.

3. Disputable Situations

Responsibility does not eliminate uncertainty. It operates within it.

Of course, not all situations are clear. Sometimes, it is uncertain whether we should act at all.

For example, we usually do not interfere in how others raise their children. But what if we see harm? What if a pregnant woman smokes? What if there is violence? What if a child lacks basic support? Should we intervene?

I do not offer a code of conduct. Because such situations are genuinely difficult. And responsibility does not remove this difficulty—it requires that we see it clearly, without imposing artificial certainty.

This is the difference between rigid rules and conceptual models.

The Ten Commandments define correct behavior. But reality often exceeds definitions.

Buddha’s Five Precepts function differently. They are not absolute rules, but guiding structures—ideals that cannot be perfectly fulfilled. Sometimes, even they must be broken.

I am not proposing a contract. I am proposing a model—one that must be applied within uncertainty, through understanding rather than obedience.

4. The First Mistake: Forced Action

The first mistake is forced action.

We often think responsibility means: we must act—whether we want to or not. This is confusion with duty.

Responsibility is not external pressure. It is internal recognition. The expectation is not that you follow a rule—but that you see the situation correctly.

For example, we do not expect a father to fulfill a role mechanically. We expect him to care—because he understands his relation to his children.

If responsibility is mistaken for duty, action becomes minimal and imprecise.

A teacher who only follows protocol may ensure safety—but fail to support growth. Fast learners are held back. Slow learners are not supported. The action is insufficient.

To avoid this mistake, responsibility must come before duty. Understanding comes first. Action follows.

And sometimes, responsibility goes beyond duty—or even against it. Henry David Thoreau is a classic example.

5. The Second Mistake: Avoidance

The second mistake is avoidance.

We see the situation—but we do not act. Instead, we rationalize. We explain to ourselves why action was not necessary. And this creates a pattern. The more we repeat it, the more convincing the explanation becomes.

For example, you skip training. You say you had too much work. Next time, it becomes easier to repeat. The story stabilizes.

Here is the key point. Compassion is clear seeing. Avoidance distorts that clarity. And repeated avoidance makes correct perception increasingly difficult. As a result, it becomes easier to ignore responsibility altogether.

6. What Responsibility Really Is

Responsibility is the moment in which your understanding commits you to action.

For example, choosing the martial path creates a situation. If you see it clearly, you recognize what it demands: consistent practice. That recognition is responsibility.

This applies not only to yourself—but also to others. Training partners, for instance. If you understand your relation to them, you recognize the need to act with care.

Every responsibility has two elements: correct recognition and commitment to action.

Responsibility is not purely subjective. Others can also recognize it. This means: you can fail to see your responsibility—even when it exists.

But once you truly recognize it, you cannot withdraw from it. You may fail to act. But you cannot unknow what you have already seen.

Responsibility is not imposed. It is what remains when you stop forcing action and you stop avoiding it—and simply see the situation as it is.

7. Responsibility in the Structure of the System

Now let’s place responsibility within the system.

The foundation is zanshin. A state of awareness that allows you to stop—and see clearly. It separates you from impulsive reaction. Your mental states become objects of observation—not commands.

This enables self-control. You act not from impulse, but in relation to the situation.

Discipline stabilizes this over time.

These three—zanshin, self-control, discipline—form the foundation.

Then comes the practical layer. Zanshin enables compassion. Compassion allows correct perception.

From that perception, responsibility emerges. And responsibility leads to the question: How should we act?

This is where respect comes in. Respect is action that maintains proper distance—and allows others to grow.

Sometimes this means not interfering. Sometimes it means active support. But in every case, action must be grounded in compassion and responsibility.

Outro

This was the Budo Mind Podcast.

In this episode, I examined the concept of responsibility.

Responsibility is not duty. Duty is external, limited, and imposed. Responsibility emerges from understanding. It is what remains when we see clearly—without forcing ourselves, and without making excuses.

With this, the system is complete at its basic level. Zanshin, self-control, and discipline form its foundation. Compassion, responsibility, and respect form its application.

In the next episode, I will examine the concept of do—the path. And show how this entire system operates over time.

Compassion is not what you feel. It is how you understand another living being.

Without that understanding, even the most disciplined action can be wrong.

Previously in this podcast, I developed a model of proper, effective action, based on experience in martial arts.

Zanshin is the foundation. It is a state of awareness. It enables self-control instead of impulsive reaction. Self-control then enables discipline, which stabilizes action over time.

The system forms a closed loop. Discipline strengthens self-control, and self-control deepens zanshin. In this way, it can transform a downward spiral into an upward one.

In the previous episode, I began applying this model to relationships. I examined the concept of respect and argued that respect is not a feeling, but a form of behavior that maintains proper distance, allowing another person to grow according to their nature.

I also argued that respect is not possible without compassion. Today, I will focus on compassion itself—and explain why not only respect, but no ethical value can be realized without it.

1. Compassion Is Not Empathy

Let me begin with what compassion is not.

It is closely related to empathy, which makes them easy to confuse.

Empathy is a feeling. As such, it is immediate and reactive. It does not provide understanding by itself. In this sense, empathy is not wrong—but it is incomplete.

Imagine teaching your child to ride a bike. When they fall and start crying, your immediate impulse is to stop. If you follow empathy alone, you would end the lesson after the first fall. You would become overprotective.

Of course, you do not want to be indifferent to your child’s suffering. That is entirely understandable.

But the solution is not to find a balance between empathy and coldness. It is not about regulating emotions in some measured way. In general, trying to control emotions directly is unreliable—it is like playing with fire.

What is needed instead is a higher point of view. From a broader perspective, you begin to understand the situation.

Learning to ride a bike is necessary, but it involves discomfort and risk. If you understand the situation clearly—and the relations within it—you allow some suffering for the sake of development.

This is how compassion operates.

2. Compassion Is Not Love

Another feeling often confused with compassion is love.

This is more complex, because love has many forms and develops over time.

At its beginning, however, love is also blind. In the case of children, it appears immediately after birth. It must be unconditional, because the child’s survival depends on it. In this sense, it is biologically grounded.

Something similar happens in romantic relationships. In the early stage, love is also blind. From an evolutionary perspective, this is functional—it allows bonding and commitment before full rational evaluation takes place.

This initial phase of love is strongly connected to empathy. We often become overempathetic, both as parents and as partners. As a result, we focus more on the other person than on ourselves.

At this stage, there is no higher point of view. Or at least, it is very difficult to maintain. Action remains reactive—we respond to needs and expectations rather than understanding the situation.

However, this phase does not last. Love develops over time. At a certain point, it requires distance and understanding.

This is where compassion emerges.

In this sense, mature love is not blind. It is structured by compassion—and without it, a stable and healthy relationship is not possible.

3. Compassion Is Not Emotion

So far, I have argued that compassion is related to empathy and love, but not identical to either. Now I will go further: compassion is not an emotion at all.

Compassion requires a higher point of view—one that is above emotions in general. This is essential.

Consider another example. Your martial arts teacher may be empathetic. They may even be your partner, or someone who loves you. But in their role as a teacher, they must operate from a point of view that is independent of their emotions.

They cannot act based on anger, fear, attachment, or even a temporary bad mood. If they did, their actions would become inconsistent. And you would have no reason to trust their guidance.

Emotions are unstable. They depend on changing conditions—your mood, your energy, your circumstances. You are more empathetic on a good day, and less empathetic when you are tired, stressed, or distracted.

If compassion were an emotion, it would share this instability. It could not serve as a reliable ground for consistent action—especially in roles that require responsibility toward others.

Therefore, compassion is not an emotion.

4. Compassion as the Ground of Respect

In the previous episode, I defined respect as a form of behavior that maintains proper distance, allowing another person to grow according to their nature.

Since compassion also involves distance, how do they differ?

Respect presupposes compassion. Without the right kind of distance, respect is not possible. And without compassion, that distance cannot be properly understood.

But the difference goes deeper.

Without compassion, respect would become purely formal. It would appear correct on the surface, but lack any real understanding of the other person. In that sense, it would remain blind.

Such behavior is difficult to sustain over time. And even if it were sustained, it would not be genuine respect.

In this sense, there is no respect without compassion.

5. What Compassion Is

What, then, is compassion?

It is the ability to see and understand another person as they are without projecting your own emotional states onto them. Compassion does not replace emotions—it organizes them. It requires a higher point of view—a perspective that goes beyond immediate reactions.

This does not mean suppressing emotions. We do not want to eliminate empathy or love toward others.

Compassion stands in a specific relation to emotions. Emotions are immediate, impulsive, and reactive—but they also function as indicators. They provide information, but not interpretation. They draw our attention to something that matters.

For example, when a child falls from a bike, empathy indicates that the child is suffering. In its initial form, love indicates that another person is significant to us.

Compassion, however, goes further. By taking a higher point of view, it allows us to understand not only the person, but also the situation they are in—and the relations within that situation.

On this basis, we can act from understanding rather than impulse.

This is why the goal is not to control our impulses directly, but to develop compassion. People differ in how far they have developed this ability.

So the right question is: how do we reach this higher point of view?

This is where the system I outlined in the previous episodes becomes relevant.

Its foundation is zanshin—a state of awareness that creates distance from immediate reactions. It allows us to stop before acting.

From this, self-control becomes possible: the ability to act despite emotions rather than be driven by them.

Discipline then stabilizes this ability over time.

Together, these elements create a ground for action instead of reaction.

Training in zanshin creates the conditions for taking a higher point of view—one that separates us from our immediate emotional states.

This is similar to meditation. Instead of reacting to emotions, we observe them and work with them.

Maintaining zanshin allows us to see another person and their situation more clearly. It reduces projection. It stabilizes self-control.

On this ground, compassion can develop.

Taking this higher point of view does not mean becoming soft or passive. On the contrary, it allows for precision in action. The more accurately you understand another person, the more appropriate your action can be.

Compassion is not weakness. It is a condition for acting correctly.

In practice, this means: you do not react to the person—you first try to see what is actually happening.

Outro

In the previous episodes, I showed how to act despite emotions. In this episode, I went one step deeper: how to see before you act.

I examined the concept of compassion and argued that it is not identical to empathy or love. It is the ability to understand another person without projecting your own emotional states onto them.

This is how the system applies.

Zanshin creates distance and makes a higher point of view possible. It allows self-control—action despite emotion.

Compassion provides clarity about the situation. On this basis, you can determine what should be done. Respect gives form to that action. Discipline stabilizes it over time.

In the next episode, I will move further—from understanding to responsibility. This will complete the practical structure I have been developing.

Compassion shows you what is true. Responsibility will show you when to act.

Respect is not what you feel. Respect is what you do despite your emotions.

In the previous episodes, I outlined a model of action in which zanshin is the foundation.

It is a state of distanced awareness. A starting point.

It enables self-control, which in turn enables action that is not driven by impulses, but by conscious choice. Then, discipline stabilizes this behavior over time.

All these elements form a feedback loop. Disciplined behavior strengthens self-control, and this opens more space for effective zanshin.

This is a mental system, and I have outlined how it works within us. In this and the next episode, I will examine how this system operates in relation to others—beyond its internal boundaries.

The first concept I will focus on today is respect. To clarify its meaning, I will begin with a common misunderstanding. Then, I will outline my own view.

1. Respect Is Not Submission

The first distinction I want to make is between respect and submission. There are people whom we respect, and at the same time we are subject to their authority. This makes it easy to confuse the two.

The people we often respect the most are our authorities—for example, our martial arts teachers. To learn anything, we need to trust them and follow their instructions. So how could we not become submissive to them?

There is a useful distinction, introduced by Erich Fromm, between rational and irrational authority.

An irrational authority puts their own development first—where “development” usually means extending their power. Such an authority demands submission and unconditional obedience. They place themselves in a position of dominance over you.

A rational authority offers guidance on your path and helps you develop your own potential. Such an authority does not need to demand submission or obedience, even though you follow them naturally. This is because you see that the authority opens possibilities for you.

However, as Aristotle and Immanuel Kant would argue, it cannot be the case that an authority sacrifices themselves for your development—this would amount to submission to you.

A relationship of growth must be mutual. Your teacher must also develop as a person within the relationship. Otherwise, they will end up with students they do not truly want to teach.

In this sense, you must accept your teacher as your master, and your master must accept you as a student. You must respect each other—but this does not mean submission.

2. Respect Is Not Feeling

It is also true that our relationship with authority is emotional, to some extent.

For example, you need to like your authority to a certain degree. This makes it easy to confuse respect with sympathy.

If you choose your teacher only because you like them, you may lose the opportunity to grow. This, in turn, is a lack of respect toward yourself.

On the other hand, we often fear those who are superior to us—yet we must still show them respect. This makes it easy to confuse respect with fear.

We may even fear our martial arts teachers. However, if that fear becomes too strong—if authority rules through fear and punishment—it will block your development.

Another feeling we may have toward others is admiration. There are people we admire and, as a result, we take their opinions into account. This, too, is often confused with respect.

This is a more complex case. Admiration can support our development.

For example, we should look for a martial arts teacher we can genuinely admire. This makes it easier to follow their guidance and to learn.

However, if it goes too far, it may lead to a loss of perspective. We may forget our own inner nature and, instead of developing it, begin to imitate others.

In any case, admiration is not the same as respect.

Whatever our feelings toward authority may be, we should not confuse them with respect. Emotions are unstable and sensitive to changing circumstances.

For example, we may fear our boss at work, but disregard them at home. This is not respect.

Moreover, emotions are not directly controllable. They are intuitive reactions, beyond rational control.

At the same time, we need authority most in emotional moments—when we don’t know what to do and look for guidance. If respect depends on emotion, it will fail exactly when it is needed.

This reveals something important. Respect must be stable over time and independent of emotion.

In other words, we should maintain respect despite our emotions. This is a crucial feature, central to understanding the concept.

3. The Spectrum of Relationships

We should not only respect our teachers voluntarily, or our bosses out of obligation. In a broader sense, we should respect other people in general.

To understand what respect really is, we need to extend its meaning.

Let’s place this within clear boundaries. On one side of the spectrum is avoidance—no engagement in relationships, a complete focus on oneself. On the other side is submission—engaging in relationships while losing oneself.

Respect concerns our relationship with others. So it cannot mean cutting off relationships entirely. At the same time, as I have already argued, respect is not submission.

Therefore, it must lie somewhere between these two extremes.

Naturally, we tend to incline toward one of these two sides. Whether we avoid others or engage in relationships while losing ourselves, we usually act on impulse—driven by our inner nature.

Therefore, to maintain respect—to remain in the middle—we need to pause before our intuitive reactions. This is where the model of action developed in the previous episodes becomes relevant.

4. Respect in the Structure of Action

Zanshin is a state of awareness grounded in detachment from whatever appears in consciousness. In this state, we begin to act from a distance—not only toward ourselves and our inner states, but also toward others, who are the source of many of our emotions.

This enables self-control instead of impulsive reaction—whether in the form of avoidance or submission. It means maintaining proper action despite the emotional impulses that others may evoke in us.

This is an extension of working with emotions—which I examined in the previous episode. In the state of zanshin, we can choose how to respond to them. In the same way, we can choose how to relate to other people.

Respect is a form of stable behavior toward others. To be respectful, our actions must not be driven by emotions—but emotions should not be suppressed either. Respect is proper action maintained despite our emotions.

However, this definition is not yet complete. We can act despite our emotions and still be disrespectful to others.

Therefore, we need to clarify what respectful action actually is.

5. How to Behave with Respect

This question opens the entire field of ethics, along with all its controversies—which I do not want to engage with here. Nevertheless, I feel obligated to answer it.

In the previous episode, I argued that compassion is not just a feeling. Compassion requires understanding. Understanding requires distance.

This is why zanshin matters.

So how can we understand others in general?

Consider the case of bonsai. An artist creates specific conditions—through cuts and supports—that shape the tree’s form. The tree struggles to survive in this environment, yet in doing so, it reveals its inner nature.

To be compassionate—and to show respect—means to see others in a similar way to the bonsai tree. Everyone struggles to survive according to their inner nature.

First and foremost, we should respect the effort—regardless of whether we agree with its direction. We should remember that the way people are is shaped by the obstacles they have encountered on their path.

Let’s take your martial arts teacher as an example. They are like the bonsai artist, and you are like the tree. They place obstacles on your path to guide your development in a particular direction. This is easy to understand.

However, as I have already said, the relationship must be mutual. In a sense, you are also like the bonsai artist. You place obstacles on your sensei’s path, and they must respond to them.

Between you and your teacher, there is a field of mutual respect. Within it, there is no need to constantly reflect on how to behave toward each other. Etiquette provides the structure—we simply need to follow it.

However, for etiquette to be more than an empty form, we must keep the mutual relationship in mind. Whether you are a student or a teacher, you are both engaged in a shared effort to meet the demands of your path.

6. What Respect Really Is

This brings me to a final definition of respect. It is a form of behavior that maintains the proper distance, allowing the other person to grow according to their inner nature. This is what I call respect.

However, we should remember that respect lies between two extremes: avoidance and submission. Respecting others does not mean passivity on the one hand, nor submission on the other.

Respecting most people we encounter in life requires only a minimal form of respect. It means simply allowing them to live according to their inner nature—and not interfering.

There are also people who rely on us. In such cases, respect requires our effort and engagement.

However, we should still act like the bonsai artist. We support them as far as necessary—and as far as they expect from us—and then allow them to grow according to their inner nature.

Finally, respect is not something momentary. We should respect others consistently.

As explained in the previous episodes, discipline is behavior maintained despite our emotions. Therefore, respect requires discipline.

This is how martial arts, when practiced properly, teach and strengthen respect. As explained in the previous episodes, repetition makes it easier to maintain zanshin, self-control, and disciplined action.

Etiquette is a form of repeated behavior. It allows us to act with respect without conscious effort.

And as Aristotle teaches, the repetition of virtuous action establishes virtue.

Outro

This was the Budo Diary Podcast. In this episode, I examined the concept of respect.

I distinguished respect from two extremes: avoidance and submission. Respect lies between them.

I also distinguished respect from feelings—especially sympathy, fear, and admiration. Feelings are unstable, context-dependent, and not directly controllable, while respect must remain stable over time.

I then integrated respect into my model of action.

Zanshin is the foundation that enables proper distance. It stops us before the impulsive reactions we are prone to—namely, avoidance and submission. This distance enables self-control.

With self-control, we can act with respect. Discipline stabilizes this behavior over time.

Finally, I defined respect as allowing others to grow according to their inner nature.

In the next episode, I will examine compassion—the condition that makes respect possible.

You think discipline is about willpower. It is not.

Discipline is about what you do with your emotions.

In the previous episode, I examined the concept of discipline in relation to self-control and zanshin. The relation is as follows: zanshin creates awareness, which makes self-control possible. Discipline stabilizes self-control over time.

However, discipline fails at the level of emotions. Today, I will focus on this greatest obstacle to maintaining discipline. Fatigue, distraction, stress, procrastination—almost everything that stands between us and discipline—ultimately comes down to emotions.

Therefore, to maintain discipline, we need to work with emotions. This is the main topic of this episode.

1. The Structure of the Mechanism

In the previous episodes, I argued that mental capacity for control is analogous to physical strength. We need a minimal level of physical power to begin training. Through repetition and the careful pushing of our limits, we develop greater strength.

The same applies to control capacity. It requires both a minimal threshold and repeated, structured effort.

Let’s now extend the analogy further. This is crucial.

In physical training, we work with weight in a kind of laboratory environment, where it is isolated from external factors.

It has to be slightly above our bottom line, but also below a certain upper limit—somewhere in between our physical capacities. Consistent work within this range develops greater strength and gradually pushes both limits upward.

Analogously, in mental training we work with emotions. They also have to remain above our bottom line and below our upper limit—somewhere between a level where emotions are not a problem and a level where they become overwhelming.

Consistent work within this structure should develop our mental control capacity.

The relationship between repetitive action, emotions, and discipline works in both directions. Repetitive, disciplined action enables us to work with emotions, which in turn strengthens our discipline. Strengthened discipline then allows for more effective work with emotions, which in turn makes more demanding disciplined action possible.

This mechanism operates within a broader system that I outlined in the previous episodes. Zanshin is the state of awareness. Awareness opens the space for self-control. Self-control enables effective, disciplined action. Discipline makes this action persistent over time.

Working with emotions is located between self-control and discipline. We need a minimum level of self-control to work with emotions, and discipline to ensure that the effects of this work are not only momentary, but persistent over time.

Now, let’s take a closer look at how this works.

2. Emotions Are Not Your Enemy

In martial arts, repetitive action creates a laboratory-like environment for working not only with physical limits, but also with mental obstacles. This environment should be structured so that we remain within the boundaries of our bottom and upper limits.

To work with emotions within this structure, we need to realize that emotions are not opposed to control.

They form a system of immediate evaluation, embedded in our brains. This is an evolutionarily justified function—it reduces the cognitive resources required to make fundamental decisions, such as whether to fight or flee.

In this sense, emotions operate as fast, pre-reflective judgments. They do not follow deliberation—they precede it.

A lack of emotions creates a deficit that demands greater cognitive resources. Acting in a life-and-death situation under such conditions would likely end tragically.

Therefore, emotions are not our enemy. We should not try to fight them. Working with emotions in martial arts training is not about eliminating them—it is about transforming our relationship to them.

3. How Working with Emotions Operates

What we should constantly strive to do is keep emotions within the field of awareness without losing the structure of our action. Working with emotions consists of three elements.

Zanshin is the perceptual condition. We need to be aware in order to notice our emotions before they take control. Adopting a more detached perspective allows us to observe emotions without succumbing to them.

For example, you notice that you are becoming frustrated during sparring.

Self-control is the executive condition. We need to act despite our emotions. Therefore, we must be able to control ourselves. Only under this condition is it possible to maintain the proper structure of action.

For example, even if you are frustrated during sparring, you need to act in accordance with the proper structure. Therefore, you need self-control to prevent your emotions from driving your actions.

Discipline is the stability condition. As explained in the previous episode, self-control driven by motivation alone is only temporary. It is not the kind of control that martial arts aim to cultivate. True control is stable over time—this is the role of discipline. It stabilizes the maintenance of control in the long run.

For example, acting consistently despite frustration builds discipline, and strengthened discipline, in turn, enables greater self-control and more consistent action.

Zanshin is the basis of the entire system. It introduces a distance that enables three things.

First, non-identification. We do not identify ourselves with our emotions. They appear like other signals that come from the body. We are not them—they simply happen to us.

Second, non-suppression. We do not suppress emotions that arise, nor do we oppose or fight them. We accept each emotion as it is, without attaching ourselves to it.

Third, non-reactivity. Since we do not attach to emotions, they do not drive our actions. In other words, we do not react to emotions, but maintain the structure of our action despite them.

Zanshin creates the foundation of attention that separates the arising of emotion from our reaction.

4. Three Modes of Working with Emotions

In the episode on self-control, I introduced two modes of working with emotions in both training and everyday life.

The first is controlled expression. While maintaining the necessary distance, we may choose to consciously channel our emotions into direct expression. In life, this may take the form of speech, writing, or physical release—for example, in martial arts training.

However, it may be difficult to distinguish conscious action from mere impulse. As a result, it is easy to rationalize impulse as a conscious act. Moreover, even consciously acting under the influence of emotion risks losing control and sliding into psychological or even physical violence.

The second mode is letting go. While maintaining distance, we may choose to consciously allow an emotion to arise and then let it fade on its own.

The very act of acceptance weakens the emotion, which in turn makes it easier to let it go. The fading occurs because the emotion is neither maintained nor suppressed. It passes like a cloud in the sky.

This mode risks slipping from release into suppression, as the latter may be mistaken for the former.

Because of these limitations, the two modes are complementary. Sometimes it is better to express emotions directly rather than slip into suppression, and sometimes it is better to let them go rather than slip into violence.

Now, the model needs to be extended with a third mode: cognitive reappraisal.

While maintaining the distance created by zanshin, emotions and their sources can be analyzed. As a result, the situation that gives rise to the emotion can be reinterpreted in a way that no longer triggers the same response.

For example, during sparring you may reinterpret a frustrating situation as a lesson—or, as in BJJ, as a game. If sparring is understood as play, there is no need for frustration. Over time, you will improve, just as every player does.

A similar approach is used in Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and is well documented in psychotherapy, where it is known as cognitive reappraisal.

This method is not easily applicable in sudden, momentary situations such as those in the dojo. It requires deeper reflection and time.

However, what is once deeply analyzed in a more convenient environment becomes available for use in less predictable situations.

The fundamental mistake we often make is that when we become emotional, we react to our emotions and let them drive our actions.

Training in zanshin teaches us to pause before reacting, and then to choose a mode of working with emotions. On this basis, we act with a proper structure, regardless of our emotional state.

This is the essence of working with emotions.

5. Emotions in Budo Practice

Martial arts training provides a controlled environment for calibrating control capacity under pressure.

Kata is a pure form of repetition. It minimizes external variables, allowing precise control over both action and attention. It represents a basic level, where the only pressure comes from our own body and our lack of mental capacity for control. There are no external variables that could disturb our practice.

Therefore, in kata it is relatively easy to maintain zanshin, self-control, and discipline. As such, it helps us stabilize the structure of both technique and attention.

Sparring introduces controlled variability, making emotional regulation an active component of performance. It is a situation in which we must make decisions under real external pressure.

However, a training session is still far removed from the stress of competition or real combat. It still isolates both our physical effort and our emotions from many of the external factors present in competition and real combat.

Therefore, it still allows us to remain within the boundaries of our bottom and upper limits. Within this structure, we can work with our emotions and strengthen our mental condition.

Finally, if we work consistently, we may become ready for competition, where the pressure is at its highest. At that point, we need to know both how to win and how to lose.

A compelling example is a kendo match. Competitors are not allowed to show emotions—it may result in losing a point. How can one maintain control of emotions in such an intense situation?

Discipline is not our enemy. On the contrary, it helps us work with emotions. A kendoka simply follows the protocol—doing what they have done countless times after a match. It is easier to work with emotions when no additional thinking is required.

This repetitive behavior, practiced countless times, not only helps in stressful situations such as competition, but also functions within a feedback loop. It trains both our self-control and our awareness.

Because the action is repeatable, you do not need to think about what to do. You can focus on yourself, notice your emotions, and choose how to work with them. This is training in zanshin, self-control, and discipline.

6. Emotion Beyond the Dojo

The same mechanism that operates in the dojo also applies to everyday situations in life, wherever stress becomes an obstacle to proper action—for example, in interpersonal conflicts.

Such a conflict is also a kind of battle. Ideally, it is a battle of arguments, not a verbal fight. However, in both cases, stress arises, and it is easy to lose the proper structure of action.

Remaining in zanshin means maintaining distance from emotions and not allowing them to drive our behavior impulsively. This distance allows us to notice emotions, not attach to them, and choose how to work with them.

This is discipline.

7. The Boundaries of the Model

Now, let us examine the boundaries of the model. As already mentioned, there is always a bottom line and an upper line. The model I have presented operates only within these boundaries.

It is not a problem if we remain below our bottom line—this leads only to stagnation rather than development. The real problem arises when we exceed our upper limit. Whether physically or mentally, there is a threshold beyond which the model collapses.

In training, it is relatively easy to control the conditions of practice and remain within these boundaries. In life, however, we sometimes exceed the upper limit and become overwhelmed.

Therefore, it is essential to know our limits. This is easier in the case of physical limits, but more difficult when it comes to mental ones. People often function beyond their mental upper limits for years, developing mental issues while rationalizing their effort as pushing their limits, as in training.

For this reason, I strongly recommend remaining aware of yourself and seeking professional help when necessary. As always, the foundation of everything is the ancient principle: know who you are.

Outro

This was the eleventh episode of the Budo Diary Podcast. By analogy to physical training, I examined mental capacity for control and the process of working with emotions.

Within the model developed in previous episodes, I placed emotions between self-control and discipline. Accordingly, I defined working with emotions as keeping them within the field of awareness while maintaining the structure of action.

Zanshin, self-control, and discipline were identified as necessary conditions for working with emotions, and three modes of this process were distinguished: controlled expression, letting go, and cognitive reappraisal.

Finally, I briefly examined how working with emotions operates both inside and outside the dojo—particularly in kata, sparring, and competition, as well as in interpersonal conflicts.

Zanshin does not control or suppress emotions. It creates a space in which emotions do not take control of our actions.

In this way, I examined the level of the mind that zanshin regulates—namely, self-control, discipline, and emotions.

In the next episode, I will turn to how zanshin regulates our relationship to others.

What is respect, and how can it be understood without sliding into subjection? How can we be respectful in a rational way? How can we demand respect from others? These will be the questions guiding the next inquiry.

This project develops a structured approach to martial arts as a form of action—and as a model of life.

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Martial & Philosophical History of Japan: A Timetable

However, this cannot be a momentary capacity—it must be stable over time. Therefore, self-control alone is not enough.

I then argued that there is another element in this system—one that stands in a mutual relationship with control.

This element is what we call discipline.

I explained that mental and physical strength are alike.

We need a minimal level of strength to begin exercising. Then, we need discipline to push our limits and develop greater strength.

Similarly, we need a minimal level of control to act in a disciplined way. But we also need discipline to build greater self-control and overall mental strength.

In this episode, I will focus on this particular element: discipline.

There are two ways of understanding discipline that I consider right and wrong. Let’s begin with the wrong one.

1. The Wrong View on Discipline

Discipline is often imagined as a kind of prison—as the imposition of external restrictions on oneself. As a result, it is associated with rigidity, force, and even self-punishment.

This view is often connected to a goal-oriented approach to self-development.

Let’s take a simple example. We want to lose weight, and it becomes our goal. We do some research and find a diet to follow.

Dietary requirements are external factors. Therefore, we perceive them as imposed restrictions that force us to do what we do not really want to do.

This is where discipline comes in. It is understood as forcing ourselves to meet external demands imposed on us—in other words, as doing something against our will.

This creates tension, and tension makes us unstable. Eventually, we break.

I believe this is what usually happens if this view is maintained. Lasting change requires a different understanding.

2. What Is Wrong with This View of Discipline?

It is actually relatively easy to force ourselves to do something. It requires only momentary motivation, often triggered by other people’s examples.

Motivation works like a temporary stimulant. It provides a short-term increase in mental strength, which enhances self-control. However, it quickly fades away. What remains is fatigue, distraction, and stress.

Sustaining any activity over the long term does not depend on momentary control that fades like an artificial stimulant. It requires stable control over time—even in the absence of motivation and under emotional pressure.

Discipline is not a single act of control. It is the ability to sustain and repeat control over time, under changing conditions.

Motivation eventually fades, while fatigue, distraction, and stress persist. Therefore, something other than motivation is required to keep us on track in the long run.

This brings me to the right perspective on discipline.

3. The Right View on Discipline

In the episode on dō, I explained how important it is to choose our path—something that the Japanese term dō refers to.

As I argued, choosing a path is not simply taking up another activity in our free time. It is not something we do just to pass the time or to gain something from it.

In other words, the path must be something that defines us. It must be deeply rooted in our understanding of who we are.

Choosing our path has not only deep existential meaning, but also critical significance for discipline.

In our example, diets usually do not work because we understand them as something that is not part of who we are. They are seen as externally imposed—like a prison. This creates tension and eventually leads us to break.

Moreover, it is much harder to establish any new habit if it is not aligned with our values and our understanding of ourselves.

Therefore, the right view of discipline is not that it is an external force imposed on us. On the contrary, true discipline should be rooted in our internal understanding of who we are and who we aspire to be, in accordance with our values.

4. How It Works in Practice

How should this work in practice?

Discipline, understood in this way, is not something we impose on ourselves. It is something we construct through understanding and repetition. This process has three steps.

First, self-understanding.

Without self-reflection, we do not know who we are. Instead, we look for ready-made solutions and imitate others. As a result, we adopt structures that do not correspond to our nature.

Second, value integration.

Suppose you are overweight. It is true that this is unhealthy, and that losing weight would be beneficial. However, this should not be treated as an external demand imposed by doctors or social expectations.

Instead, it must be integrated into your system of values. Health is not an isolated value. It is connected to others—such as freedom, independence, self-control, mobility, or even aesthetic form. Only when these connections are understood does the demand become internal.

Third, path formation.

At this point, you no longer follow an external goal. You define a way of being. Your actions are no longer imposed—they express who you are.

This is what it means to choose a path.

Once this happens, discipline is no longer experienced as restriction. It becomes a natural consequence of who you are. You do not act against yourself—you act in accordance with yourself.

This is how discipline becomes the stabilization of control over time.

5. Discipline and Freedom

It may seem that discipline limits freedom—but this is only true under a mistaken view.

If we treat discipline as a set of external restrictions imposed on us, it does in fact limit our freedom. This is because we begin to act against our own will.

If, however, we understand discipline as a consequence of our chosen path, it no longer creates a mental prison. We choose who we are and who we want to become. Discipline becomes part of our internalized self-understanding.

Consequently, discipline is no longer a restriction. On the contrary, it creates freedom—because it opens space for self-development in accordance with our values and our nature.

6. Zanshin, Self-Control, and Discipline

Let me now connect this with what I argued in the previous episodes. This will allow us to see the structure of this system more clearly. This system consists of three elements: zanshin, self-control, and discipline. Zanshin makes control possible. Discipline makes it stable over time.

The foundation of the system is the mind. Zanshin is a state of awareness which, among other things, makes self-control possible. Together, they define the fundamental psychological attitude of a martial artist—both in the dojo and in life.

Self-control is a form of mental discipline, but discipline also plays a broader role in regulating our behavior. Through this regulation, we are able to follow our path.

Without zanshin, there is no control. Without control, there is nothing to stabilize. Without discipline, self-control remains only momentary. Together, these elements form a single system.

This is similar to the case of motivational inspiration—it can lead us to act, but it does not sustain action over time. Discipline is the next step: it stabilizes control over time.

There is also a reverse relationship between these elements. When we act in a disciplined way, we strengthen our will and self-control. Stronger self-control, in turn, strengthens our awareness—our zanshin.

7. Discipline in Training

Let us now look at discipline in martial arts practice.

Repetition helps to sustain zanshin, self-control, and discipline. It creates conditions in which stability can be trained.

This is because, during repetitive action, the mind does not need to process too many elements at once. In other words, it is not overstimulated.

As a result, it becomes easier to focus on what we are doing in the present moment. In proper training, we repeat the same movement again and again—not mechanically, but with awareness. This is zanshin.

At the same time, each repetition is an attempt to maintain control—both mental and physical. It is easier to sustain execution despite distractions when those distractions are limited. This is self-control.

Consequently, since discipline is the maintenance of control over time, it is also easier to cultivate disciplined action in such conditions.

A disciplined martial artist does not rely on momentary focus. Their control is stable over time. This stability is precisely what martial arts training develops.

In sum, repetition creates a kind of laboratory environment in which zanshin, self-control, and discipline can be practiced under reduced distraction.

Zanshin creates awareness. Self-control enables proper action. Discipline stabilizes that action over time. Together, they form the core of martial practice.

The same structure applies to life. Most people can act with control for a short time; few can maintain it consistently. Discipline is what transforms intention into sustained action.

In this way, discipline enables long-term development.

Today, I want to focus on one idea: self-control. Clarifying this concept matters not only for martial arts practice, but for life as a whole.

1. What Control Is Not?

Self-control is often misunderstood as suppressing emotions. We do not teach children how to work with their feelings. Instead, we teach them when to hide fear, anger, stress—and even happiness, especially in front of adults.

This does not create control. It creates tension.

When emotions are suppressed, they do not disappear—they accumulate. Under pressure, especially in stressful situations, they can return in a stronger and less predictable form.

This does not make a person more in control. It makes them unstable. Therefore, control cannot mean suppression of emotions.

Before I explain what I mean by self-control, let me focus on the mechanism of working with emotions. Seeing this mechanism in action will make it easier to understand what control really is.

Let me break this down into two methods. First: direct expression. Second: letting go.

We can think of them as two different approaches to attack in martial arts. Let’s look at the first one.

2. Direct Expression

In Kyokushin Karate or Muay Thai, an opponent’s strike is resisted, blocked, or immediately countered. This represents the direct expression of emotions.

They are first contained, then channelled and expressed in a controlled way through action.

This is not mere suppression. The emotions are not eliminated—they are expressed. It must be so. There is no such thing as a non-aggressive punch or kick.

In life, we can also channel our emotions in a controlled way. Practising martial arts is one way of doing this. Even fear, stress, or shame can be transformed into controlled aggression.

Psychologists often advise us to talk about our emotions—or at least to express them clearly. For example: “You make me feel afraid,” or “What you did made me angry. Once expressed, emotions tend to lose intensity and gradually fade.

However, this method can easily slide into violence if emotional distance is lost.
This is why expressing emotions—especially in close relationships—can quickly turn into conflict.

We need to stay sensitive to feedback from others. This is how we know whether we are still in control—or already crossing into violence, not only physically, but also mentally.

3. Letting Go

In jiu-jitsu, judo, or Wado-ryu Karate, an attack is not resisted directly. Instead, it is accepted and neutralized by working around it.

This represents a different method: accepting emotions and letting them go. Rather than resisting them, we work around them and allow them to dissipate on their own.

This method has three steps. First, recognizing emotions. Second, accepting them. Third, letting them go.

According to Chuck Norris, Bruce Lee used a method based on visualization.
He imagined writing his emotions on a piece of paper—and then burning it. This illustrates the method quite clearly.

We need to notice and recognize our emotions. This was the first step in Bruce Lee’s method—to see what needed to be written on the imagined piece of paper.

Recognizing emotions makes them more manageable, and therefore easier to work with.

We need to accept our emotions. In Bruce Lee’s method, this corresponds to writing them down.

The act of acceptance itself already reduces their intensity.

We need to let our emotions go. In Bruce Lee’s method, this is symbolized by burning the piece of paper.

Instead of disturbing our peace of mind, emotions become integrated into our experience. By accepting them, we also accept ourselves—and this allows the emotions to dissolve.

This process closely resembles how we work with thoughts in meditation. When a thought appears, we notice it, accept it, and return to the breath.

This requires a more detached perspective—one that allows us not to follow the thought. As a result, the thought gradually fades.

This method also has its limitations. While the first approach risks sliding into violence, the second risks turning into suppression.

It can be difficult to maintain a truly detached perspective. It is much easier to convince ourselves that we are letting go—while in fact we are only suppressing our emotions.

In this case, feedback from others is also harder to access, because the suppression may not be visible in our behaviour.

Therefore, we need to keep ourselves in check and examine our emotions more deeply—not just let them go.

4. The Essence of Control

Now, let’s bring these two methods together. Despite their differences, they are complementary. This is why they also share certain key features.

Both methods require a certain emotional distance. This distance allows us to notice our emotions before we act on them in a controlled way.

In this way, we create distance from our emotions. From there, we can act without being driven by emotion.

Even in the first method, action is not simply an expression of aggression or any other emotion. Instead of being overpowered by it, we use its energy to achieve a specific aim.

Both methods also require acceptance of our emotions. Only when we acknowledge that we feel anger, fear, or stress can we work with these emotions—either by expressing them or by letting them go.

Self-control means acting without being controlled by our internal states. This is the common principle behind both approaches.

In this sense, self-control is not about eliminating emotions, but about not being ruled by them.

This is the key point. To make this possible, we need to maintain a specific state of mind. This state is what we call zanshin.

Training in zanshin teaches us not to act on our first emotional impulse.
It teaches us to pause, observe the situation, understand what is happening, and act with a clear mind.

In this way, zanshin becomes the foundation of a disciplined mind—and control follows from it.

5. Control and Situational Awareness

Lack of zanshin and control is immediately visible in a fight. Anger makes a person predictable. Fear makes them passive. Ego disrupts the structure of action.

In each case, action is no longer intentional—it becomes purely reactive.

Zanshin and control make it possible to act not according to impulse, but according to the situation.

In practice, this is very clear. Practitioners of full-contact martial arts know that technique alone is not enough. First, we need to create the right conditions. Only then can we execute a technique effectively.

It is the situation that makes a technique effective. This is why those who maintain zanshin—who stay focused, who are not driven by emotion, and who wait patiently for the right moment—are more effective than those driven by ego.

Similarly, in life, it is important to recognize whether we are in a situation of attack, defence, or waiting and gathering strength.

This is why classical texts on strategy—such as those by Sun Tzu or Miyamoto Musashi—remain relevant. They apply to many of the problems we face in life.

But to recognize the situation, we must maintain zanshin—that is, remain alert and ready.

6. Control and Compassion

As I explained in the previous episode, compassion is part of zanshin. And self-control makes it possible.

Compassion—unlike empathy—requires distance. This is because compassion is not a simple emotional reaction. It is based on understanding the other person.

Self-control creates this distance. It reduces immediate emotional involvement.

With a clearer perspective, we can act according to the other person’s situation—not our impulses. In this way, compassion supports effective action without losing its proper aim.

Emotional distance depends on control. And control depends on zanshin.

7. Control and Discipline

Self-control is also the essence of discipline. This is because control is not a momentary state, but a stable capacity. Therefore, it must be trained.

However, this works in two directions.

On the one hand, discipline means returning to control—despite distraction, fatigue, or emotion. It means doing what needs to be done, regardless of how we feel.

In this way, disciplined behaviour strengthens the will, and a stronger will supports control.

On the other hand, disciplined behaviour itself requires control from the very beginning. We need enough distance not to follow our immediate impulses.

Training control and discipline is similar to training physical strength. We need some strength to begin any exercise. But we also need discipline to push beyond our limits and develop it further.

The same applies here. We need a basic level of control to act in a disciplined way. But we also need to push our mental limits to strengthen both our will and our control.

This is how martial arts shape character. As I mentioned earlier, they develop traits that are already present.

We need a certain level of discipline and stability to continue training. But training itself strengthens these qualities.

Without some initial control, discipline collapses under momentary impulses—such as distraction, fatigue, or emotion. And without discipline, control also collapses under pressure on our will.

Therefore, as in physical training, we should begin with minimal effort. Only on this foundation can a stable system of control and discipline develop.

Without self-control, most of our decisions are merely reactions—to stress, expectations, emotions, and other external factors. Instead of shaping our lives, we are shaped by circumstances.

In this way, we do not act—we only react to circumstances. To regain agency, we need self-control and discipline.

8. The System in Retrospect

I have outlined the basic structure of the system that operates both in budo practice and in everyday life. This structure is relatively simple.

Its foundation is zanshin, which I discussed in the previous episode. Zanshin creates awareness, and awareness makes control possible—this is what I have focused on today.

Zanshin and control form the foundation of everything else—compassion, discipline, and other qualities I will discuss in future episodes.

This is how budo can become a way of life.

1. Zanshin as a State of Alertness

The word zanshin consists of two elements: zan, meaning “to remain”, and shin, meaning “mind”. So, zanshin can be understood as a “remaining mind”. According to Bennett, it is a state of continuous alertness after an engagement.

Even when a technique is finished, a point is scored, or an opponent is defeated, a martial artist does not lose their guard. This is the central meaning of zanshin.

This is a value in itself, and it has direct application in life. The ethics of zanshin is about taking responsibility for our fate. If we fail, it is our lack of zanshin that is responsible. Therefore, we should never take anything for granted—always do our homework and be ready.

Life surprises us with unexpected events—both good and bad. No matter what, we should stay alert and aware of the situation. The first rule: don’t relax too early. The second rule: even if you’ve done what’s necessary, don’t become too relaxed—always keep your guard up.

Alertness is the foundation. Without it, there is no control. And without control, none of the other aspects of zanshin are possible.

2. Zanshin as Compassion

Zanshin also includes compassion. It is not true that bushido made the samurai insensitive or indifferent to death. On the contrary, a samurai should possess not only physical strength, but also mental strength—and part of that is compassion for a defeated opponent.

How is that possible? In my view, compassion—unlike simple empathy—requires understanding the other side. Even in a life-and-death situation, we fight for reasons we believe in, but our opponent does the same. Although those reasons may differ, we are alike in the very act of believing. This is the ground for mutual understanding, which in turn becomes the basis for compassion.

In kendo, it is considered bad manners to express joy after a victory. This is because a real fight may end with the death of an opponent—there is nothing to celebrate in that. Even in sport competition, your victory can humiliate your opponent. Therefore, there is no need for boasting. Compassion seems to be the more appropriate attitude for a mature martial artist.

It may be argued that compassion lowers effectiveness. This would be true in the case of empathy—it is a blind feeling. Compassion, on the contrary, requires a certain distance in order to understand the other side. This should not disturb the clear aim of a martial artist—to win a fight.

The role of the kaishakunin illustrates this most clearly. Such a person cannot express anger or grief. However, they must be compassionate enough to end the suffering of the person performing seppuku. A fight is similar, but extended in time. Therefore, it may demand greater control, but its essence reflects that of the kaishakunin. Compassion does not stand in opposition to effectiveness—it makes true control possible.

Compassion also applies directly to our lives. We too easily forget that our successes usually happen at the expense of others. While our culture celebrates winners, the rule is simple: where there are winners, there are losers as well.

I also believe, as Buddha and Arthur Schopenhauer did, that compassion is something more—it is the foundation of all morality. Therefore, developing compassion means becoming a better person in the ethical sense—a better human being.

In my view, this is also the essence of budo, and it is expressed in zanshin—the essence of Japanese martial arts.

3. Zanshin as Respect and Gratitude

Closely related to compassion are respect and gratitude. These are also expressed in etiquette, but in my view, etiquette is an extension of zanshin—or at least it should be. The proper state of mind during a bow is the mind of zanshin. A calm and attentive execution expresses respect and gratitude in a dignified way.

There are many things we should respect and be grateful for. The purpose of fighting should be the mutual development of both opponents. Therefore, we should be grateful to our training partners and opponents. They give us feedback and show us what we have achieved—and what still remains to be learned. Their effort deserves our respect.

Our success is never entirely our own. It is the result of a long process that involves many people—often across generations. They pass the art down to our teachers, and through them to us, alongside our training partners. All of this makes it possible for us to train, improve, and sometimes win. Gratitude and respect are the proper attitude of a mature martial artist.

The same applies to life outside the dojo. While our culture emphasizes individual achievement, there is rarely such a thing as a purely individual success. Many people make our success possible. Respect and gratitude are a much more appropriate attitude than shallow happiness or boasting.

4. Zanshin as Discipline and Dignity

Zanshin also expresses discipline and dignity. A martial artist should not only be a master of technique, but also a master of the mind.

In Eugen Herrigel’s Zen in the Art of Archery, Kenzo Awa says that once you have learned to endure failure, you must also learn to endure success. His remark reminds us that zanshin applies both in success and in failure. No matter what, we should maintain a disciplined mind and not let our emotions take control.

A budoka should display dignity and honor, whether they win or lose. This is done by maintaining zanshin and proper etiquette. After a duel, both sides should keep their minds disciplined and bow to each other with respect—without showing shameful emotions.

Especially after a lost fight, we should not let our emotions overcome us. We should not look for excuses, but take responsibility for our fate and accept it as it is. This makes it possible to learn the lesson and keep moving forward.

It may be argued that such behavior contradicts our nature and is therefore artificial. It seems natural to feel joy in success and grief in failure. However, there are many things that come naturally to us, and yet we choose not to act on them. Part of being human is learning not to let our nature take control. It is a matter of discipline and dignity.

In a sense, it is true that zanshin is artificial. However, everything we learn in martial arts is artificial in this sense—that is precisely why it must be learned. Zanshin is part of this process. A mature martial artist should not only be technically prepared for a fight, but also psychologically. If zanshin is practiced in the right way, it should shape us mentally.

Similarly in life, neither our failures nor our successes should shake our minds. Events are like a river—they come and go. Our minds should be as steady as the riverbed. Martial arts training should not only polish our technique, but also our minds. In this way, the practice should be reflected in our lives.

5. Zanshin as Austere Simplicity

Another value connected with zanshin is austere simplicity.

In Japanese martial arts, this simplicity is expressed through aesthetics. On the one hand, it means reducing unnecessary behavior; on the other, it means an almost ritualistic focus on the essence.

This principle is expressed in everything: the way we dress, the way we follow etiquette, and even in our technique. It is also present in zanshin. It reduces unnecessary behavior—outbursts of joy, as well as disappointment and grief. It allows us to focus on the essence—the final act of a fight.

Of course, this clarity in aesthetics should not be just an empty form. A clear form and a clear mind should reflect each other. The external form helps to maintain a focused mind, and a focused mind helps to maintain proper form. They depend on each other.

The same applies to our training. Practicing kata—an ideal form—requires the right state of mind if it is not to become empty. It is not only technical, but also psychological practice. I believe this also has consequences in a real fight. Focus, seeing the situation in a broader context, anticipation, and decision-making—all of these increase the chances of winning a duel.

In a broader sense, for a true martial artist, there is nothing more than the ongoing process of self-development through mistakes and failures. A clear and straightforward mind helps us focus on what truly matters and omit superficial aspects of practice, such as winning or losing.

This is also something we can apply in life. Keeping a simple mind does not mean being undeveloped. On the contrary, a simple and straightforward mind is a hallmark of a mature person who does not attach to trivialities. We should always aim directly at the essence and understand that success and failure are only superficial events. They come and go like clouds in the sky. To keep a simple mind is to be like a mountain that stands, regardless of the weather.

1. Moral Interpretation of Heiho Kadensho

The concept is illustrated by Daisetz T. Suzuki in his book Zen and Japanese Culture.

In his interpretation, the Life-Taking Sword is symbolised by Acala, or Fudo-Myoo in Japanese.

As Suzuki writes, Acala “carries a sword, and he will destroy all the enemies who oppose the practice of the Buddhist virtues. […] Acala’s anger burns like a fire and will not be put down until it burns up the last camp of the enemy”.

The Life-Giving Sword, on the other hand, is symbolised by Mañjuśrī.

As Suzuki writes “the sacred sword of Mañjuśrī is not to kill any sentient beings, but our own greed, anger, and folly. It is directed toward ourselves, for when this is done the outside world, which is the reflection of what is within us, becomes also free from greed, anger, and folly”.

Despite its appeal, this moral interpretation may be misleading. The Life-Taking Sword of Acala is associated with destruction, while the Life-Giving Sword of Mañjuśrī is associated with compassion. It may therefore seem that the first represents evil, while the second represents good. Suzuki himself writes that “Mañjuśrī is positive, Acala is negative”.

It is true that Munenori writes that the art of war does not end in peacetime. The reason is that the true art of war is not directed against an opponent, but against evil. However, Munenori’s treatise primarily concerns action, not morality. Therefore, the concept must first be placed in the context of real combat before seeking a broader meaning.

2. How the Interpretation of Heiho Kadensho May Be Misleading

The first part of Heiho Kadensho consists of Munenori’s remarks on the strategy of winning an actual, physical duel—one that often ends in killing.

However, as Munenori writes, if one man becomes a source of evil for many, killing him may save many lives. In this way, the Life-Taking Sword becomes the Life-Giving Sword.

This reveals an important aspect of the distinction: the Life-Giving Sword is not possible without the Life-Taking Sword.

This is how the moral interpretation can be misleading. The two swords are not opposed to each other like good and evil. Their relationship is not oppositional, but hierarchical. The possibility of the Life-Giving Sword encompasses the possibility of the Life-Taking Sword.

The second part of Heiho Kadensho is more metaphorical—perhaps even mysterious.　It consists of remarks on controlling oneself, the situation, and the opponent. Such control makes it possible to win a battle without killing.

Nevertheless, the idea of controlling destruction may also be misleading. It does not mean that we should always choose control and avoid destruction.

There are situations in which Satsujin-ken becomes necessary. However, if the conditions for control are met, Katsujin-ken becomes possible. Munenori even describes these conditions in metaphorical terms, but they are not essential here.

3. Choice Between the Life-Taking Sword and the Life-Giving Sword

The choice between Satsujin-ken and Katsujin-ken is a choice between two modes of action.

The Life-Taking Sword is highly efficient, but it comes at a high cost, as it involves seriously injuring or even killing an opponent.

The Life-Giving Sword, on the other hand, is less efficient and requires a high level of control over oneself, the environment, and the opponent. However, its cost is lower, as it allows one to dominate an opponent without the need to kill.

Nevertheless, the Life-Giving Sword is not possible without the real threat of the Life-Taking Sword. Control over an opponent works only if that threat is credible. Without it, there is no real control—only an intention that cannot be fulfilled.

Katsujin-ken, although higher in the hierarchy, is built on the foundation of Satsujin-ken.

In other words, Katsujin-ken is not an alternative to Satsujin-ken, but its controlled expression.

The choice between these two depends on the circumstances. In situations of low control, the Life-Taking Sword may be the only viable option. However, if control is sufficient, the Life-Giving Sword becomes a real alternative. Only then may it be morally justified to choose compassion over destruction.

Finally, there is also the third part of Heiho Kadensho. The idea of the No-Sword—Muto—is not about the mere absence of a weapon. It is about avoiding conflict altogether and resolving it before it becomes physical.

As Munenori writes, preventing one’s own death is also a form of victory.

Muto has a deep psychological dimension. Avoiding conflict is, of course, a matter of psychology—but it goes beyond that. The aim is to become a person of great spiritual strength.

As Munenori writes, such people make it impossible for you to raise your hand against them. When you look them in the eyes, you forget the rest of the world. “If you encounter a strong personality”, he writes, “you will be like a mouse in a cat’s paws”.

4. The Order of the Hierarchy

The three concepts of Heiho Kadensho can be arranged in a specific order.

Before a conflict turns into a physical confrontation, it may still be avoided. This is Muto. If this fails, the duel begins.

There may be an opportunity to control the opponent. This is Katsujin-ken. If this fails, there is no other option but to kill—or at least seriously injure—the opponent to stop the aggression. This is Satsujin-ken.

This shows that the three concepts are not distinct forms of fighting, but three stages within a single process.

A reversal of this order may also be possible, as illustrated in Rurouni Kenshin. Kenshin’s opponents begin with Satsujin-ken, attempting to kill him. However, his reversed-blade sword allows him to control rather than kill. In this way, Katsujin-ken takes physical form. Ultimately, through his character, the conflict may be resolved on a psychological level—making Muto possible.

This concept may reframe what we mean by mastery.

A master is not only someone who can execute a flawless technique, but someone who can freely choose among the three options. Such a person knows when and how to avoid a conflict, control a situation, or destroy an opponent.

This is far more difficult to master, but it may serve as an ideal to strive for.

5. Reframing the Understanding of Martial Arts in Terms of Heiho Kadensho

My idea is to use these three concepts to reframe how we understand martial arts in general.

There are techniques of destroying an opponent and techniques of control, as well as psychological techniques.

Most martial arts tend to specialise in one of these three areas.

Striking arts, by their nature, focus on destroying an opponent. Karate, kickboxing, and Muay Thai develop powerful punches and kicks. This is the Life-Taking Sword.

Grappling arts, by their nature, focus on controlling an opponent. In judo, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and wrestling, a fight often ends when one opponent controls the other on the ground. This is the Life-Giving Sword.

There are also arts, such as kyudo, iaido, and aikido, that develop perception, decision-making, and the mindset of a martial artist.

In my view, these arts are often misunderstood. Since there is no real opponent to force us to act under pressure, the entire process becomes psychological. Therefore, they require a proper attitude—otherwise, they become mere choreography.

In this sense, they are arts of the No-Sword.

Since different systems specialise in different parts of the hierarchy, each remains incomplete.

Some systems incorporate all three elements, but even they tend to develop one aspect more than the others. Even in MMA, fighters specialise in striking or grappling. They do not develop the psychological aspect of Muto, as their goal is not to avoid conflict, but to engage in it under controlled conditions.

6. Applying Heiho Kadensho to Real Training

In my view, the three concepts from Heiho Kadensho are not oppositional fighting philosophies, but a hierarchical system. As such, this idea applies directly to our training.

First, it supports cross-training. This is not a modern idea—samurai typically trained in multiple disciplines. Even individual schools often incorporated various aspects of combat, covering all three dimensions of martial arts.

Second, it shows how to approach cross-training in a structured way. If our discipline specialises in one aspect, it is reasonable to choose another that develops a different one.

In this way, we can aspire to the ideal described by Yagyu Munenori in Heiho Kadensho.

When I was about 14, I came across a book in a local bookstore. It was the Polish translation of The Secret Power Within by one of my childhood heroes, Chuck Norris. Although I watched Walker, Texas Ranger every week, along with some of his other films, his book influenced me more than his movies.

His ideas are simple and not groundbreaking. For me, it was the first time I encountered these ideas—along with Zen philosophy. And they had a profound impact on me.

Although these ideas are well known, they are rarely applied. They can be summed up in one sentence: a better life is not about complexity, but about disciplined simplicity.

1. Exercise and Eat Well to Keep Your Body in Harmony

Chuck Norris recommended exercising every day—but it doesn’t have to be intense. Simply staying active is enough. Our bodies change over time, and we need to adapt instead of forcing ourselves. Regular practice matters far more than intensity.

Personally, I don’t train BJJ every day—it’s quite demanding. Instead, I do rucking daily while walking my dog. It’s more intense than a regular walk, but less demanding than jogging. Alongside a few simple exercises, it’s enough to stay in shape for martial arts.

Chuck Norris didn’t recommend any of the fad diets. He advised just keeping meals simple and nutritious, not eating to fullness and drinking plenty of water.

This is also what Michael Easter recommends, based on his research on hunter-gatherer tribes and his work with nutrition experts such as Trevor Kashey. Of course, exact proportions may vary depending on lifestyle and energy needs. But in simple terms, a quarter meat protein, a quarter whole grains or tubers, and half vegetables or fruit is a solid baseline—consistent with long-standing dietary patterns and public health recommendations.

The key is to control calorie intake and avoid snacking between meals—this is what ruins most diets. But applying these rules requires discipline.

To sum up, moderation in both exercise and eating, as Chuck Norris writes, is the key to a longer and better life.

2. Meditate to keep your mind in harmony

As Chuck Norris writes in his book, he meditated for just ten minutes in the morning and ten minutes in the evening.

I try to do the same. I treat it as a form of mental hygiene—to stay clear and ready for the day, and to wash away the mental residue it brings.

Meditation has many well-documented benefits. It helps reduce stress, improves attentional control, and lowers automatic reactivity—which is key to breaking unhealthy habits.

However, in my experience, focusing on benefits can distort the practice by pulling attention away from the present moment. I would not treat meditation as a tool for any specific outcome.

You don’t need to focus on benefits. You need to integrate the practice into your way of life. This is why the Buddha didn’t only teach meditation. He built an entire way of life around it—and a community to support it. Meditation is also part of martial arts practice, which makes it easier to integrate into daily life.

Chuck Norris also indicated that not only is formal meditation important, but you also need to bring it into daily life. This is the core of Zen philosophy. Focus on the present. If you eat—just eat. If you walk—just walk. If you work—just work. Don’t scatter your attention. One thing at a time. And don’t overthink it—just do what needs to be done.

As simple as it sounds, it’s not easy to apply. On the contrary, it demands a discipline and consistent, conscious practice.

Meditation supports mental clarity—but only when applied both formally and in daily life.

3. Attitude is everything

This is the central idea of Chuck Norris’ book. Through his charity work, he encountered many people with disabilities and realised that life can impose limits on us. Yet with the right attitude, there is always a way forward. But what does the right attitude actually mean?

I found that meditation can be a foundation. It allows us to pause before automatic reactions and replace them with healthier responses. Meditation is also a core element of Mindfulness-Based Cognitive Therapy, used to reduce depression. This shows that meditation can shape how we respond to life.

A part of this attitude is keeping an open mind. Chuck Norris refers to a well-known Zen allegory—we need to empty the bowl before we can pour tea into it.

A counterpart can be found in philosophy and logic. Donald Davidson introduced the Principle of Charity. To learn from others, we need to assume they are generally rational, not trying to mislead us, and mostly telling the truth. Without this assumption, learning becomes impossible.

Another aspect of the right attitude indicated by Chuck Norris is to avoid judging. People communicate more than just their words—there is often something beneath the surface.

As Buddhism teaches, everyone suffers. If you try to understand what lies behind people’s words—their suffering—you may find that your judgment was unfounded.

Finally, part of this attitude is accepting life as it is and adapting to it. Life imposes limits—we have to play the cards we are dealt. Therefore, the first step is to accept where we are.

But this is easier said than done. We are shaped by assumptions and biases that distort our perception. Sometimes it is difficult to accept the truth about ourselves.

In my experience, meditation is useful here as well. Mindfulness helps to see what is in front of us by bringing attention back to the present moment. It allows us to pause before judging and to see things more clearly. Mindful awareness of suffering weakens it and allows for more rational action.

To sum up, the proper attitude that Chuck Norris recommends consists of maintaining an open mind, avoiding judgment, and accepting life as it is. However, it also needs a kind of mental discipline. This is why meditation, as mental training, helps maintain this attitude.

4. Appreciate your true friends

Chuck Norris encouraged us to make new friends and appreciate their company. It seems simple—but what is a true friend?

Aristotle argued that there are three types of friendship: established for the sake of utility, of pleasure and of mutual good, which means developing virtue. Only the latter is true friendship. A genuine friend is someone who supports your growth. It’s like protecting a plant’s or an animal’s development, allowing it to grow according to its inner nature. The same applies to human relationships.

At the same time, it’s important to be careful of people who drag you down. Chuck Norris used the metaphor of a ninja—someone who goes unnoticed. Some people appear as lawyers, advisors, or even friends and partners, yet they quietly disrupt your life. They don’t try to understand your point of view—they try to force you into something, not for your good, but because of their own interest or pleasure.

Also, we need to be careful not to become one of them. Chuck Norris offered three rules.

First, help your friends if you can—but never at the expense of others.

Second, don’t worry about what others do. What matters is what you do. Give advice when asked, and don’t impose your views on others. This attitude helps to keep a clear perspective.

Third, if someone speaks up for another person—even against you—it doesn’t necessarily mean you’ve lost a friend. Trying to understand the other side is always important. Assume your friend acts according to what they believe is right. Only then you’ll be able to understand the other side.

To sum up, our relationships should be driven by mutual development. We should expect from others to support us in our growth, not only because of someone’s interest or pleasure. And we should also act according to the same principle.

5. Do not excuse your mistakes

Chuck Norris writes that it is better to immediately admit our mistakes and take responsibility for them. This allows us to address problems at their source—before they grow and become complicated. It is also something psychotherapists often recommend, especially in relationships.

However, if we do something wrong, Chuck Norris advised not to justify it and not to make excuses. What matters is identifying the problem, correcting it, and not repeating it—which is often the most difficult part.

It also demands a kind of mental discipline, especially if our mistakes are grounded in our habitual behaviour. Mistakes are feedback—they show what we need to work on.

Conclusion

These are some of the lessons from The Secret Power Within. They are simple, but not easy to apply. Their difficulty lies in consistency. This is why we all struggle to make them part of our lives.

As far as I know, Chuck Norris lived by these principles—setting the best example for us. His absence leaves a real gap.

Iaido and Kyudo deal with weapons that, like no others, symbolize the warrior. Swords and bows express the essence of warrior culture—its beauty and its values. This alone makes them special. However, this is not the reason these arts have exceptional meaning to me.

What makes them special is their direct relation to death. No matter how much philosophical meaning we assign to our practice, a properly executed technique—one cut or one shot—is what kills. In this way, Iaido and Kyudo connect us to the culture of warriors—people who lived on the edge of life and death. Why does this matter?

2. Comfort and Awareness

Long ago, I read an interview with a Buddhist monk. When asked how he endured the harsh conditions of monastic life, he gave an answer I remember to this day: “Comfort lulls awareness to sleep”.

In modern developed countries, we are accustomed to peace and comfort. We easily forget times when a warrior, in the morning, might have thought he would take someone’s life or lose his own before the end of the day. Although I do not want to romanticize those people or those times, I believe we are missing something important. Comfort lulls our awareness to sleep. Iaido is something that wakes me up.

3. Practice in the Shadow of Death

The famous opening words of Hagakure state that the Way of the samurai is found in death. A samurai must be not only ready to die at any moment, but also prepared to choose death without hesitation. There is no particular reason—this is simply the way of the samurai.

I believe this attitude offers a fundamentally different perspective on life than the one we hold today. It immediately puts things in proper order. However, it offers no simplistic, pop-culture answers such as: “Since I’m going to die, I want to live life to the fullest”. What if you do not have time to live your life? What if you have only this moment? How would you respond?

For me, Iaido and Kyudo are vehicles for the values that come with this attitude toward death. The attitude toward life follows. Every cut and every shot remind us of the value of life. We should be grateful that we cut only air or shoot only at a target. In other words, we should be grateful that we are alive.

This has been the fifth episode of the Budo Diary Podcast.

1. The Common Understanding of Dō

Dō is usually translated as “the way” or “the path” and often understood as a way of life. The problem is that in common usage this idea becomes empty. The phrase “way of life” often functions to exalt oneself above others rather than to describe actual practice. It carries an implicit, unexamined assumption: that practising martial arts makes one’s life more meaningful—and oneself a better person—than others.

However, I have rarely encountered a deeper explanation of how martial arts improve people’s lives—usually nothing beyond commonly cited benefits such as self-confidence, humility, respect for others, or improved health. Yet there are more efficient ways to develop these qualities than through activities as demanding and injury-prone as martial arts. I discussed this in an earlier episode on the aim of martial arts practice.

It is often said that martial arts shape character. This is only partially true. As I argued in a previous episode, practice develops character traits that are already present. On its own, it does not make anyone a better person. On the contrary, traditional masters understood that certain qualities had to be present from the outset.

This is reflected in stories about students who had to wait for days outside a master’s door before being accepted. Similarly to candidates for Buddhist monastic life, they were expected to demonstrate humility, strong will, and sincerity of intention.

Dave Lowry, in his book In the Dojo, notes that even today it is good practice to observe a class at a school before deciding to become a student. This shows that the decision is deliberate rather than accidental.

All of this suggests that certain character traits need to be present even before we put on a keikogi.

2. What Dō Means

Let me turn to how I understand dō. The term “way of life” is not incorrect, but much depends on how it is interpreted.

The notion of dō originates in Chinese philosophy and refers to the natural way things are.

In Confucianism, there is the Way of Humanity and the Way of Heaven. Harmony between them is maintained through morality and proper conduct. In Daoism, a sage is one who acts in accordance with the dao, understood as a kind of natural order.

A particular dō, whether in martial arts or elsewhere, can be understood as a way of remaining in harmony with an order greater than the individual. When this condition is met, development follows.

A useful analogy is that of a plant. When a seed is placed in suitable soil and environment, it grows and unfolds its natural potential according to the laws of nature. Its development depends on conditions that transcend the individual organism.

In my view, amid the chaos of life, a particular dō can serve as a refuge where we cultivate ourselves and grow naturally as human beings. Yet it is not a closed world; it reflects something beyond itself. As Miyamoto Musashi wrote, one way, practised deeply enough, provides insight into other ways.

What does it all mean in practice?

3. Choosing the Path

We begin by choosing a path. Not every path is suitable for everyone. Development requires a proper seed, and for every seed there must be appropriate soil. If the conditions do not match, the seed may find better ground in a different dō.

Development does not occur by itself. Practice alone does not make anyone a better person. If we want to develop through martial arts as human beings, two elements are helpful from the outset: a proper attitude and a clear understanding of our values.

The attitude should be oriented toward being rather than having. We do not need to focus on what we can gain from practice, but on who we want to become. This requires an understanding of our values. They express who we are and who we aspire to be. They are the seeds that may develop through practice.

People who value peace may not feel at home in more aggressive martial arts such as Muay Thai. Conversely, those who value pushing their limits may feel out of place in more peaceful arts such as Aikido or certain schools of Karate.

People who value freedom may not feel comfortable in traditional martial arts that emphasise preserving established forms. In contrast, those who value tradition may not feel at ease in modern combat sports such as kickboxing or MMA.

Therefore, it is worth examining whether a particular martial art reflects the values you believe in. This means considering not only the techniques, but also the kind of people who practice it. Do you really want to become one of them? The more carefully you reflect on this, the more informed your choice will be. As a practical rule, if your practice does not reflect your values, it is unlikely to lead to meaningful development.

Dō can also be understood as a way of remaining in harmony with an order greater than the individual. This does not necessarily imply anything transcendental or divine. Martial arts can be understood as a form of culture. It may be visualised as a web in which each art occupies a particular place.

Beyond this, there are broader layers. First, culture in general. Then, global culture. And ultimately, the environmental conditions that underlie them all. In this sense, everything exists within some form of order or harmony. We are only a small part of it.

With this in mind, choosing a path does not make us special. Nor does it offer any particular benefit that could serve as a basis for boasting.

A plant does not become special simply because it grows in a suitable environment. Natural development is valuable in itself. What it offers is a sense of being alive.

4. Walking the Path

Once you have chosen your path and understand what you are seeking in your practice, you can simply follow it. Not for awards, ranks, or the respect of others. You do it because it is your path, and it has no final endpoint.

This attitude is critical. As it is written in Hagakure: “Take trivial matters seriously. Take serious matters lightly.”

You should take your everyday practice seriously. It forms the path that accompanies you each day, like riverbanks guiding a current.

Exams and competition results are only passing events, like water flowing through the river. Treat them lightly—do not cling to them; let them pass.

If you practice seriously every day, progress follows naturally, and there is no need to worry.

Know who you are, then walk your path.

I’ve always found this remark very insightful. And it applies not only to academic studies, but to martial arts as well.

In Hagakure, however, we find something even more interesting: a four-stage model of a swordsman’s development.

First, one has no skills and thinks that neither oneself nor others know anything. Second, one still has no skills, but can recognise one’s own shortcomings as well as those of others. Third, one has skills, is proud of them, and is respected by others. Fourth, one appears to know nothing—while everyone else recognises that person’s mastery.

Nevertheless, Yamamoto Tsunetomo points to something even more interesting. I will return to it at the end.

1. Before We Begin to Study

Before we begin any serious study, most people are simply ignorant of how little they know. They feel they already understand enough about everything. Professionals seem distant from real life, and their discussions appear to be pointless hair-splitting.

These are the people who think calligraphy is a waste of time, because everyone already knows how to write. They laugh at anyone who practises something more demanding than simply living day by day. Martial arts are, of course, no exception.

2. Those Who Still Have No Skills

It is only when someone begins to study that they realise how much there is to learn. And at first, it can feel overwhelming. Because of that, people at this stage often begin to doubt everything.

In martial arts, people like this are not rare. They question everything from the very beginning. As they say, they know life—and in life, situations are complicated. Maybe techniques work in the dojo, but on the street things are different. You know the story.

In many cases, this is simply a psychological defence mechanism: maybe I know nothing, but they probably don’t know much more either. Beginners sometimes delude themselves in order to protect their egos.

These are the people described in Hagakure as knowing nothing and believing that others know nothing either. Nevertheless, they are not the same as those who have never begun to study. The first and very important step has already been taken: the recognition of one’s own ignorance. And from that moment, the first seed of knowledge appears.

After some time, a person may still have no real skills, but they begin to recognise their own shortcomings. By this point, some work has already been done, and the first stage of overwhelm has been overcome.

To know what we do not know is already an important kind of knowledge.

However, this stage can also create a new illusion — the feeling that we already know something. In martial arts, people at this stage can sometimes become dangerous to their training partners, because their self-confidence grows faster than their actual skill.

2. Those Who Begin to Have Skills

After some time, a person begins to realise that their earlier self-confidence was unfounded, and it quickly starts to diminish. At the same time, if they continue practising, their knowledge and skills gradually increase.

Eventually, a moment may come — just as my teacher once said — when a person realises that this is precisely the moment when the real study can begin.

This is usually the stage at which people receive their black belts. As people often say, a black belt is not the end of the journey — it is only the beginning. A person now has all the tools in their hands, but still knows very little about how to use them.

The guidance of a teacher is still necessary to turn those tools into something that resembles true art.

Nevertheless, this is also the beginning of the third stage described in Hagakure—the stage at which a person becomes proud of their skills and begins to be appreciated by others, sometimes even as a master.

This recognition can easily create the illusion that there is nothing more left to learn. Many black belts stop their training at this point. And that is a real pity. Because after receiving a Master’s degree, a person can continue to develop through professional work. A black belt, however, has only one way forward: to continue training.

Finally, if a person is patient enough, they may reach the fourth stage of development described in Hagakure—the stage my professor tactfully left out. It is the stage at which someone appears to have no skills at all, while everyone recognises that person’s mastery.

In martial arts, we might hope to see it around the level of fourth dan, which roughly corresponds to the old menkyo kaiden in traditional Japanese martial arts.

At this point, a person becomes independent and can continue the journey on their own. This may be one of the reasons why, in arts such as judo, karate, or aikido, there are usually no examinations beyond fourth dan. It is the stage at which teachers no longer have anything left to test.

A true master no longer merely possesses skills — the master embodies the art.

3. Becoming Useful

Beyond what I have already said, Hagakure contains another remark that can easily be overlooked, but which I find quite interesting. It suggests that people at the first and second stages are not yet useful. A student becomes useful only at the third stage — when a person finally has some real skills and others begin to recognise them.

This leads to an important question: what does it actually mean for a martial artist to be useful?

Interestingly, this was not only a philosophical question. It became a very practical problem in Japan at the beginning of the twentieth century. The samurai class had disappeared, and the battlefield with it. If martial arts were no longer arts of war, what were they for?

One answer was given by Jigoro Kano. Instead of preserving martial arts simply as relics of the samurai past, he reinterpreted them as a form of modern education. The aim of practice was no longer preparation for the battlefield, but the development of the individual.

Influenced by the utilitarian philosophy of Jeremy Bentham and John Stuart Mill, he expressed this idea in two well-known principles: seiryoku zen’yō—maximum efficiency with minimum effort—and jita kyōei—the development of the individual for the good of society.

4. Developing Usefulness

When answering the question, “What does it mean for a martial artist to be useful?”, I should make one thing clear from the beginning: I do not claim to present Kano’s original teaching. What follows is simply my own interpretation of his ideas.

In my view, the search for usefulness should begin with oneself. A stream must first find its way between the rocks before anyone can drink from it.

I understand being useful to oneself as making one’s own development the first priority. This does not mean selfishly indulging oneself at the expense of others. On the contrary, self-development often requires renunciation, demands dedication, and sometimes simply leads to suffering.

In short, it means seeking development as a person, not merely seeking personal pleasure.

This idea has a very clear application in martial arts practice. One must develop oneself in order to become a worthy training partner for others in the dojo. Only in this way can a person truly be useful.

In the same way, only through self-development can we become useful to others in life. We educate ourselves in order to do a job. But only when our work develops our natural potential can we truly become useful workers.

In the same way, we must develop as individuals in order to become responsible spouses and parents. Only when a relationship allows our natural potential to grow—as Erich Fromm argued—can there be genuine love and a healthy partnership.

5. Losing Oneself in the Path

Hagakure also makes another interesting distinction. There are those who practise the path, and there are those who lose themselves in the path. This distinction is important, because it suggests something about the proper attitude toward one’s own development.

Those who lose themselves in the path eventually realise something simple: the path has no end. Because of this, they are not overly pleased by their successes, nor are they discouraged by their failures.

They are like solid ground beneath the surface of the water. Successes and failures are only superficial events, flowing past like the waters of a river. Such people do not attach themselves to either of them. There is only the path, to which they have dedicated their lives—and which they walk slowly, but steadily. The path itself becomes more important than its results.

In the end, such people become useful to society, but they do not strive for usefulness itself. On the contrary, they are like the stream described by Alan Watts: the stream simply flows—and it is up to others whether they drink from it.

“The right art (…) is purposeless, aimless! The more obstinately you try to learn how to shoot the arrow for the sake of hitting the goal, the less you will succeed in the one and the further the other will recede. What stands in your way is that you have a much too wilful will”.

These words come to mind whenever someone asks me why I practice martial arts. They can be shortened to a simple sentence: the aim of practice is to practice. Before I explain what I mean by that, let me examine some popular answers to this question.

1. Martial Arts Are Just Fun

When asked why they practice martial arts, people often answer that it’s simply fun—they just enjoy doing it. Such an answer has always seemed to me as if there were no real explanation, as if the supposed fun were only the last resort.

If this is really why someone practices martial arts, that person is unlikely to stay in the game in the long run. Most training consists of repeating the same exhausting movements countless times, which inevitably leads to boredom and pain. When all the fun fades away, such a person is left with no real reason to continue.

This is when we start to lose motivation. There has to be something more to keep us training, because pleasure comes slowly and disappears quickly. Martial arts require not motivation but dedication—which, in turn, demands practice even when there is no fun or pleasure.

2. Martial Arts for Self-Defence

Another reason people often give is self-defence. Martial arts certainly promise to provide it. Sometimes the promise is fulfilled, sometimes it isn’t. In any case, there is never a guarantee that any martial art will make us able to handle a real-life combat situation. Still, it is reasonable to expect that we may gain real fighting skills.

Nevertheless, the risk of ending up in a serious combat situation is very low. Even if we do, avoiding confrontation is almost always better than fighting. If this were the only reason for training, taken seriously, it would be like carrying a gun everywhere—just in case. It would look more like an obsession than a reasonable motivation.

Of course, martial artists who value the self-defence aspect of their practice are not dangerous maniacs. However, this is precisely because there is something more in martial arts practice than self-defence alone. After all, carrying a gun would be a simpler solution.

3. Martial Arts for Self-Confidence

It could be objected that gaining self-defence skills is actually about building self-confidence. From my experience, it is partly a myth that martial arts change people’s character. Rather, they tend to strengthen the traits of character that people already have.

For example, a shy person must endure very demanding training conditions. If such a person manages to endure them, something must have enabled that. And that something can be anything—both good and bad. It can make someone a better person, but it can also make someone worse.

Someone may empathise with other students, seeing that they also struggle with the training. The practice may strengthen empathy or compassion. In this way, such a person may gradually overcome their shyness.

Someone else may notice that people with higher ranks exalt themselves above those with lower ones. For such a person, a coloured belt may become a source of resentment and a reason to treat others with a sense of superiority. In this case, training may actually strengthen isolation—and even deepen certain traumas.

As I’ve already said, martial arts strengthen the traits of character that already exist. I believe this is why old masters attached great importance to a code of conduct. They knew that martial arts training alone does not make anyone a good person.

In conclusion, training may build some confidence—for better or for worse—but it will not simply make someone a self-confident person. Life is not The Karate Kid, and a coach is rarely Mr. Miyagi. If someone suffers from a lack of confidence, psychotherapy and consistent work on oneself may be a better option.

4. Martial Arts for Health

Another popular reason for practicing martial arts is health. Full-contact striking arts such as boxing, kickboxing, or Muay Thai are among the most injury-prone activities. Grappling arts like judo or jiu-jitsu are relatively low-risk—lower than, for example, soccer or hockey.

Nevertheless, there are many easier forms of activity that are much better for maintaining good health and overall fitness. Rucking, swimming, calisthenics, or the reasonable use of weightlifting may all be good choices. So the question remains: if the aim is simply to stay healthy, why choose such complicated and demanding activities as martial arts? There must be something more that captivates people in practice.

5. Martial Arts for Their Cultural Value

Yet there is another reason. Martial arts can be practiced because of their cultural value. Some people want to associate themselves with a culture that fascinates them. Of course, martial arts have great cultural value, as they are a wonderful example of a living tradition that can still shape our lives.

However, just as in the case of pleasure and fun, what seems fascinating at first glance fades away after many hours of the same exhausting activity. The fascination is often grounded in the exoticism of Oriental culture, but what seems exotic at first becomes commonplace after months and years of training. There still has to be something more to keep people engaged in practice.

6. Our Ignorance of the Purpose

Do we really know why we practice martial arts? I don’t mean the reasons we give to others, but the deeper reasons we give to ourselves.

Once I heard a Zen master give an interesting explanation of what karma is. He said that it is not simply a law of cause and effect—not even in moral terms. Cause and effect are projections of our minds onto the world. If we think more deeply, we may find countless reasons why we are in the particular place we occupy in our lives. Most of them are rarely taken into consideration—and many of them we are not even aware of.

For example, there are countless reasons why I am talking about martial arts right now—from starting a podcast and practicing martial arts myself to the social and environmental conditions on Earth that allow me to live and do this instead of struggling for survival.

To conclude, we do not really know why we do what we do in life. Finding reasons is often only a rationalization after the fact—a story we tell ourselves. The Zen master said that this lack of knowledge is what we conceptualize as karma. Since we do not know why we are in a particular place in our lives, we simply believe that there must be a reason for it all. So we call that reason karma.

Of course, the same can be applied to our practice of martial arts. So when I ask myself why I practice, my first answer is simple: I don’t know. There are countless reasons beyond my understanding. The reasons I can find—like those examined earlier—are only rationalizations, stories we tell ourselves to put our minds at ease.

Reality goes far beyond that. This is exactly why our particular reasons are always insufficient. This is also why explaining to people on the outside why we practice martial arts is often pointless. They are simply not in a position to understand.

7. The Aim of Practice Is to Practice

All of the answers examined earlier have something in common. They are all about benefits, and therefore about having something: having fun, having self-defence skills, having good health, or having a piece of an exotic culture in one’s life.

This brings me back to Kenzo Awa’s words from the beginning. If we think that something is the aim of our practice, we assume that there is something to possess. First, our mind creates a story that there is something to be gained. That becomes the aim, and it generates a desire to reach it. Second, we orient our actions toward that aim—toward having something.

However, reality is not something we can possess. It always slips through our fingers. The more we try to reach the aim, the faster it recedes—like the target in Awa’s quote. This is what the Buddha realized centuries ago: there is no final satisfaction of our desires.

Reality is something we can be within. Not to have, but to be—that is the right perspective. The right practice, as Kenzo Awa said, is purposeless and aimless. Instead of telling ourselves stories, we should remain open to experience and focus on every step along our path.

In the end, my advice is simple, but not shallow. On the contrary, in my experience I have found profound wisdom in this simple claim. First, choose your path. Second, walk it. That’s all.

The aim of practice is to practice.

1.

In general, I understand martial arts as a form of culture. One way to imagine this is as a spider’s web. Each individual martial art occupies a particular place within that web. When we practise a specific system, we stand at a point that gives us a certain perspective on the others. From that position, we tend to judge other martial arts based on our own assumptions. But this perspective never includes the whole web. We only see what lies directly in front of us, and our view is always limited.

This may explain why discussions so often focus on what is not a martial art rather than on what actually is. Another reason is that calling something a martial art is usually seen as a form of recognition rather than exclusion. As a result, no one wants to exclude their own system from the martial arts family, while excluding others comes much more easily. From one perspective or another, almost every martial art can end up being dismissed as “not really a martial art”.

2.

Let’s take an example. One of the most common scapegoats nowadays is aikido. There are countless YouTube videos criticising and even ridiculing this martial art. In particular, practitioners of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu and MMA fighters often make aikido a laughing stock. For many of them, aikido is simply not a martial art because it supposedly lacks real fighting skills. But let’s assume, for a moment, that there are no such things as “real” skills. Does that mean aikido is not a martial art?

The techniques of aikido are largely derived from an older system of jujutsu known as Daito-ryu Aiki-jujutsu. The difference lies in the way they are practised. Here we see the genius of Morihei Ueshiba. What used to be a traditional attack–defence structure of teaching was reshaped into a form of practice in which attacker and defender cooperate to some extent, allowing the techniques to be practised in a continuous flow. In principle, almost any technique can respond to almost any attack. This makes aikido a distinctive way of practising those classical jujutsu techniques.

BJJ and MMA, on the other hand, are sports. This represents a very different way of practising a martial art. It is probably true that full-contact fighting sports are one of the best ways to develop real fighting skills, because they allow people to train under the genuine pressure of an opponent in a relatively safe environment. However, if this were the unavoidable criterion for something to count as a martial art, then kyudo, iaido, kali, pencak silat, traditional jujutsu, and many schools of karate or kung fu would no longer qualify as martial arts. Even Shaolin monks do not practise this way—so would that mean there are no martial arts in the Shaolin Temple?

Are fighting sports really the only thing we want to leave in the martial arts world? Is it really true that there is nothing in aikido or Shaolin kung fu that deserves to be preserved within martial arts culture? And do we really mean that martial arts books, movies, and the teachings of old masters are merely about dancing, with nothing to learn from them?

Of course, it is irresponsible to claim that we can give people real fighting skills if we are not actually able to do so. In that case, we simply mislead them. Everything has its limits, of course, but that is a topic for another discussion. However, is the irresponsibility of some teachers really a good reason to exclude all the martial arts mentioned earlier? In my view, that would amount to little more than ignorance, leaving aside martial arts courtesy, values, and the very idea of what it means to be a martial artist.

3.

Returning to my spider’s web metaphor, I believe that every genuine martial art occupies a specific place within that web. But what counts as a real martial art? No martial art develops in a vacuum; every practitioner stands in a lineage of teachers. A real martial art has roots in martial arts history and culture.

This is not a perfect definition—perhaps not even a logically correct one. It is simply very difficult to capture the essence of all martial arts in a single definition. Here, an alternative idea proposed by Ludwig Wittgenstein may be helpful. Instead of searching for a strict definitional essence, we might think in terms of family resemblance. For any particular martial art, there is always another that shares something with it, although what they share may differ from pair to pair. I believe this approach is inclusive enough and fair to everyone—or at least I hope so.

4.

Occupying a place on the web necessarily limits one’s perspective. Morihei Ueshiba’s aim was to create a harmonious form of martial arts practice in which nobody is really fighting under pressure. This approach was grounded in his distinctive religious and philosophical insights. The result is the martial art of harmony that we know today.

The aim of BJJ’s creators, on the other hand, was to develop a method of practice that maximises efficiency in fighting under pressure, especially in one-on-one combat. As a result, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu has become one of the most effective martial arts in the world.

Each martial art should understand the strengths and limitations of the place it occupies in the web. By focusing on harmony and cooperation, aikido does not aim to develop fighting skills under pressure. By contrast, by focusing on fighting under pressure, BJJ has its own limitations when it comes to preserving the traditional ethos of being a martial artist.

In particular, modern MMA culture sometimes allows behaviours that contradict many traditional martial arts values, such as simplicity and modesty. This led Robert Drysdale to remark in his book Opening the Closed Guard that, unlike judo, BJJ seems to lack a clear code of life and behaviour, offering little more than elements borrowed from surfer culture. This judgment may not be entirely fair—but claiming that aikido is nothing more than a dancing art is equally unfair.

5.

So, martial arts are a form of culture, and each of them has its own place within that culture. I have already explained what I call a martial art. But what do I mean by culture?

Culture is often described as having two sides: a material side and a spiritual one. The former often carries the latter. For example, books belong to the material culture of martial arts, but they convey ideas that belong to their spiritual culture.

In Japanese martial arts, a bokuto is part of material culture, but it can also carry certain values: it may reflect the mastery of the craftsman who made it, and it belongs to a very old tradition of Japanese weaponry. A keikogi is not only a training outfit; it also expresses values such as austere simplicity and humility, often associated with Zen philosophy.

Consequently, in my view, martial arts culture—like any culture—can serve as a vehicle for self-cultivation and personal development. This becomes possible when the material side, that is, the whole physical practice, is approached as a means of cultivating traditional martial arts values. Harmony is a value. Efficiency is a value. And there are many others waiting to be discovered.