Moving Zen: One Man's Journey to the Heart of Karate [Hardcover]

"... an absolute must for all of our young adult karateka."

A classic story of one man's confrontation with the self through Karate.
In 1962 at age twenty-two, C. W. Nicol left Wales to study Karate in Japan. He quickly found that the study of the martial art engaged his whole being and transformed his outlook on life. Moving Zen is the multifaceted story of a young man who arrived in Japan to study the technique of, and spirit behind, Karate.
Joining the Japan Karate Association, or Shotokan, Nicol discovered that Karate, while extremely violent, also called for politeness and a sense of mutual trust and responsibility. He learned that the stronger the Karateka, the more inclined he was to be gentle with others. Those who have gained a measure of skill but have not yet achieved spiritual maturity are the dangerous practitioners. Studying kata, Nicol came to realize that these forms are, in essence, moving Zen and that the ultimate goal of all the martial arts is tranquility.
Through the help of many gifted teachers, C. W. Nicol gained his black belt, and moved progressively closer to his goal of tranquility. His story, Moving Zen, was first published in 1975 and has achieved the status of a modern classic.

C. W. Nicol is the author of Harpoon, among other English titles, and over seventy books in Japanese. He is a seventh dan in the Shotokan Karate
International Federation. He has made fifteen expeditions to the Arctic and has served as a game warden in Ethiopia. Born in Wales, he is now a citizen of Japan.
He is vice principal of a college that trains environmental field workers.

On one such journey, around nine at night, I was unfortunate enough to stand next to a very aggressive drunk. He was a laborer, muscular and brown, a small towel twisted and looped around his head, hair crewcut, small stubbly beard. He was about forty years old, sober enough to stand, but too drunk to keep his dislike of foreigners to himself. As the crowded carriage swayed and lurched he kept up a continual muttering, loud enough for me, and for everybody else near us, to hear.

"In the war, we Japanese defeated them time and time again. They have no spirit. Only with atomic bombs could they defeat us. Trash! I am stronger than he is. Look at him! Why does he come to our country? Stupid fellow! Just his size is big, not his heart! And our girls like them! Huh! Trash! They're not Japanese girls, they are only whores!"

It was difficult, but I ignored him as did the other stony-faced Japanese in the carriage. They felt more embarrassed and uncomfortable than I did. At first I was not even angry, for by now I had become used to this kind of drunk. They were usually quite harmless.

But this one got bolder. The carriage lurched, and he took the opportunity to swing hard and jab his elbow upward at my ear. He was hanging onto the strap with both hands. After he hit me he glared malevolently.

"Cowards, all of them. See? I'm not afraid."

The carriage lurched again, and sure enough I got his right elbow in my left ear again. Very irritating. I put my book up on the luggage rack.

We had learned in the dojo that a blow under the armpit would cause great pain, and probably unconsciousness. A blow there from a master would cause death. In the Tekki kata we practiced close, hooking punches that started from the side of the body and passed in front of the striker's own chest. We practiced these powerful in-fighting blows with a partner, and learned how to deflect the opponent's arm upward, to expose the vulnerable underarm. In mounting anger, I now determined to test one of these techniques, just hard enough, or so I thought, to cause the bothersome drunk enough pain to make him drop his arm and quit jabbing me in the ear.

I waited for the next lurch, and as he began a jab at my ear I hooked a rising, close-bodied jab with my right fist, at the same time bracing my ankles, legs and abdomen, and deflecting his elbow upward with my left hand. The punch went deep into his armpit, and to my great surprise he dropped, falling in a heap on the lap of a gentleman who sat reading a newspaper directly in front of him. So crowded was the carriage that he could not fall and stretch out on the floor, but he was unconscious just the same. My fist had traveled less than eighteen inches. Minutes passed, and he lurched to his feet, grabbing at people standing there to help him up. I didn't know what to do, and said nothing, ready to hit him and anybody else if need be.

But he did nothing, and squeezed behind me and made his way to the exit, where he stood staring at the rubber-edged crack between the sliding pneumatic doors. At the next station he got off, and neither he, I, nor anybody else said a word.

On the station platform of Akitsu, I breathed a sigh of relief in the cool evening air. Hell, I didn't really think that the blow would knock him out! That rather unpleasant incident demonstrates why brown belts are more dangerous than dan ranks. I told myself I would not try out such a technique again unless my life depended on it. If Kanazawa sensei had heard about it, I would have been suspended from the dojo for at least six months.