The Path Revised, Mezitli (2026)

Can this heritage be actualized today into a holistic system of self-development? Let's take a look & find out here.

31/07/2026

Paired Practice in Traditional Martial Arts: Mutual Development

Aikido includes an excellent exercise known as suwari kokyōhō, inherited from the older tradition of aikijūjutsu and performed from a kneeling position. It provides a clear and tangible demonstration of just how essential the attacker's role is in developing the defender's skill.

Technically, the exercise appears deceptively simple. In fact, it is not.

The defender's task is to project the attacker by relying on two key elements. First, they must maintain their own structural integrity and generate power through correct body mechanics. Second, they make use of the attacker's own structural framework, as the attacker grips both of the defender's wrists firmly in front of the defender's abdomen.

If the attacker simply squeezes the defender's wrists with maximum force, the exercise loses its educational value. In a hard-style aikijūjutsu setting, it quickly degenerates into little more than a wrestling contest. Under such conditions, there is no longer any need to search for efficient vectors of force, minimize muscular effort, generate power from the body's center, maintain rootedness, or preserve structural alignment.

If, however, the objective is to cultivate precisely these qualities, the attacker must allow the defender to work within their current capabilities. In this sense, the attacker becomes a silent teacher, carefully regulating the level of resistance so that meaningful learning can take place. This much is relatively obvious. What is less obvious is that the exercise is equally valuable for the attacker.

At first, the attacker can easily prevent the defender from moving by relying on the strength generated from their own center. As the defender's skill improves, however, the attacker must also refine the quality of the attack. This requires working on many of the very same principles that the defender is developing: structural integrity, efficient force transmission, balance, rooting, and coordinated whole-body power.

In this way, both practitioners improve through a continuous cycle of mutual adaptation. The same dynamic can be found throughout all traditional martial arts. Whether in Chinese wushu, Okinawan karate, kenjutsu, or aikijūjutsu, paired training follows the same fundamental principle—one that can be viewed as a practical expression of the well-known law of opposites. Progress on one side naturally demands progress on the other.

For understandable reasons, discussions of paired practice usually focus on the defender's role. Yet the attacker's role offers no fewer opportunities for development. In fact, it allows practitioners to cultivate several subtle but highly significant qualities that are often less apparent from the defender's perspective, yet are essential for raising martial interaction to a genuinely advanced level.

For a deeper exploration of these ideas, see the author's full article on Medium - https://medium.com//paired-practice-in-traditional-martial-arts-mutual-development-dfba199c32ad?sharedUserId=invest00dima

10/07/2026

When the Wrong Beats the Right: The Achilles' Heel of Expertise

The idea behind this short essay has occupied my thoughts for many years. Over decades of experience in the martial arts, I have encountered numerous situations in which technically “incorrect” movements, executed by relatively unskilled performers, proved surprisingly effective against technically “correct” methods in real fight. Such experiences raise an intriguing question: what truly constitutes "correctness" in martial arts, and why does refined skill sometimes struggle against crude, seemingly inefficient techniques?

To answer that question, we must first define what we mean by “correct.” In the traditional schools of Chinese martial arts and Okinawan karate, correctness begins with adherence to what might be called the principles of body organization—principles embodied in the concept of stance. Initially, these principles concern static posture, shaping a distinctive way of carrying the body by developing a stable, integrated physical structure.

As training progresses, these same principles become embedded in fundamental techniques and eventually shape an entire culture of movement. The goal is seamless transmission of force throughout the body and the ability to recruit one's full physical potential as a unified whole. This is precisely why the old Chinese saying that "a master can be recognized from just a few movements" remains so insightful. It implies that the structural changes cultivated through years of training have become second nature—an inseparable part of the practitioner's being, readily apparent even to an outside observer.

This perspective differs markedly from the modern tendency to judge physical ability primarily by muscularity or athletic appearance. Traditional Eastern martial arts placed far greater emphasis on cultivating functional qualities than on developing an impressive physique. Such an approach was entirely rational: genuine skill was expected to deepen with age, whereas raw physical strength and muscular development inevitably decline over time. The fact that this principle is not always evident among many contemporary "masters" may itself reflect a broader erosion of traditional knowledge.

A movement becomes “correct” not simply because it conforms to prescribed technical rules, but because consistent adherence to those principles enables the body to employ its entire potential in the most efficient manner possible. Consequently, a strike becomes not only more powerful, but also faster, more accurate, and more economical in terms of energy expenditure. It is the combination of these qualities that ultimately defines both effectiveness and technical correctness.

If you ever have the opportunity to observe high-level masters in training, you may notice an interesting phenomenon. During practice of basic techniques or kata (taolu), experienced practitioners often perspire far more heavily than their less experienced students. Yet during partner drills, the situation is almost reversed: where a younger, stronger, and more athletic student becomes exhausted, the master may show little more than a light sheen of sweat.

As with most things, however, there is another side to the story.

A practitioner accustomed to exceptional speed and instantaneous reactions can sometimes become a victim of those very strengths. The mere hint of movement from a slower opponent may trigger a premature response. If that response is an evasive step or a preemptive strike, little harm is done. But if it is simply a defensive block, the result can be almost comical: the attack passes through the defense because the defender reacted too early, forcing them to scramble at the last instant to avoid being hit.

Another example is the technically “incorrect” straight punch: the elbow flares outward, the fist fails to rotate properly, and the strike lacks proper grounding through the legs. According to the standards of classical schools, such a punch is slower, weaker, and easier to read than a technically correct one. Yet against a significantly heavier opponent, particularly in confined space where maneuvering is limited, it can become a genuine problem. Such strikes are often more awkward to intercept than technically refined punches, while the sheer mass of the attacker supplies enough force to inflict serious damage despite poor mechanics.

Joint-locking techniques provide another revealing example. Practitioners trained within technically refined systems often expect an opponent to respond rationally to increasing tension in the joint—for example, by rising onto the balls of the feet to relieve pressure, thereby making a throw relatively straightforward, or by falling in what appears to be the only mechanically sensible direction. In reality, however, an inexperienced opponent may attempt seemingly irrational escapes that violate every technical principle. In doing so, they may even injure themselves, but in the chaos and adrenaline of a real confrontation those desperate actions can create just enough freedom to deliver a decisive counterattack or bring the defender to the ground.

Many similar examples could be cited in which the “incorrect” creates genuine difficulties for the “correct.” Yet martial arts are called a Way precisely because they demand continuous awareness, adaptability, and openness to change. Knowledge and experience should enable us to adjust to new situations rather than become prisoners of familiar patterns. Understanding why an opponent's technically incorrect behavior can sometimes confer tactical advantages immediately suggests how those advantages can be neutralized.

Preparing both body and mind for the extreme conditions of unrestricted combat against an equally skilled and experienced opponent—which is, in principle, what the traditional martial arts were designed to teach, or at least ought to teach—is not the final stage of self-cultivation. One must also be capable of an instantaneous downgrade in assessing an opponent's abilities when circumstances require it. In other words, a practitioner must be able to abandon sophisticated expectations and respond appropriately to a less sophisticated reality.

This necessity illustrates that the often-discussed progression “from the external to the internal”—from techniques to strategy, from physical training to the cultivation of consciousness—is neither linear nor finite. Rather, it unfolds across multiple levels and remains, in a profound sense, an endless process.

08/06/2026

"The Middle Way and Blocking Techniques in Martial Arts"

Recently, while watching the long-awaited sequel to the story about the price of professionalism wrapped in the attractive packaging of a light melodramatic comedy, The Devil Wears Prada 2, I was reminded of one of the most powerful scenes from the original film. In it, the character brilliantly portrayed by Meryl Streep firmly puts a clever yet somewhat self-assured young assistant, played by Anne Hathaway, in her place.

As a reminder, in that scene the aspiring journalist, who has secured a position as the assistant to the editor-in-chief of a fashion magazine, smirks when her boss struggles to choose between two belts for a photoshoot, insisting that they are "completely different." To the untrained eye, the belts indeed appear nearly identical, differing perhaps only in the shape of the buckle and a subtle variation in color.

Attempting to justify herself, Hathaway's character makes an even greater blunder. Apologizing for her suppressed laugh, she remarks, "I just don't really know much about this stuff." To a professional from the world of fashion, such wording naturally implies a subtext: all these garments and accessories are unworthy of the attention of a serious person concerned with far more important matters.

Life often unfolds in much the same way. People become captivated by ideas they readily understand and elevate them to a pedestal of exclusive significance, while subjects that seem obscure, complex, or incompatible with their worldview provoke indifference at best and condescension at worst. Yet experience repeatedly shows that these very obscure and seemingly exotic ideas eventually shape the more accessible concepts that most people later employ in their attempts to navigate everyday reality.

The editor swiftly deflates the confidence of the university-educated "intellectual" by explaining the origins of the clothing so casually worn by the young assistant, who secretly views the fashion industry as little more than the eccentric obsession of a peculiar subculture. What she wears, the editor points out, is merely a simplified and diluted version of ideas that first appeared on the runways of high fashion.

A similar parallel can be drawn within the world of East Asian martial arts. Practitioners frequently dismiss the formative role of philosophical traditions in shaping the methodology of major schools, attributing effectiveness instead to supposedly miraculous techniques, separate specialized training methods, or isolated tactical concepts. The study of the broader system of universal principles developed by generations of masters is often regarded as optional, marginal, or merely an intellectual pastime.

One example of such a seemingly "academic" idea is the Buddhist concept of the Middle Way, which, in one form or another, found its way into martial arts training methodology as well as into combat technique and strategy.

Recognizing this concept within martial arts is not easy, especially if one understands it only in its narrower sense as a prescription for righteous living. Even the connection between Buddhist philosophy and martial practice remains a subject of debate, often reduced to discussions of the famous Shaolin Monastery, where monks practiced methods of self-defense alongside the study of Buddhist teachings.

According to many scholars, these martial activities served no purpose beyond protection from bandits and other threats. Others challenge this widespread interpretation, drawing inspiration from the legend of Bodhidharma, who supposedly instructed monks to cultivate not only the spirit but also the body. This is certainly a reasonable position, although physical development does not, in itself, require the study of martial arts.

For some, the idea that martial practice could embody Buddhist doctrine appears to be little more than apophenia; for others, it seems merely improbable. Yet the founder of Buddhism himself advised against unquestioningly accepting intellectual constructs and encouraged their continual examination. Let us therefore entertain, at least for a moment, the possibility that such a connection may indeed exist.

A closer look at the essence of the Middle Way reveals a remarkably simple principle: avoid falling into opposing extremes and learn to draw upon both sides as one proceeds through life.
This idea resonates strongly with the Daoist concept of Taiji, the Great Ultimate. On one level, Taiji represents the unity of opposites whose interaction gives rise to a coherent and viable whole.

On another level, when viewed more closely, Taiji represents a center—a state of equilibrium in which the sage continually resides and which the martial artist likewise strives to preserve within the body, using the center of gravity as the point of origin for all movement. Yet this alone does not fully explain how martial arts can become an expression of philosophical ideas, although it certainly points us in the right direction.

The Middle Way may be understood more clearly from another perspective. The path of severe asceticism and the path of sensual indulgence, as described by the Buddha, are not strict opposites but rather different directions that a human life may take. Consequently, the Middle Way occupies an intermediate position between them, reconciling both approaches by preserving what is useful in each while rejecting what is destructive. Such reconciliation inevitably requires knowledge, discernment, and a certain degree of skill.

Within martial arts practice, the Middle Way can be understood as a particular method of organizing force. It manifests itself through directing effort along an intermediate vector—figuratively speaking, at a forty-five-degree angle—both in training and in combat.

For example, when developing stance work, practitioners learn to combine the upward force generated through the ground with the horizontal application of power toward an opponent. These two vectors merge into a single resultant force directed between the vertical and horizontal axes. The ability to unify upward extension (or downward rooting) with forward, backward, or lateral force into one coordinated expression of power represents a practical embodiment of the Middle Way principle.

When practicing movement coordination through kata or taolu, the fusion of linear and circular trajectories into elliptical or spiral patterns likewise represents an embodiment of the same idea.

When executing a block, positioning the arm or leg not merely across the line of attack—redirecting it sideways—but simultaneously projecting pressure through the attacking limb into the opponent's body is another practical manifestation of this principle. The objective is no longer limited to neutralizing a particular attack; it extends to establishing effective control over the opponent's entire body.

Simultaneous application of force in different directions through an intermediate vector of effort allows the practitioner to constrain and bind the opponent’s subsequent actions. Redirecting a striking limb at an optimal angle significantly reduces the possibility of its reuse—not only of that limb itself, but also the entire same side of the body.

In this way, when combined with proper whole-body displacement and positioning, the defender briefly occupies a tactically safe sector relative to the opponent’s attack. In order to continue their offensive, the opponent is forced to adjust their body position and disengage the controlled half of their structure. These additional movements are unnecessary for the counterattacker, and therefore the latter gains a decisive advantage in terms of speed.

Applying pressure to the opponent’s bodily structure also makes it possible to perceive the flow of potential movement within their body before it has fully manifested. This subtle skill involves sensing the emergence of an attack and responding accordingly at its very inception, preventing it from developing further.

A well-known illustration of this idea is the story—attributed, somewhat uncertainly, to the founder of the Yang school of Taijiquan—who is said to have been able to hold a sparrow on an open palm without allowing it to take flight, simply by sensing the instant of its leg-driven push-off and subtly yielding support at the exact moment of impulse.

Therefore, once the opponent’s body has been brought under control, force should be applied not only transversely but also longitudinally; not only directly, but also upward (or downward); one should pull while rotating, twist while unbalancing, and push while driving through. The integration of multi-directional forces imbues the technique with a level of power that is extremely difficult to resist.

All of these are specific expressions of a broader model that allows a practitioner to preserve their own center, disrupt the opponent's balance, and deprive them of the capacity to continue their aggression effectively.

That broader model, however, rests upon an understanding of more subtle principles—in this case, the Buddhist concept of the Middle Way. Such understanding enables the practitioner to apply insights about the fundamental structure of reality to a specific field of human activity. Naturally, knowledge of the philosophical idea in itself is not a panacea, but merely a starting point for further inquiry, since the crucial factor is the ability to translate general understanding into practical application.

This naturally raises the question of whether one can achieve competence in martial arts without engaging with layers of knowledge that appear far removed from practical combat training. The answer is undoubtedly yes; much depends on the depth of knowledge and experience the individual seeks to attain.

Nevertheless, the traditional heritage of martial arts possesses sufficient depth and intellectual potential to satisfy almost any level of inquiry or, at the very least, to provide a reliable foundation for further exploration. Only from such a perspective can an art truly be regarded as a Way.

05/06/2026

Blocking Techniques in the Far Eastern Martial Arts Tradition

From time to time, discussions among enthusiasts of East Asian martial arts return to the subject of defensive actions commonly known as blocks.

In my view, this recurring interest stems largely from a certain dissatisfaction with this technical category and its perceived practicality in real combat. The forms prescribed through kata or taolu are often difficult to apply in their pure, textbook form. Particular skepticism and debate are usually directed toward the outward block—uchi-uke in karate, or a comparable technique known as heng quan in Chinese systems. While complementary applications involving strikes, pressure applications, trapping methods, and control techniques certainly exist, they do not entirely resolve the question of the technique's original purpose.

The training forms that have come down to us contain a relatively small set of blocks that function as fundamental patterns of defensive—and often counteroffensive—action. This repertoire did not emerge by accident. It reflects not only the anatomical structure of the human body but also an optimal training framework for developing the body's ability to transmit force along its principal vectors. Such training serves not only the purposes of self-defense but also the cultivation and strengthening of the body itself, bringing these forms closer to the predominantly Chinese methods of "nurturing vitality."

Modern realities, however, tend to encourage the search for a kind of martial "holy grail." As a result, numerous attempts arise to reconcile traditional forms with contemporary expectations—or, to be more candid, with the inability to train and apply them effectively. This gives rise to various online "breakthroughs" and revelations claiming that "blocks are actually..." At this point one may insert almost anything: favorable receptions, limb-guiding methods, checks, covers, grappling elements, and so forth. It would be incorrect to say that such applications have nothing to do with blocks. Rather, they represent specific manifestations and extensions of a broader principle. Fundamentally, however, a block is simply a block—a forceful action intended to intercept and disrupt an attack. If one prefers, it may even be described as a strike that simultaneously functions as a defensive action.

To understand why blocks (in the description above) are often perceived as “ineffective,” one must look somewhat deeper into both the methodology of traditional Eastern martial arts and the nature of blocking techniques themselves.

A block is not truly "developed" through work on a wooden dummy, makiwara, heavy bag or even through partner drills. Instead, it grows organically from a more comprehensive concept: the stance. From the stance—understood as bodily wholeness—emerge basic techniques, kata and taolu, specialized conditioning methods, and even the structure of partner practice itself.

Yes, blocks are ultimately tested and refined through interaction with a partner, but before that stage they must mature through solitary training. Traditional karate, Chinese martial arts, and related disciplines are not sprints but marathons. Their purpose is the long-term cultivation of both body and mind. This process inevitably requires time. The underlying objective differs from that of purely combative training. It involves the realization of a particular worldview in which the practitioner understands themselves as a small yet integral part of a larger whole.

Like the alchemists of old, the adherent of the Eastern martial tradition undertakes a journey through the microcosm of their own being, regarded as a reflection of the external world. Drawing upon universal principles derived from observation of nature, the practitioner gradually "constructs" themselves—eliminating weaknesses and strengthening beneficial qualities. If the underlying knowledge is sound and the practice is properly structured, the resulting transformation extends far beyond mere fighting ability.

This is precisely what often escapes the understanding of many practitioners who don a traditional uniform, memorize exotic terminology, and perform unfamiliar rituals. External forms are relatively easy to imitate; internal content is not. Indeed, the imitation of external form is where training begins in most traditional schools. The problem is that the process frequently ends there, reduced to the doctrine of "ten thousand repetitions"—that is, an effectively endless number of repetitions—accompanied by various speculative interpretations or questionable philosophical justifications intended to lend deeper meaning to routine practice.

Curiously enough, there is philosophy embedded within blocking techniques. It simply manifests itself in ways that are not always obvious, and, as is often the case, it operates on multiple levels.

At the most immediate level, a block is a form of active response to an attacking action. In essence, it is a strike. This fact is important because interpreting the block as a strike directly conditions the way force is generated and transmitted through the body, while also producing a characteristic striking-oriented state of intent and awareness. Such action cannot be performed effectively without the ability to control the body's center of gravity (tanden or dantian), an understanding of the purpose of stance training, and a practical grasp of what traditional systems refer to as the "power of breath."

Equally important is the principle described by the master Sun Lutang in his Teaching of the Eight Trigrams as "lifting, drilling, dropping, and overturning." At its core, this principle refers to the ability to combine the rotational movement of the wrist—or foot—with the linear vector of force generated by the striking limb. When this integration is achieved in its condensed form, a block performed with the arm possesses both the speed and power necessary to contend with a fast and fully committed attack.

Without comprehensive development of both body and mind, a block will never become a reliable means of protection. This reality must simply be accepted.

As training progresses, what initially appears to be a rigid and perhaps simplistic action gradually acquires flexibility, adaptability, and nuance. Only then do the various applications—guiding, trapping, checking, controlling, and so on—begin to emerge naturally. They are not substitutes for fundamentals but products of their mastery.

Does this mean that effective self-defense requires decades of preparation? Not at all. From the very beginning of training, practitioners acquire methods that are both practical and applicable. The difference is that, over time, these methods continue to evolve, revealing increasingly sophisticated possibilities before eventually returning to a state of simplicity and naturalness.
Such is the Way.

And the discussion of blocks by no means ends here. The subject will be continued in the next article on the author's page...

22/05/2026

“Zanshin in Kenjutsu and Karate”

Comparing different martial arts systems that emerged from a shared ideological and cultural background — such as samurai kenjutsu and Okinawan karate — can sometimes open up intriguing perspectives, allowing us to reconsider interpretations of principles that have long become rigidly established.

Take zanshin, for example, understood as a state of complete composure, concentration, and control maintained at the conclusion of movements in paired kenjutsu practice. Over time, this state of collected awareness extends to the entirety of training, eventually reaching beyond the dōjō itself and becoming part of the practitioner’s mental discipline in the best traditions of Zen.

With certain reservations, a contextual analogue of zanshin in karate may be considered kime — the maximal concentration of force at the final point of a combative movement, often accompanied by a kiai shout. Since zanshin is a state that is difficult to formalise, kime presents a somewhat different case, as it can be externally expressed through movement and vocalization. For this reason, methodological preference is often given to kime, especially within the sporting branch. However, there is a certain “linguistic” point of convergence between kime and zanshin.

Interestingly, the root of the character 決 (ketsu/kime) contains the “water” radical. Originally, the word was associated with the breaking of a dam — the moment when accumulated power suddenly bursts forth in a single direction.

That image almost inevitably invites reflection: perhaps this ancient “linguistic model” itself can serve as a kind of “prompt” for striking practice. After all, one of the central challenges of unarmed combat systems lies in how to approach the ideal — inherited by karate from kenjutsu, by the way — of “ending the fight with a single decisive blow.”

If one fully absorbs the imagery of a breached dam and the release of a concentrated current of force, the entire training emphasis begins to shift. Attention moves away from endless repetitions and the forced projection of the limbs, toward the thoughtful construction of the “reservoir,” the accumulation of potential, and the shaping of the “channel” through which force is released.
Another metaphor may help illustrate the point: in training, greater attention should perhaps be paid not to accelerating the “arrow,” but to drawing the “bowstring.”

All of this inevitably transforms the momentary impulse of concentration into a more sustained state, which in turn generates interest in the methodological approaches of the “continental” — Chinese — tradition, as the above line of reasoning strongly resonates with the core postulates of many respected wushu schools. Another advantage of such an approach lies in the fact that the operation of bodily and mental force is reduced not so much to generation and release, but rather to accumulation, regulation, and transformation, which also has a positive effect on overall endurance.

Thus, cross-system analysis makes it possible to approach martial principles more comprehensively, without being confined to narrow interpretations within individual disciplines, while also helping to identify the most rational training methods without stepping outside the broader framework of tradition itself.

For those interested in this approach to reinterpreting ancient martial heritage, here is a link to the short essay Japanese Kenjutsu and Okinawan Karate: Methodological Influence and Mutual Enrichment on Patreon:
https://www.patreon.com/posts/japanese-and-and-158486093?utm_medium=clipboard_copy&utm_source=copyLink&utm_campaign=postshare_creator&utm_content=join_link

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