The Path Revised

11/12/2025

“Major and Minor Methods in Karate—And Beyond”

This article examines practical training methods—combat techniques intended for use in real confrontation. The distinction between “major” and “minor” methods in East Asian martial arts (karate and wushu) is significant because it helps establish clear criteria for identifying what is essential: the core components to which one should dedicate the bulk of one’s effort, without being distracted by secondary details.

“Major methods” are those that are technically straightforward—one might even call them coarse, but only in comparison to the more elaborate “minor methods.” Their other defining feature is universality. These techniques are concise, accessible after relatively short training, and provide a sufficiently effective basis for self-defense against virtually any type of attack. There should not be many such methods, precisely because meaningful proficiency in them requires devoting most of one’s limited training time.

In karate, these major methods correspond to the basic kihon techniques: the four fundamental forearm blocks; five core punches among which the straight tsuki is the most important and occupies the central position. To this we must add a small set of simple, low kicks that allow one to strike an opponent positioned in front, to the side, or behind—reflecting the realities of traditional, non-sport combat, where attacks may come unexpectedly from any direction.

Each “major method” (basic technique) is a universal movement, applicable in multiple ways across different scenarios: a block can function as a strike, or be employed in a throw, a takedown, a joint lock, and so forth.

“Minor methods,” by contrast with the “major methods,” include the vast array of techniques suitable for more specific circumstances: variations of blocking movements (parrying, drawing in, guiding, controlling), refinements of the primary “coarse” hand strikes—especially open-hand techniques—and actions such as fingertip strikes, pressure attacks using the finger joints, toe jabs, and much more.

The rationale for prioritizing the "major methods"—despite the apparent “limitations” they may impose on a practitioner—lies in their superior ability to cultivate whole-body integration and coordination between movement and awareness. The initial sense of restriction, and the resulting impression of “awkwardness” that beginners sometimes experience, is more than compensated by the long-term effect: the "major methods" open the path toward natural technical variability, forming the foundation from which the "minor methods" eventually and naturally emerge.

Thus, the technically simple tsuki of today gradually becomes a powerful whole-body movement—one that, over time, grows more compact, focused, and penetrating. It can serve as an escape from a grab, a throw, a joint lock, or a forceful shove (including an open-hand push capable of knocking someone off their feet or collapsing the chest). When the practitioner learns to command the entire body “down to the fingertips,” the same underlying mechanic can manifest as a sharp, penetrating finger-joint jab or spear-hand “nuki-te.” To this list we may add simultaneous deflecting or pressing actions with the forearm, enabling one to counterstrike on the beat of an incoming attack, or even a highly unpleasant shoulder strike—where the hand plays no direct role, yet the body moves exactly as in a tsuki.

It is always crucial to stay anchored in the essentials and devote the majority of one’s time and effort to them, for they become the reliable base and the true source of power that fills the complementary techniques. In “minor methods,” one must learn to perceive the shadow of the “major.” When this perspective is achieved, fingertip strikes—whether performed with the hands or the feet—become not merely feasible but genuinely effective tools in real combat, sometimes even surpassing the major method from which they evolved..

08/12/2025

“The Idea of Saṃsāra from a Contemporary and Practically Oriented Perspective”

People engaged in traditional systems of self-cultivation often fall into a familiar trap: along with genuinely valuable knowledge and practices, they also inherit rather grim misconceptions and archaic superstitions. What matters is not only the ability to separate the wheat from the chaff, but also an understanding of where such beliefs came from and what purposes they once served—ideas that, from today’s vantage point, may seem at least questionable.

One particularly notable concept is that of saṃsāra, the cycle of rebirth to which, according to most South-Eastern teachings, human beings (however broadly we may define them) are subject. Most readers will recognize the term as originally Indian, central to Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, and Sikhism. Human life was understood as a temporary embodiment in the present world, a journey from birth to death during which one accumulates a certain “baggage” of actions and experience. This baggage, through the karmic law of cause and effect, determines in which realm—or in what form—one will be reborn.

The logic here is straightforward: do good, and you will be reborn in a better world and/or a better body. A convenient and intuitively graspable model.

It is often assumed that the idea of saṃsāra is intrinsic to all Eastern doctrines, forming an immutable ideological monolith that descended from some external, fully formed source. This, of course, is not the case. Historical evidence and contemporary scholarship allow us to trace the gradual emergence of the concept, its divergent development across various traditions, and the considerable transformations it underwent over time.

All of this shows that there is no single dogma here—no absolute, unchanging truth. This absence of dogma actually grants Eastern teachings a certain flexibility in pursuing their ultimate goal: understanding the world and oneself. In this respect they come surprisingly close to the modern scientific mindset, which likewise leaves room for creative experimentation.

Where there is no dogma, one can speak more freely about the origins of a given idea and the functions it historically fulfilled.
And the idea of saṃsāra fulfills several. It provides an elegant explanation of why our lives are as they are; why people differ so greatly; why challenges continually confront us; why suffering permeates human existence. It also alleviates the existential fear of death—an aspect clearly reflected in the culture of the bushi (samurai), for whom the acceptance of saṃsāra helped cultivate an almost superhuman resolve.

Far more interesting is the notion of a “quantum leap” —a liberation from the cycle itself. This refers to a profound transformation of one’s being, a breakthrough into a qualitatively different mode of existence and self-awareness. This sets a kind of horizon for spiritual practice: a direction that lends meaning to one’s efforts and makes one’s time in this life more consciously used.

Yet speculation here must be cautious; we are dealing with something akin to the parable of blind men describing an elephant—every vivid formulation may be partially correct, but never fully adequate. Still, the idea remains compelling for a “dead-end species” in the biological food chain—humankind. Viewing ourselves as beings engaged in a kind of “transit” between worlds can be unexpectedly inspiring. Whether this culminates in a rebirth in a better world or in some form of spiritual immortality is a secondary matter—one that can safely be postponed..

06/12/2025

“The Concept of the Highest Attainment in Traditional Martial Arts”

Against the backdrop of today’s popular belief that being easily understood by everyone who happens to visit a training hall (or comment from the comfort of a couch) is far more important than personal mastery, and alongside the worn-out maxim that “the samurai has no goal—only the path,” the very question of a “highest attainment” in martial arts may provoke sharp criticism.

Yet this question is anything but trivial—one might even say it is foundational. A clearly formulated objective, pursued consistently over time, shortens the journey and makes the process far more coherent. Of course, one may occasionally succeed by moving chaotically—much like winning a lottery or gambling in a casino can solve a handful of financial problems. But martial arts, like any system of self-cultivation, require an element of reliably attainable progress, something that justifies the effort and the time invested.

Consider how you chose a university: most likely based on what it could offer you within a certain time horizon—not because of its architectural beauty, its history, the students’ uniforms, or the opportunity to engage in pleasant intellectual daydreaming within its walls.

On this basis, it is worth asking: toward what “standard” of martial mastery are we actually striving?

Is it simply not being afraid of drunk troublemakers in a bar, street hooligans, or bandits in alleyways? Or perhaps the desire to feel physically strong and able to show “a little something” on demand? These aims have far simpler and far more effective solutions—from lifestyle choices to technological means to far less demanding athletic disciplines. There is little sense in spending decades seeking out “combat secrets” if one’s goal is merely to ensure a reasonably safe environment.

Meaning appears only when there is a genuine prospect of reaching a radical state of “no opponent”—and even then only as a kind of pleasant secondary effect of comprehensive self-cultivation.

What is this state of “no opponent”?
Naturally, it does not mean that all possible attackers vanish from your life, never to threaten you again. The transformation is of a different kind: you acquire a level of skill so refined that it subtly influences your bearing, speech, and movement—something immediately apparent to an outside observer. This is a secondary yet very telling outcome.

“A true master can be recognized by a few movements,” people used to say. Another version goes: “A true master is recognized by the way he carries himself.” According to legends about the Japanese shinobi (“those who slip in”), when they needed to deceive an enemy by sending someone seemingly harmless, they would reject seasoned swordsmen and hand-to-hand fighters, because the very look of their hands and posture betrayed their profession as warriors.

These visible “qualities of mastery” stand out so clearly that an experienced potential aggressor cannot fail to notice them. And naturally, he interprets them as a warning: this person poses a high risk to any malicious intent. A hooligan or robber seeks to accomplish his aim without consequences to himself. Confronting someone who clearly carries high risk holds no appeal—there is always easier prey.

As for encounters with other martial artists and any potential conflicts, the logic is different. Another master sees in you at least an equal and immediately recognizes that he has met someone unique—conflict promises little benefit, while friendship may prove fruitful. This is why old tales of swordsmen “settling matters” over a game of shogi or go (Japanese checkers) are not at all surprising.

How might this recognizable “bearing” be described?
Quite simply: a person who remains calm and composed under pressure; whose gaze is clear, steady, and slightly defocused to take in the periphery; who stands firmly with slightly bent knees and an evident sense of fullness in the abdominal center; whose back is straight; whose wrists are sinewy and fingers seem “charged” from within; who moves cohesively, without loose joints; who stands quietly without shuffling nervously.

All this strongly suggests that you are facing someone highly skilled—difficult to surprise, and risky to challenge with mere strength or speed.

There is another dimension to the idea of “absolute” mastery. It may be introduced through an old Japanese legend about a bandit and a samurai with a flute.

The story goes like this: once there lived a brutal and dangerous bandit who attacked travelers and killed without hesitation. One night he heard someone walking through the forest where he hid, playing a flute. Following the sound, he saw a richly dressed samurai walking calmly, playing a melody. The bandit rejoiced: a wealthy samurai alone—what rare luck! All he had to do was sneak up and kill him.
But this proved unexpectedly difficult. Each time the bandit approached within striking distance, he felt an unfamiliar sense of hesitation. When he finally forced himself to act, the samurai suddenly stopped, fell silent, slowly turned around, and looked directly into his eyes. The bandit froze and collapsed to his knees against his will. When the samurai casually asked, “What is it you intend to do?”, the bandit was overwhelmed by a terror so profound he could not move.

Modern commentators often see in this the celebrated “spirit of Zen”—the superiority of inner calm in the face of danger. This interpretation is partly valid, yet it seems more likely that through long training in martial arts (which included Zen or similar practices), the master developed the ability to influence not only the body but also the inner state of an opponent, momentarily depriving him of will and even the ability to move. Such influence may be brief and subtle, but enough to gain a decisive advantage.
A related phenomenon is kiai in Japanese martial arts. Superficially, it appears as stunning the opponent with a “combat shout,” but its essence is a much deeper activation of latent power and its focused projection to overwhelm the foe.

People who have experienced sudden assaults report that the greatest difficulty is the initial moment of freezing—when the body refuses to obey precisely when quick and decisive action is needed. To address this, practitioners often use “pressure training,” exhausting themselves by staging fights directly in the training hall. Such methods can build some tolerance to psychological stress but do little to clarify the underlying mechanism one could consciously harness.

What is needed is a kind of guided evolution: beginning with principles of body mechanics, strengthening, and refining technique, the adept gradually moves toward more subtle aspects of working with the mind—both one’s own and the opponent’s. This, in turn, reshapes much of the practitioner’s overall being. Viewed in this light, martial arts open up new horizons and offer an entirely different sense of perspective..

03/12/2025

“The Divine Fist—Beyond Masutatsu Oyama”
Masutatsu Oyama, the founder of Kyokushin Budō Karate, was famously called “the Divine Hand.” I remember a student of mine being stunned to discover that Oyama, already an established master, once wrote about doubting whether he was even forming his fist correctly. To my student, this seemed almost absurd—surely a master of Oyama’s calibre shouldn’t be questioning something so basic.
Yet such reflections are anything but trivial. They arise only at a mature stage of practice, when seemingly simple actions reveal unexpected depth.
This becomes clearer when viewed through the lens of other East Asian martial traditions. Chinese wushu, for example, teaches: “The student strikes with a fist; the master with an open hand,” and Daoist “internal cultivation” describes force filling the body from within, reaching even the fingertips. Taijiquan includes the idea of an “empty fist,” often misinterpreted literally, with dubious practical value for either internal development or self-defense.
Japanese swordsmanship offers a different angle. A Qing-era master once wrote that the Japanese “first hold absolute stillness, then cut with terrifying decisiveness.” Here, practitioners are taught to grip the sword with in-yō (yin–yang) balance: the little-finger side of the hand is “filled,” while fullness gradually yields to relaxation in the remaining fingers. This approach later shaped Aikijūjutsu and Aikidō as the notion of the “hand-as-sword.”
Across these traditions runs a shared principle: avoid rigid tension. The hand should be “filled” by the unified effort of the entire body, allowing even a clenched fist to combine solidity, looseness, and adaptability.
In this light, Oyama’s search for a “correct fist” becomes entirely meaningful—though beyond the grasp of beginners, who lack the internal integration such subtleties require.
A broader lesson emerges as well. The most effective way to condition striking surfaces is not through harsh “toughening” practices—makiwara, stone pillars, sandbags—which often lead to arthritis later in life. Instead, internal cultivation provides a safer and ultimately more powerful foundation. External methods may assist, but they are secondary.
Everyday life offers a striking confirmation: blacksmiths, mechanics, stonemasons, and construction workers often display extraordinary strength—bending metal, crushing objects—without any formal conditioning. Their power grows naturally from long-term, properly organized physical work, not from self-injury.

01/12/2025

“The Internal and External Schools of Far Eastern Martial Arts”
I recall that Master Sun Lutang once wrote an essay on this subject, which I intentionally decided not to read before setting down my own thoughts. It will be interesting to compare them afterwards..
The distinction between the “internal” and “external” schools is most commonly associated with the Chinese martial tradition of wushu. However, given the far-reaching influence of China on the entire intellectual landscape of East Asia, this division also concerns other traditional martial systems with well-developed methodological and philosophical foundations—most notably Okinawan Tode and the Japanese koryū bugei.
In the conventional view, the “internal” school primarily refers to the Three Great Styles of wushu: Taijiquan, Xingyiquan, and Baguazhang. The officially documented histories of these arts are relatively short, yet it must be kept in mind that each of them absorbed the legacy of many predecessors. Thus, when we speak of these styles, we inevitably refer to a far broader and older heritage.
The “external” school is simpler to outline: in everyday understanding it encompasses virtually the entire Shaolin tradition, with its multitude of styles, lineages, and methods. Okinawan Tode also gravitates toward this category, although a close look at its historical roots reveals numerous “internal” elements, often inherited from syncretic schools. Nevertheless, modern karate is unmistakably an art of the “external” type.
As for the Japanese bugei (“classical martial arts”), they contain no direct equivalent of, say, Taijiquan. Modern Aikido does not qualify here; its history is short, and its predecessor—Aikijūjutsu—differs markedly from the Chinese internal arts. Other samurai disciplines, such as the sword, staff, and various weapon schools, developed with a clearly utilitarian orientation that privileged “external” work and had few explicit connections to Daoist natural philosophy, which most deeply shaped the conceptual basis of the internal school. But when speaking of the absence of explicit ties to Daoist thought, the word “explicit” is crucial: the broader cultural and intellectual background allowed for subtler forms of influence.
According to common understanding, the defining traits of the external school include an emphasis on physical strength, proactive strategy and tactics, mastery refined through long and arduous practice, rigorous conditioning of the body, and the notion of “overcoming oneself”—one’s weaknesses and shortcomings. The internal school, by contrast, is associated with the regulation of internal force (which can be interpreted in many ways), a more receptive mode of interacting with the opponent that seeks to redirect the opponent’s movement and momentum, engagement with complex ideas about the sources and principles of universal energy, and a profound transformation of body and mind “from within,” which also alters the practitioner’s outward expression. At first glance, these appear to be two irreconcilable approaches—but a closer look reveals something different.
The reality is that any “external” art naturally becomes “internal” once a practitioner has accumulated enough experience to begin synthesizing knowledge, resolving contradictions, and overcoming conceptual “ceilings.” Likewise, an “internal” style becomes “external” the moment a practitioner, having mastered its theory through hands-on experience, applies its seemingly “soft” movements in real combat.
The limitations here are quite predictable: many external-style practitioners fail to connect physical activity with the development of one’s mind, while many internal-style practitioners inhabit a realm of comforting fantasy regarding the nature of power. The former tend to oversimplify; the latter tend to mystify. Under a balanced approach, however, the two schools support one another and often manifest as different facets of the same art.
One may also speak of an “evolutionary” aspect. External styles often yield faster results at the beginner stage. With age, experience, and accumulated insight, practitioners come to understand the underlying forces at work, gradually gravitating toward the internal school. This shift opens new horizons, enhancing both combative efficacy and health-preserving methods, and allows the martial art to become a lifelong path of personal cultivation. As noted earlier, the name or outward form of the school is far less important than the practitioner’s approach to understanding it.
Despite the seeming subordination of the external school to the internal, the latter always requires the former, because combat effectiveness serves as a precise tuning fork for testing one’s internal development. Genuine progress in the management of “internal power” inevitably produces a strong body and effective self-defense; without such manifestation, all philosophical discourse and knowledge of “Qi meridians” amounts to little. Power itself is indifferent—it may heal or it may harm. The difference emerges only when the practitioner applies it according to necessity.
The external school, at a certain stage, likewise requires the internal approach—otherwise practice devolves into “more, harder, faster,” leading eventually to burnout, injury, and deterioration of health. In the end, the internal approach is also about achieving greater efficiency in one’s personal training.
Thus, whether one follows the internal or external school depends largely on where one stands: on one’s level of skill and the depth with which one reflects on the art. The well-known principle applies here: emphasizing division and differences is far less effective than searching for what unites..

29/11/2025

“The Quantum World of the Dao”
Building on our earlier speculations about the “subtleties of manifesting Wuji and Taiji” (see the previous articles, as well as the main one—“Alchemy of Kata/Taolu” on The Path Revised channel), it seems an appropriate moment to attempt a long-anticipated comparison: to what extent do Daoist cosmological concepts—stripped of the mysticism of the past and idle “philosophical” reasoning of the present—align with contemporary knowledge emerging from the world of quantum physics?

Quantum physics—today not merely a theory but also a practical discipline—has entered the mainstream of modern intellectual culture, thanks to the work of science communicators and a series of groundbreaking discoveries that challenge our habitual perception of reality. Its influence now extends not only to scientists and thinkers but also to practitioners of the philosophical traditions of South-East Asia (Hinduism, Buddhism, Daoism, and others).

Their interest is noteworthy: it suggests a certain resonance between ultra-modern scientific knowledge, driven by state-of-the-art technologies that explore the fabric of the universe, and ancient systems of self-cultivation that relied on consciousness itself as their primary tool, in the absence of “external” technologies. In striving for successful personal transformation, these traditions were, in a sense, compelled to investigate the universal laws of nature. And as it turns out, directing one’s attention inward can yield remarkably effective insights!

In essence, the study of the quantum world represents a similar kind of inward gaze—an attempt by modern science to understand the macrocosm through the lens of the smallest, most subtle structures of reality. Quantum physics is undeniably complex, yet we will attempt to explore a few ideas drawing on knowledge accessible to us. Let us consider some points of resonance between contemporary cosmological thinking and the Daoist model—one that underlies the practical foundations of numerous arts (wushu, neidan, neigong, qigong, and more).

In earlier works discussing the Daoist cosmological model and its reflection in taolu/kata practice (a necessary practical realization for Daoist adepts, who lacked “external” experimental tools and had specific goals tied to inner cultivation), the state and function of Wuji—the “Limitless,” the “Unconditioned,” the “Silent,” the “Unformed”—were described in considerable detail.

This state closely resembles what physicists refer to as the “quantum foam”: an invisible, ever-present substrate from which universes continuously emerge, or “bubble up.” According to theoretical physics, this process is ongoing and resembles a kind of natural selection: only those universes “survive” which possess a viable set of parameters. This perpetual “primordial chaos” forms the raw material for world-creation and constitutes the constant background of cosmogenesis.

This, roughly speaking, corresponds to the modern analogue of Wuji within the standard cosmological model known as ΛCDM (Lambda Cold Dark Matter, with its expanding dark-energy component). The appearance of our Universe may be interpreted as a quantum transition from the non-being of Wuji to the manifested Taiji—the “Great Ultimate.” A fluctuating sphere appears, expanding in multiple directions, which means that center, space, orientation, and vector emerge simultaneously.

These multidirectional forces give rise to the daoist oppositions of Yin and Yang—initially not in a material sense, but as fundamentally opposed tendencies and laws governing the distribution of energy at the very beginning of cosmic unfolding. For the newly formed system to function, it must acquire a certain dynamism—one tied to the loss of static equilibrium and the emergence of a drive toward restoring balance. Daoist cosmology describes this process in terms of the “Former Heaven” and “Later Heaven” sequences.

The flow of universal force acquires direction—something impossible without the emergence of the concepts of emptiness and fullness. Transformations of the universal energy must become ordered according to certain laws, expressed in the esoteric language of the Five Phases and the Eight Trigrams (concepts later adopted in narrower form by the Confucian tradition as well).

Thus, quantum physics offers a remarkably precise “tuning fork” for identifying which elements of ancient natural-philosophical systems correspond most closely to a “working” cosmological model, helping us discern what is most valuable in the old philosophical structures. In turn, the further unfolding of the Daoist cosmological scheme provides a conceptual tone for exploring how cosmic transformations proceed and toward what end. This does not imply that the legacy of Daoist thinkers provides an absolutely accurate picture of reality—but it does offer a powerful stimulus for rational inquiry.

The most intriguing question remains: what is the purpose of all this motion, and where is it ultimately meant to lead? It seems that, for now, the “backward philosophers” hold the advantage here. But that is a topic for another discussion..

26/11/2025

“Introductory Remarks by the Author of the Project”
It so happens that of my 48 years of life, almost 40 have been closely connected with Eastern martial arts and the philosophy of Buddhism, Daoism, and Confucianism. At first, this was for me a purely practical discipline aimed at developing self-defence skills and strengthening an admittedly weak state of health. Philosophical questions interested me little and for a long time remained a kind of aesthetic fascination rather than a serious field of inquiry.
Years passed, and I changed as well. The accumulated experience in the martial arts of East Asia gradually led me to reflect upon and reassess established views. A strong impetus was also given by the many obvious contradictions between what was proclaimed and what was actually attained. With growing experience, the hackneyed formula “one simply needs to train more” as a guarantee of achieving mastery has increasingly come to provoke doubt among those capable of critical thought.
What had once been occasional encounters with the natural philosophy of the Three Teachings became more frequent, especially when within this so-called “esotericism” I began to discover truly remarkable elements that radically influenced the effectiveness of my martial skills. From that point on, I immersed myself in the fascinating world of Far Eastern tradition in a comprehensive manner, assembling its fragments into a coherent and integral picture.
The result of this process is presented in the current project. I am well aware that for the majority of those who practice martial arts, health-improving methods or spiritual cultivation, as well as for those who view the Three Teachings solely as abstract philosophy, my research may not appear particularly valuable for a variety of reasons. Nevertheless, I hope it will prove highly beneficial to those who are searching, who feel dissatisfied with commonplace interpretations, and who, despite many years of study and practice, have so far been unable to find what they seek or to form a holistic understanding of the traditional legacy. For my part, I will endeavour to choose the most appropriate words to convey these ideas. Over many years of teaching, I have grown increasingly skeptical of the absolute validity of the well-known saying: “He who knows does not speak; he who speaks does not know.”
I would also like to pass on my vision, knowledge, and experience through time, so that this remarkable heritage of the Far East does not ultimately fade away or fall into decline due to lack of demand. Believe me, much — if not the greater part — of these ancient concepts remains relevant to this day, and the integrated methods of self-development that were elaborated within this tradition remain highly effective. In the modern world, I personally have yet to find any true alternative to them..

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