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 Of all the requisites faced by the budoka contemplating
the construction of a new dojo or training facility, the tokonoma,
with its space for the display of arranged flowers, could rank in importance
somewhere between solar--powered showers and cashmere mats. Pragmatism must
sometimes take precedence over aesthetics. Safe, durable training floor
surfaces, adequate dressing facilities, and so on, are more apt to concern
dojo builders than will a shelf devoted to flower arrangements.
Later on, the tasks of training, teaching, and maintaining
the dojo are more likely to occupy its inhabitants than are such matters
perceived solely as decorative like the arranging and display of flowers.
This is reasonable. But it also risks the development of dojo--and we need
not look far to find examples of these--that are physically healthy but
seriously lacking in their collective soul. They are filled with budoka
who are learning well the outer, physical aspects of their art,
Yet something seems missing, something internal, unidentifiable
in words by the students perhaps, although palpable if by no other sense
than by its absence. A good many trends that today surface in budo training,
the recent interest in some of the spiritual aspects of the martial Ways,
for example, appear fundamentally to be efforts at nurturing or reestablishing
this spirit, this attitude, this matter of what we might call the budo's
"soul."
I was taught that the arrangement of flowers is a very
real way to foster the soul of the budo, to glimpse, in fact, into its very
essence, an essence which, it seems to me, lies in those flowers that bloom
and then scatter.
Asked to make an arrangement of blossoms to decorate
the front of an aikido seminar I attended, the hosting teacher admired my
(really quite poor) efforts "You need to show me how to do some of
that stuff so I can do it myself" he said. This mentality is understandable.
But of course it is roughly equivalent to a complete neophyte coming into
your dojo and requesting that you show him some "martial arts stuff"
so he can teach it himself. (Sure, got a decade to spend on the task?) It
is, however, a mentality common enough to warrant a brief explanation here
of the rationale of the Japanese art of flower arranging, particularly as
its conventions relate to the budo.
Yet something seems missing, something internal, unidentifiable
in words by the students perhaps, although palpable if by no other sense
than by its absence.
Like the martial Ways, the Way of flowers, called kado,
or more commonly, ikebana, has its origins in Japan's
classical, medieval age. During that period, which began in the early 14th
century, the various forms of arranging flowers were codified, formalized,
and collected into coherent styles by ryu or "inherited
traditions" devoted to them. This is a process of preserving and passing
on an art that is, of course, familiar to the budoka. Ryu exist for the
combative arts of the warrior as well as for every other kind of art or
skill you can imagine, from calligraphy to etiquette, to cooking, to the
appreciation of incense. Basically, ryu representing any of these arts consist
of specific traditions, cohesive schools of instruction and maintenance,
each with its own distinct skills, curricula, and lore, transmitted from
teacher to student in a consistent manner.
The exponent of a ryu of swordsmanship, for example,
learned to kill with his weapon by imitating and mastering the kata,
the predetermined patterns of attack and counter that were proven effective
by earlier practitioners of the tradition in a process of trial and error
on the battlefield. The member of a ryu of ikebana learned to create forms
with flowers and other natural materials by emulating lessons expounded
in the "kata" of flower arranging as well. Ikebana kata--though
they are not usually referred to in that way--were determined by aesthetics
of beauty consonant with native Japanese concepts and with, in many cases,
ancient Taoist sources that postulated certain geometric configurations
as being ideal forms in terms of art
Ikebana ryu flourished (and those still intact continue
to do so today) under the guidance of headmasters who passed on their titles
through familial or other close connections, exactly as authority has been
passed down in martial ryu. Like the warrior's combative ryu, too, ikebana
schools issued ranks or menkyo that recognized varying levels of
ability and they also licensed teachers to instruct in their art. Martial
ryu and ikebana ryu share the intriguing convention of the okuden.
Literally, it means "hidden teachings." Okuden are secrets
zealously guarded by the individual ryu and in many cases these teachings
are considered to be the core, the very heart of the tradition itself. They
were transmitted only to trusted members of the ryu who had proven their
worthiness through long and often arduous training. Some okuden of ikebana
ryu are technical matters. The involve little secrets or "tricks of
the trade" that will make flowers stay fresh longer or methods that
can be employed to bend stems to the desired shape without breaking them.
But other okuden reveal exquisite insight into nature
and beauty. In the ancient Enshu-ryu of ikebana, one series of okuden concern
the matching of arrangements exactly to the seasons. If daffodils are arranged
in a container in early April, for instance, an okuden teaches that the
blooms should be bent downward. Why? Because growing naturally at that time
of the year, they would likely be bent beneath a load of wet spring snow.
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