Shotokan with Józef Rączka

I joined a local Shotokan karate 松濤館空手しょうとうかんからて 道場どうじょう in Rabka, Poland, when I was about thirteen, sometime in the mid-1980s, though I no longer remember the exact age.

Józef Rączka, my sensei 先生せんせい, was a friend of my father's, who left for the United States around that time.

Sensei Rączka's own surname is either a coincidence or destiny that I only appreciated years later: "rączka" is Polish for "little hand", the same root meaning as te 手て in Japanese.

Coincidentally, my name root "Luca", when spelled in Katakana as ルーカ, reads as "rū-ka", which sounds like the Slavic word ręka/рука for hand, though "Luca" etymologically comes from Greek "Loukas" and the region name Lucania, and is an unrelated root.

Back then, I think Sensei Rączka held the rank of fourth dan, 四段よんだん. I also remember a conversation about a medal at the European-level kata championship, but again, my memories are failing me.

As a boy, I did not know how much of Poland's karate history Sensei Rączka would represent.

Today, Sensei Rączka is recognized as 八段はちだん (eighth dan) and is among Europe's most respected traditional karate judges. He co-founded organized traditional karate in Poland. He was present in 1990 when the movement broke away to form its own national federation, tracing its technical roots through Hidetaka Nishiyama's Shotokan to what became known as Traditional Karate (Karate Tradycyjne). His base has always been my homeland: Rabka, the Podhale highlands, including Nowy Targ and Zakopane, the same Góral country my family hails from.

Our sensei was intense.
His kata 形かた were beautiful and dynamic, and his instruction was thoughtful, precise, and ruthless. We repeated each movement until literal puddles of sweat pooled beneath each of us. The training was true to the "hard" 剛ごう tradition rooted in Okinawan karate; he struck our arms, legs, and stomachs to test whether our muscles were tight and our stances firm; Master Ōyama Masutatsu 大山倍達おおやまますたつ of Kyokushin 極真きょくしん would be proud. We feared and loved his sessions. I remember Heian 平安へいあん (Okinawan Pinan) kata were the core of my training. Even now, forty years later, I have muscle memory of every stance, punch, and block.

During those years, I learned the etiquette and hundreds of Japanese terms, since all nomenclature in the dōjō was used strictly in Japanese. I developed a deep appreciation for the culture, and like most boys my age, I loved samurai 侍さむらい films.

I remember practicing karate with Kyokushin and kung fu (Kenpo) friends, doing kicks for hours on the local park's health path (Park Zdrojowy).
I also remember being knocked out by one of the Kyokushinkai guys during a friendly inter-school sparring session. I definitely lost a few IQ points that day.

At the same time, I was a competitive sprinter, and my birth name (Łukasz Grzeszkowiak) might still be on the old school ("Jedynka w Rabce") gym leaderboard.

All that training made my next chapter, Marine Corps boot camp, feel easy. 

Overnight Pizza Sourdough (12 inch)

280g flour

182g water

42g starter

5.6g salt

Mix flour, water, and starter until hydrated. 

Rest 30 minutes. 

Add salt and mix until incorporated. 

Bulk ferment 2–3 hours at room temperature with stretch-and-folds at 30, 60, 90, and 120 minutes. 

Shape into a round and place seam-side up in a floured banneton. 

Cover and refrigerate 12–24 hours. 

Remove from fridge and let sit 30–45 minutes. 

Preheat oven to 500–550°F with steel or stone for 45 minutes. Stretch dough to 12-inch disk. 

Top as desired. 

Bake 12–15 minutes until golden. 

Cool 2–3 minutes before slicing. 

 For faster room-temperature proof, skip the cold retard and proof 4–6 hours at room temperature after shaping. 

For longer 16–24 hour fermentation, reduce starter to 28g.

Katakana

Katakana, the sister script, is identical in sound to hiragana and uses the same five vowels.
Only the shapes are different.

It is the script Japanese uses for words borrowed from other languages and for the sounds of things.

When you travel, katakana is the script that most often rewards you, because once you can sound it out, you discover that many of the words are borrowed English hiding under Japanese pronunciation.

The word "hotel" is written in katakana,
"taxi" is written in katakana,
"ramen" (which is really Chinese noodles) on a shop sign is often written in katakana,
"Terebi" is television,
"Kōhī" is coffee,
"Toire" is toilet.

Because the sounds are identical to hiragana, the five vowels carry over without change.

Where hiragana is round and flowing, katakana is angular and sharp, built from short straight strokes.

Here is the full set of katakana, laid out exactly as the hiragana chart, so you can see that only the shapes have changed.

	a	i	u	e	o
—	ア a	イ i	ウ u	エ e	オ o
k	カ ka	キ ki	ク ku	ケ ke	コ ko
s	サ sa	シ shi	ス su	セ se	ソ so
t	タ ta	チ chi	ツ tsu	テ te	ト to
n	ナ na	ニ ni	ヌ nu	ネ ne	ノ no
h	ハ ha	ヒ hi	フ fu	ヘ he	ホ ho
m	マ ma	ミ mi	ム mu	メ me	モ mo
y	ヤ ya		ユ yu		ヨ yo
r	ラ ra	リ ri	ル ru	レ re	ロ ro
w	ワ wa				ヲ wo
n	ン n

The same two marks appear here as well.
The dakuten strokes soften a consonant, so カ ka becomes ガ ga.
The handaku circle turns the h row into a p, so ハ ha becomes パ pa.

A long vowel is not written by repeating the vowel but by a single horizontal bar, called chōonpu.
So the long oo in a borrowed word is a bar, and rāmen appears as ラーメン, with the bar holding the a long.
When you see that bar, simply hold the vowel before it.

Between the two kana charts you now have every basic sound in the language, and every one of them rests on the same five pure vowels.

Hiragana

Here is the full set of hiragana, the script used for native Japanese words.

Read across each row as the consonant joined to the five pure vowels.

	a	i	u	e	o
—	あ a	い i	う u	え e	お o
k	か ka	き ki	く ku	け ke	こ ko
s	さ sa	し shi	す su	せ se	そ so
t	た ta	ち chi	つ tsu	て te	と to
n	な na	に ni	ぬ nu	ね ne	の no
h	は ha	ひ hi	ふ fu	へ he	ほ ho
m	ま ma	み mi	む mu	め me	も mo
y	や ya		ゆ yu		よ yo
r	ら ra	り ri	る ru	れ re	ろ ro
w	わ wa				を wo
n	ん n

A few of these are not spelled the way an English eye expects.

The し in the s row is "shi", not "si".
The ち in the t row is "chi", not "ti".
The つ in the t row is "tsu", a single sound, the "ts" of "cats" followed by "oo".
The ふ in the h row is "fu", a soft "f" made with both lips rather than teeth.
The ら row is closer to a light "d" or a flap than to an English "r", but "r" is the accepted spelling.

Two more marks change the consonant, not the vowel.

A small pair of strokes, called dakuten 濁点だくてん, softens a sound:
か "ka" becomes が "ga",
さ "sa" becomes ざ "za",
た "ta" becomes だ "da",
は "ha" becomes ば "ba".

A small circle, called handakuten 半濁点はんだくてん, turns the h row into a p: は "ha" becomes ぱ "pa".
The vowels underneath stay exactly the same.

Finally, two things about rhythm.
A small つ before a consonant marks a short silent pause, a doubling of that consonant, as in the "tt" of "Nippon".

And ん is the one lone consonant, an "n" or "m" sound that stands by itself.

When you reach a Japanese word later, sound it out by these five vowels and it will be close to right.

Katakana, the sister script used for words borrowed from other languages, sounds identical to hiragana and follows the same five vowels.

Japanese "kana" pronunciation

The following brief introduction to Japanese sounds is not intended to teach you to read, but rather to give you an idea of what sounds are available in Japanese.

English, and especially American, readers make pronunciation guesses based on their ABC, and those guesses are almost always wrong because Japanese writing in the so-called "romaji" alphabet is based on Latin, not English.

The good news about learning it is that, unlike English, Japanese is very consistent. Once you learn it, you will be able to read correctly for the rest of your life.

I am not saying Japanese does not have its own problems, but to keep things simple, let's focus on the vowels.

There are only five vowels, and each one makes exactly one sound every time, with no exceptions.

The five vowels:

The "a" sounds like the a in "father". It is never the "a" in "day" or the "a" in "cat".
The "i" sounds like the "i" in "machine". It is never the "i" in "ice".
The "u" sounds like the "u" in "boot". It is never the "u" in "cube".
The "e" sounds like the "e" in "bed". It is never the "e" in "me" and never the "a" in "day".
The "o" sounds like the "o" in "boat", but shorter and without letting it glide into "oo" at the end. It is never the o in "hot".

That is all you need to remember.

The long vowels

Each of the five vowels can also be long, meaning the same sound is simply held for twice as long.
The sound does not change, only its duration.
I mark a long vowel with a bar over the letter, called a macron: ā, ī, ū, ē, and ō.

The "ā" is a long "aa".
The "ī" is a long "ii".
The "ū" is a long "uu", as in the shū of Shūdōkan 修道館しゅうどうかん.
The "ē" is a long "eh".
The "ō" is a long "oh", as in "dō", the way 道どう is pronounced.

Length is not decoration. It can change the meaning of a word.
The training hall is a dōjō, 道場どうじょう, with both o sounds long.
The school is 修道館しゅうどうかん, with a long u and a long o.

Common pronunciation mistakes

Here are a few examples:

Karate is pronounced 空手からて, with the last syllable not "tee" but ending in "e", as in "energy".
It is true that the original name for Okinawan hand fighting was "tī", and it uses the same Chinese character for "hand" 手て as in karate 空手からて. However, the word "karate" is purely Japanese and should be pronounced according to Japanese standards, again, ending in "e", as in "energy".

The rice wine, or "sake", is 酒さけ, ending in "e", as in "energy", not "sa-kee".

However, "saki", meaning "point", is 先さき , ending in "i", as in "machine" and not "sa-kay".

My name, Uki, is 宇気うき, ending in "i", as in "machine", not "yoo-kay".

Japanese syllables

Every other sound in the language is a consonant placed before one of these five vowels, and the consonant does not alter the vowel.

The "ka" is "k" plus "a", pronounced like the start of the word "comma".
The "ki" is "k" plus "i", as in "key".
The "ku" is "k" plus "u", as in "cooper".
The "ke" is "k" plus "e", as in the name "Ken".
The "ko" is "k" plus "o", as in "comb".

The same pattern repeats for every other consonant.

Visiting Japanese schools

Probably the most important reason to practice the Japanese language nihongoにほんご ・ 日本語にほんご is to visit actual schools in Japan.

I know this sounds far-fetched for a white-belt teenager in an American or European town, but it is a real possibility.

Many schools welcome black-belt kuro obiくろおび ・ 黒帯くろおび practitioners to visit their school dōjōどうじょう ・ 道場どうじょう for two weeks to improve their art. Remember, it would be polite to wear the white belt shiro obiしろおび ・ 白帯しろおび as you arrive, out of respect for the school and the "beginner's mind", shoshinしょしん ・ 初心しょしん attitude.

I think everyone should dream of such a visit and strive to make it happen.

Why We Use Japanese in the Dojo?

I have been practicing martial arts in Poland, Okinawa, Japan, Chicago, and Washington State.

Three continents, three national languages, a single set of commands in Japanese. 

Similarly, when using the first computer I purchased (Atari 800XL), I never changed the system settings to the local Polish language. Somehow, even back then, I knew that if I wanted to take computers seriously, I needed to learn in the language of origin. To this day, when I see family or friends struggling with Polish menus, I helplessly shrug my shoulders despite being an architect and a director-level software developer.

It is called lingua franca in trade business, or lingua latina in intellectual circles. 

Europe has had Latin and especially Greek for the past three thousand years. Scientists, clergy, and lawyers use Latin names to be precise in biology and medicine, and even in everyday writing (e.g., for "et cetera", "et al.", and thousands of other words). Everybody knows enough Greek to understand what "geo-logy" or "anthropo-morphic" means.

The worldwide community of Japanese martial arts practitioners uses Japanese. 

This is not because Japanese is particularly easy, nor does anyone expect practitioners to become fluent.

We learn Japanese so we can distinguish the nuanced difference between, for example, the two "hook-punch swings", kagi-tsuki and furi-tsuki. OK, I am showing off.

The alternative, which is translating everything into the local language, would shatter the single most important thing that connects us to each other and to the source: the integrity of the common art.

Until this point, I have avoided using Japanese names in my writing, except for commonly known terms like "karate" or "dojo". 

However, as I am writing this publication, I want to learn and practice just enough Japanese to build a common language for the art.

Please expect to see notation such as this, and I will explain the rest as we progress.

- <ruby>kagi-tsuki<rt>かぎつき</rt></ruby> ・ <ruby>鉤突き<rt>かぎつき</rt></ruby> 

- <ruby>furi-tsuki<rt>ふりつき</rt></ruby> ・ <ruby>振り突き<rt>ふりつき</rt></ruby>

Real values, not GDP

Every civilization reveals its values in what it measures. 

Rome counted legions and grain. 

Medieval Europe counted souls and acres. 

The modern world counts money in motion, the sum of every transaction within its borders, and calls it the health of a nation. The number is Gross Domestic Product. Simon Kuznets, the economist who built the modern version of that metric for the US Congress in 1934, warned in his own report that "the welfare of a nation can scarcely be inferred from a measurement of national income". 

I find that warning remarkable, since it came from the man who invented the tool, before anyone had even started to misuse it. We built our politics, our foreign policy, our schools, and our private definitions of success on the number anyway. A country that grows is succeeding. A country that contracts is failing. A person who earns more this year than last is moving in the right direction. The logic runs so deep that most people never notice it is a choice, not a healthy fact.

The Gross Domestic Product (GDP) counts the antidepressants sold and the therapy sessions booked. 

It counts the security systems installed in neighborhoods where neighbors no longer know each other.

It counts the fast food that makes us sick, the traffic, the divorces, the medical bills for diseases produced by the way we live. 

What it cannot count is the meal cooked from a garden and shared without a receipt. The friendship that made the therapy unnecessary. The morning walk or run that kept the doctor away. An hour of practice in a dōjō that produced nothing sellable and changed everything.

Research on the exact income threshold has moved over the years. A flat dollar figure that ignores what a dollar actually buys where you live is its own kind of category error, the same mistake GDP makes at a national scale, repeated at a personal one.

None of this is an argument against prosperity, and I want to be direct about that before it reads as one. I grew up under a communist socialism which failed in every country that tried it, including my native Poland, and failed darkly and miserably. 

I have no interest in experiencing poverty again, real or romanticized, as a virtue. I have worked my whole career in software to become an architect and director at a comfortable salary. The point is not that money is bad or that more of it is worthless. The point is that past basic financial security, GDP counts none of the five things that actually determine whether a day felt worth living (purpose, physical vitality, genuine community, time that belongs to you, and a relationship with the natural world that gives back as much as it takes), and a government can count every growth target while folk quietly lose all that matters.

The Japanese have a word for the convergence of those things: ikigai 生き甲斐いきがい, the reason you get up in the morning, the specific overlap of what you love, what you are good at, what the world actually needs, and what can sustain you economically. 

Okinawa, where I lived for three years and where this book's own training lineage runs, has produced more centenarians (or people who actively live over 100) per capita than almost anywhere on earth. I write about what that place actually taught me in a later chapter. The short version here: the researchers who study Okinawan longevity did not find a miracle diet or a rare gene. They found people who had never separated living from meaning in the first place, something ikigai names directly and GDP cannot name at all.

Other attempts to measure what is worth exist. 

Bhutan's Gross National Happiness index tracks psychological wellbeing, time use, cultural resilience, and governance alongside income. 

The OECD Better Life Index adds housing, social connection, and work-life balance to its picture of a country. 

The Happy Planet Index weights life expectancy and reported well-being against the ecological footprint, which exposes an uncomfortable fact: some of the world's richest societies by GDP are buying their comfort at an ecological cost that their own children will pay. 

None of these indices is perfect. Together they sketch something GDP was never built to see: a picture of people actually flourishing, not merely transacting.

This book is my own account of chasing that convergence, approached from an unusual direction. Not through economics or policy, but through the healthy mind and body, through the discipline, through the slow discovery that via practice, fine art, and a still mind can be three depths of the same practice rather than three separate hobbies. 

I call the three stages warrior, artist, and sage, and the rest of this book is the specific, sometimes narrow, path.

Book as a bronze mirror

I own a library of thousands of books in paper, audio, and various digital formats.
There are many books like this, but this one is mine.

I have no audacity to say I bring anything new to this field.
I realize scholars might get frustrated with this book if they ever bother to read it.

However, this book does serve a couple of useful purposes.

First and foremost, it is a self-study guide.

It was written as a set of my separate notes while studying Shudōkan Karate, Kobudō, Aikidō, and the culture of Okinawa and Japan.

When I write these words, it is as if I am polishing a bronze mirror.

A round bronze mirror holds great symbolic significance in Japan and much of South and East Asia.

The mirror is a piece of metal that requires frequent polishing, a time-consuming and effort-intensive task. I know, as I own one.

As I started preparing this book for publishing, I became acutely aware of my own impermanence. I had no idea how long I would live. A stroke, coronary heart disease, cancer, or even a simple road accident could happen to anyone, any time.

I realize that at this moment, virtually no one I personally know is interested in the subject. However, since I have built a lifetime of daily notes, study, books I have read, travel, and experiences that I do not want to disappear.

I hope that people who are not interested today may pick it up in 20 years.

I certainly always wished I had any writings from my own ancestors.

My introduction to Japanese culture

 My introduction to Japanese culture

My relationship with Japanese culture dates back to early childhood. In retrospect, it is neither random nor surprising.

I grew up on Japanese cartoons, which were a dramatic improvement over depressing socialist television Poland had to offer in the 1970s.

As I write this in 2026, my three daughters also love watching Japanese cartoons.
The kawaii 可愛いかわいい culture is even stronger now than it was in 1990s Japan. The boy heroes are still swinging katana swords.

When I was a teenager, I practiced a very traditional Shotokan karate; Japanese culture was as important to us as the physical training.

I remember that when I was young, I watched the TV series Shogun, which exposed me to the nuances of Japanese culture.

Consequently, I left Poland, joined my already established family in America, enlisted in the U.S. Marines, and, at my own request, was sent to Okinawa, Japan, where I lived (mostly off-base) for three very formative years.

I studied "Cultural Anthropology of East Asia" in the Asian division of the University of Maryland with professors who were absolutely dedicated to their subject.

The word "culture" would later become a life's passion in the context of Japanese, East Asian, Slavic, and Proto-Indo-European (PIE) studies.

The word "Anthropology", in other words, means a "Behavioral Science" of humans.