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.

temple

Tonight, I was writing a chapter for my new book, and I thought I would share it.

On Saturday mornings, I often found myself at a nearby Buddhist temple, Fukusen-ji 福泉寺, at dawn. The temple sat on a bluff overlooking the bay on the East side of Okinawa Island. The building sat slightly away from the coastal road, with a steep stairway leading up the bluff. 

jita kei 自他敬

 自他敬

jita kei

Literal meaning:

Self and others, respect.

Natural interpretation:

Respect yourself, and respect others.

This phrase is commonly used in Okinawan and Japanese martial arts contexts. It expresses an ethical foundation rather than a technique: cultivation of dignity, humility, and mutual respect.

Machida-sensei

 

 

07.b The Fifteen-Minute Interval Habits

More than twenty years ago, I wrote a short blog post on shaping habits in fifteen-minute intervals. Back then, I was aware of the Pomodoro technique. The idea was interesting, but it did not fit my philosophy. The rotary kitchen timer rang like an alarm. It broke concentration. It told me to get up and walk. It was a device designed to interrupt, not to deepen attention. It certainly did not feel like Zen (禅).

Years earlier, in 1996, while studying Buddhism (or bukkyō, 仏教) in Okinawa (沖縄), I had learned that Zen (禅) favors presence without force, attention that is steady rather than agitated, a practice that does not shout at you. I did not yet understand how to apply that to daily work, but the seed was planted.

Initially, the fifteenth minute was a quarter of the hour "bubble" in the time-tracking app I used. Even today, I time my TODO habits in "quarters".

This practice has stayed with me because it makes life manageable. Fifteen minutes is long enough to make real progress but short enough to begin without hesitation. It removes the weight of significant goals. It keeps the day from spiraling into worry about the future or regret about the past. Presence fits inside a quarter hour.

Only much later did I find a better companion for the fifteen-minute rhythm. It is a small, quiet hourglass that sits on my desk today. It measures fifteen minutes of sand, but more importantly, it measures my intention. It does not ring. It does not command. It simply flows. Sometimes I notice it. Sometimes I forget it completely, and it runs long past empty. That is the beauty of it. The hourglass never pulls me out of flow, or what Japanese thinkers might call mushin (無心), a mind not entangled. It is a witness, not a supervisor. A presence, not a device. 

When I flip it over, I begin with one thing. Reading, writing, studying, programming, sharpening my mental and physical tools. For fifteen minutes, I commit to staying inside that small frame. Nothing dramatic. No pressure to finish. The task simply receives full attention for that interval. If the sand runs out and I am still absorbed, I continue. If I feel scattered, I have it as a reminder. 

Returning to the hourglass restores clarity of mind and focus on the task. It becomes a physical expression of ichigyō zammai (一行三昧), the Japanese pattern of complete absorption in a single line, a single act. It also pairs naturally with the Stoic way of doing what is right in front of you, nothing more.

The fifteen-minute practice is still the most reliable way I know to build flow and steady habits. You turn the glass, begin, remain with the moment, and let the sand complete its journey. Then you choose again. Over time, these small intervals shape a life that feels grounded, attentive, and quietly productive.

Habits are shaped by practice, and practice is enforced by a system; this one stayed with me for 20 years. 

03.e A pottery kiln in the Okinawa jungle

One of my most lasting cultural impressions of Japanese aesthetics came not from a museum or a famous site but from an unexpected moment in the Okinawan mountains. We were driving along muddy back roads in my old Toyota 4Runner, wandering without much plan. The hills were covered in thick jungle, and the trails looked as if they had not seen many vehicles. When the trees opened, we found a place that felt as if it had stepped out of another century.

Built directly into the hillside was a large kiln. The structure blended with the earth around it, half-buried and half-exposed. Scattered nearby were pieces of pottery, some leaning against stones, others arranged with no clear pattern. Everything looked simple and honest. Nothing was colorful, polished, or prepared for visitors. Nothing hinted at tourism or display. It was a working site, or it had been one not long before.

Next to the kiln was a wooden Japanese-style workshop. The boards were worn from years of use. Inside, the floor was dark and uneven. In the center of the room was a square hearth in the floor, with an iron hook holding a kettle above it. On the raw-wood shelves were stacks of pottery, all earthy and unglazed. They looked made for daily use, not for decoration. It was impossible to tell if the place was abandoned or simply resting on a quiet weekend. We did not touch anything. We stood there quietly and absorbed it with respect.

That memory stayed with me for the rest of my life. It was my first encounter with the deeper layer of Japanese aesthetics, the quiet side that does not announce itself. The place taught me more about wabi-sabi (侘寂), shibui (渋い), and the natural simplicity of Japanese craft than anything I had read or would later study. It showed me that beauty can be found in things that are used, worn, and shaped by hand. There is a calm dignity in objects made slowly, without the intention of impressing anyone.

Today, places like this still exist. Japan has modern cities, but many old pottery villages have survived with their character unchanged. Some are active, some are semi-abandoned, and some operate quietly on the edge of the tourist map. When I return to Japan, I would like to visit them.

In Okinawa, Yachimun no Sato (やちむんの里) in Yomitan is perhaps the closest to what I saw. It has shops, but behind the storefronts are hillside kilns built the traditional way and workshops that look untouched for decades. In Naha, the old back streets of Tsuboya (壺屋) still hide narrow alleys and kilns from the Ryukyu era.

On the mainland, places like Shigaraki (信楽) and Bizen (備前) preserve the feeling of old pottery towns where time moves slowly. Kilns built into hills, wood-fired ovens climbing a slope, wooden workshops with dirt floors, and shelves lined with simple clay work. These places are not staged to look old. They are old.

Visiting them today as a tourist is different from stumbling across a quiet kiln in the Okinawan jungle, but it is worthwhile. The same quiet, the same tools, the same natural shapes. The same sense of stepping briefly into another time.

I would like to go back and see these places, not for nostalgia but to understand more deeply what I saw when I was young. Back then, I did not know the words for the aesthetics that shaped that moment. Now I do. And the memory has only grown more important over time.

03.d From Rebellious Zen Beginnings to Stoic Adulthood

When I arrived in Okinawa (沖縄), I already carried a strict internal framework. It did not come from philosophy. It came from three sources that shaped me long before I had words for any of it. Shotokan karate (松濤館空手) gave me discipline through repetition and clear rules. Growing up in Poland gave me toughness born of necessity, not theory. The Marine Corps added structure, hardship, and a demand for personal responsibility. This blend formed the backbone of how I looked at the world in my early twenties.

My first exposure to Zen (禅) came not from the dōjō (道場) but from my professor of ancient Chinese literature. He introduced me to books that opened a different kind of space in my mind. Zen did not resemble the discipline I knew. It did not demand worship or moral sorting. It did not divide life into categories or insist on correct answers. Instead, it quietly undermined the assumptions I brought with me.

We spent time discussing kōan (公案). They were not puzzles, and I quickly learned that trying to “solve” them missed the point. A kōan forces the mind to stop relying on familiar patterns. At twenty, I found this refreshing. Zen monks, primarily those described in older stories, felt like rebels. Their behavior did not match the image I had of a devoted Bukkyō (仏教) practitioner. They acted in ways that seemed contradictory, sometimes even wild. Instead of weakening Zen, this strengthened it for me. It showed me that clarity can appear in unexpected places. Back then, the idea of instant enlightenment seemed appealing.

In the Shotokan dōjō, we meditated in zazen (座禅) before class, but the practice never felt natural to me. The stillness was rigid and ceremonial. Later, I understood that walking meditation suited my temperament better. The monks of Mount Hiei or Hiei-san (比叡山), moving along forested paths year after year, represented a form of Zen that connected with my own rhythm. Simple movement, steady breathing, focused attention. No philosophy, just practice.

Wabi-sabi (侘寂) also became important, not as a decorative trend but as an attitude toward imperfection and time. Today, living in the Pacific Northwest, I see wabi-sabi in the landscape every day. Weathered wood, muted colors, fog, and the quiet acceptance of things as they are. This is how I approach daily improvement now. Fix what is broken, focus on one thing, simplify where possible.

I discovered Stoicism much later, around 2008, long after Okinawa. It helped me articulate ideas that Zen had introduced earlier, but through a different path. Zen gave me clarity in thinking, while Stoicism gave me language for discipline and steady self-improvement. People often compare the two systems; for me, they arrived in reverse order. Zen came first, through Okinawa and my professor. Stoicism came second, as an adult looking back.

The hardness that shaped me was already in place when I sat in the classrooms. Zen did not replace it. It sharpened it and gave it context. It taught me that strength can come from stepping outside rules, not only from following them. When I learned about wabi-sabi, Japanese arts, and poetry, I allowed myself compassion, though it took years to understand it. Both traditions matter to me now, but Zen entered my life first, at a moment when I was ready to hear it.

Mt. Si Shobudo dojo (正武道 マウント・サイ道場)

Mt. Si Shobudo dojo (正武道 マウント・サイ道場)

正 (sei) correct, proper, upright
武 (bu) martial, warrior
道 (dō) way, path
正武道 (Shōbudō) the Way of Correct Martial Practice
Mt. (マウント) pronounced as ma-u-n-to in katakana when written phonetically
サイ (Sai) katakana for “Si”
道場 (dōjō) training hall, place of practice

Early Paths That Shaped Me

Before arriving in Okinawa, several experiences prepared me for what I would eventually learn there. Karate was the first. It introduced me to routine, respect, and the quiet discipline of repeating movements until the body moved without hesitation. In the dōjō (道場), I learned early forms of etiquette, bowing, and focus. I also tried za-zen (座禅), even though seated meditation never suited me. Still, it taught me that steadiness of mind was something people trained for, much like stances or breathing.

My time in the Marine Corps reinforced many of the same ideas. The training was direct and demanding. It taught composure, responsibility, and doing each task with intention. I recognized that these values overlapped with the warrior mindset I had already encountered through budō (武道).

I was also drawn early on to the lives of Zen monks and the history surrounding them. Their endurance, attention, and sense of purpose stayed with me as I read more about their world. I saw similar threads in the roots of Okinawan karate and its connection to older Chinese and Shaolin practices. None of this made me a scholar, but it gave me a background that helped me pay attention once I reached Japan.

While living in Okinawa, I sometimes visited a Buddhist temple on quiet Saturday mornings. These visits were simple: incense, morning light, and a brief moment of calm. They left a lasting impression. After I returned to the United States, I slowly found my own balance between what I learned from Zen and what I appreciated in Greek Stoicism. Both offered steady ways to move through life with clarity and restraint. Over time, they naturally shaped my routines, without becoming a formal system.

These early influences did not define me, but they prepared me to understand Okinawa with a clearer mind and more patience.

Who Is This Book For?

This book is for readers who want to understand Okinawa through lived experience rather than tourism or scientific analysis. It is for people who care about how a place can shape habits, values, and the rhythm of daily life. What follows are small moments and steady observations, and how they changed me.

It will also help karate students understand the cultural foundation beneath their training. It is for those interested in discipline, culture, and craft, and for anyone who believes that philosophy is something lived.

I wrote this book for my daughters to understand me, because some places and moments stay with you long after you leave them.

awari wa hajimari 終わりは始まり

The phrase awari wa hajimari (終わりは始まり), "the end is the beginning," has become one of the core concepts in my life. For most, what are the undesirable chores or routines I see are actually small cycles of completion and renewal. 

I know at this point it is a widely popularized cliche, but the Marine Corps has taught me to make a perfect bed each morning. From the Japanese perspective, making the bed —or putting away a bed roll if you sleep on tatami —is not merely the end of the sleep cycle but the first meditative gesture towards the new day. Similarly, routines like a morning shower and shave make for a better day.

When I cook, I have a habit of opening jars of spices one by one, inhaling each aroma before deciding what belongs in the pot. I put the spice on the palm of my hand; do not use a spoon or a measuring cup. I never buy pre-mixed blends, because each spice has its own character and spirit. This small ritual is a moment of ichigo ichie (一期一会) — “one time, one meeting.” 

It is a conversation between nature and my senses, a way of meeting the present moment through something as ordinary as soup. I have come to understand that mindfulness does not require meditation cushions or temples; it happens in the kitchen, in the steam rising from a pot.

In Okinawa, where I once lived, this way of being seemed to exist naturally. The people there often said nankuru naisa (なんくるないさ) — “things will work out if you live sincerely.” It was not laziness or avoidance, but trust in the natural order of life. They treated their surroundings with quiet respect, believing that kami (神), the spirits of Shinto, reside in all things — the house, the tools, the garden, the wind. I feel this too. When I handle my kitchen knife or clean the counter, I sense I am tending to more than objects; I am honoring the spirit of the place. The home becomes a living jinja (神社), a personal shrine of gratitude.


I have also found this awareness in my work with tools, both physical and digital. I love Japanese joinery, not only for its precision but for the respect it shows toward wood and craftsmanship. The carpenter’s philosophy, shokunin kishitsu (職人気質), resonates with me as deeply as any teaching of Zen. To sharpen a chisel before beginning work is not preparation; it is part of the work itself. In the same way, I see software architecture — the structure before the code — as the sharpening of my craft. A well-tuned tool or a well-structured program allows the spirit of the task to flow without resistance. In both, mastery is less about performance and more about readiness.

These ideas have merged for me into a kind of personal dō (道) — a way of life. Whether I am practicing karate, writing code, or tending to a small bonsai, I feel the same rhythm. Each motion is shugyō (修行), daily discipline that refines not only skill but character. Each action ends and begins at once. The repetition is not dull; it is liberating. There is no “done,” only continuous practice.

Over time, awari wa hajimari has changed how I see everything. The end of the day, the last spoon washed, the final line of code written — none of these are true endings. They are bows, gestures of gratitude before the next beginning. This awareness brings a calm satisfaction, a kind of chōwa (調和), harmony between what I do and who I am. Life becomes less about achieving and more about participating in its cycles — the quiet flow of beginnings, endings, and the spaces between.

Okinawa: land of the happy immortals

I was most fortunate to live in Okinawa, Japan, for three years in my twenties. I was also very happy to study the cultural anthropology of East Asia while living there. It did not help my career as much as an MBA, a computer science degree, or a master’s in electrical engineering would have, but it shaped my life in a way I consider more meaningful.

When I arrived in Japan, all I knew was that karate, which I had already practiced for many years, came from Okinawa. I also already had a strong appreciation for Japanese culture at that time.

In Okinawa, I had the opportunity to witness the art of ikebana (flower arrangement) and the tea ceremony in settings of traditional Japanese wood architecture. I learned a lot about Buddhism at a local temple, fell in love with Zen, made friends with a katana blacksmith (another story), and, of course, experienced Matayoshi-ryu Kobudo.

Lifestyle in Okinawa was magical too. Outside of the southern part of the island where Naha is located, life was rural, with fields and houses in the valleys by the ocean, surrounded by lush tropical mountains. I learned that Okinawans live some of the longest lives in the world. There was no hurry, no “industrial diseases”; people went about their lives with a smile and good company.

Unlike in Poland of my childhood, people were polite and society-oriented. Not communists, just genuinely good neighbors. Adults exercised naturally, walking, cycling, or practicing martial arts—something I never saw growing up. Karate itself developed there, when local families, often of noble lineage, preserved and taught their own fighting styles.

The ocean air was clean, free from industrial pollution, and daily work still relied on hand tools and steady movement. Unlike in the U.S., people didn’t chase “fat-free” diets that do more harm than good. At a small, family-run izakaya (居酒屋), which was more a neighborhood pub than a restaurant, Mama-san would serve a hearty bowl of Okinawa soba (沖縄そば): noodles in pork broth with katsuobushi (鰹節, bonito umami), kelp, and vegetables, and she would offer something more substantial to drink alongside it.

I decided to reconnect with my formative past, so I started training again in Okinawan Shobudo karate, practicing arts, and re-reading The Okinawa Program longevity book.

At seventy, you are but a child,
At eighty, you are merely a youth,
and at ninety,
if the ancestors invite you into heaven,
ask them to wait until you are one hundred...
and then consider it.

Matayoshi Kobudō

Matayoshi Kobudō (又吉古武道) is the Okinawan weapons art system developed by the Matayoshi family, most notably by Matayoshi Shinkō (又吉眞光, 1888–1947) and his son Matayoshi Shinpō (又吉眞豊, 1921–1997).

The Matayoshi family studied both native Okinawan weapons traditions and Chinese martial systems during their travels through Fujian and Manchuria. Their approach combined practical weapon use with the philosophical and technical depth found in traditional budō.

古武道 (kobudō) means “ancient martial way.” The term refers to classical Okinawan weapons arts that predate modern karate, focusing on implements once used in everyday village life. Bo (staff), sai (trident), tonfa (mill handle), nunchaku, kama (sickle), and eku (oar) are among the core weapons.

The Matayoshi system preserved not only the techniques but also the spirit of this practice — blending bu (martial discipline) and dō (way) into a form of lifelong cultivation.

Kingai-ryū Matayoshi Kobudō

The term “Kingai-ryū” (金外流) appears within the Matayoshi lineage, sometimes used to describe the family’s integration of Chinese martial elements with Okinawan tradition. “Kingai” can be read as a reference to cross-cultural synthesis — a bridge between the golden (金) Okinawan heart and the external (外) influences of China.

Matayoshi Kobudō includes over fifteen weapons and more than thirty kata (型), depending on the organization. Each kata preserves a sequence of techniques, distancing and timing that reveal both combat function (bunkai) and deeper movement principles. Partner drills and kata bunkai remain the central methods of transmission, as the art values repetition, precision, and intent more than sparring spectacle.

The system represents the living continuity of Okinawan culture: simple tools turned into extensions of human intent, shaped by generations of practice.

Taekwondo and Okinawan karate

My kids decided to betrayed the "family" tradition and (they were) signed up for Taekwondo. The kids' classes are well run, the kids are having fun, and the high kicks are impressive.

Our local school, DMW Martial Arts in Snoqualmie, Washington, was founded in 2008 by Dan Cartan, Marcia Paul, and Warren Spencer. Based on the forms taught (Taegeuk and Koryo), the school likely practices a style used in the Olympics and associated with World Taekwondo (WT). There is an association with Grandmaster Hong Sik Kim, 9th dan, who was teaching in PNW.

Despite being developed in Korea and drawing on native Korean traditions, Taekwondo's modern form was shaped by the influx of Okinawan karate, particularly Shotokan, into Korea during and after the Japanese occupation (1910–1945). 

Many of the Korean masters who founded the original Taekwondo schools (known as kwans) had studied Japanese and Okinawan martial arts, including Shotokan karate, while living in Japan during the occupation period.

Borrowing of forms (poomsae): Early Taekwondo forms, or hyung, were based on or directly adapted from Shotokan karate's kata. For instance, some Shotokan kata, like Bassai and Tekki, were practiced in early Taekwondo under Koreanized names.

The linear striking techniques and belt-ranking system used in Taekwondo were directly inherited from karate. The white uniform, or dobok, is also derived from the karate gi.

After the end of the Japanese occupation, there was a strong movement to re-establish the Korean national identity. Early leaders of Taekwondo deliberately modified and rebranded these techniques to separate the Korean martial art from its Japanese influences. This included creating new forms (poomsae) and officially coining the term "Taekwondo" in 1955. 

Early Korean Karate Lineages and Founders

Master	School (Kwan)	Karate Training
Won Kuk Lee	Chung Do Kwan	Studied Shotokan karate under Gichin and Gigō Funakoshi while attending university in Japan. He brought karate to Korea in 1944.
Choi Hong Hi	Oh Do Kwan and International Taekwon-Do Federation (ITF)	Studied Shotokan karate while in Japan and held a 2nd dan black belt. He later denied studying Taekkyon, an ancient Korean art, and admitted that karate was the only martial arts influence he could verify.
Ro Byung Jik	Song Moo Kwan	Studied Shotokan karate in Japan, attending the same university as Won Kuk Lee.
Byung In Yoon	Chang Moo Kwan	Studied Shudokan karate directly under its founder, Toyama Kanken.
Kae Byung Yun	Ji Do Kwan	Studied Shudokan karate and later Shito-ryu karate, from which he received a 7th dan certificate.
Hwang Kee	Moo Duk Kwan (Tang Soo Do)	Studied martial arts by reading books on Okinawan karate, in addition to Chinese fighting systems. The original forms (poomsae) and techniques of his Tang Soo Do style were derived from Shotokan karate.

Okinawa book introduction

The three years I spent in Okinawa, Japan, as a youngster straight out of high school became so important to me that I call them my formative years. During that period, I studied Cultural Anthropology of East Asia with a specialization in Japanese Studies. My studies, after returning to the United States, never ended, and over the last 30 years, I have come to understand many concepts I did not grasp in Okinawa. I have read countless books and written many blog posts on the subject. I strongly feel the spirit of the place and a deep longing for its people, even if today no one around me understands what I mean.

I wrote this book for myself to remember, and for my daughters, if in the future they care to understand me.

Most of all, I write to the place itself. The place is not an abstract idea or just a name. Every coral reef, every mountain, and every waterfall holds a sacred spirit called kami, which I want to respect and celebrate in this book.

Thank you to the people I knew back then. You were the kindest people I have met in my whole life. To the people I did not know, thank you for putting up with us foreigners, and sorry for any trouble we caused.

I want to thank my teacher, Dr. Turner-Sacher, who steered me onto the path of anthropology. You changed my life for the better.

My interest is in native cultural anthropology. I will not write about wars or the terrible Battle of Okinawa, nor about American influence on Japanese culture during the post-war occupation.

I want to capture the delicate nuance and warmth that I feel when I think of the culture of those islands.

We are all descendants of voyagers

Last night, as a fitting conclusion to our family trip to Maui, I re-watched Moana, probably my favorite movie of the kids’ genre. 

I can very much identify with the story. 

Similarly, my childhood love for the ocean and underwater diving started very early with “Oum, Le Dauphine Blanc” stories.

That was me as a kid… 

Watch the original series (in French) on YouTube

Ian, Marina, Uncle Patric, who was an oceanographer or marine biologist, exotic animals, and scuba diving in the Polynesian Islands.

Back in Europe, still in high school, I traveled to Jagiellonian University, where I studied with a professor of the botanical department. I took private lessons in biology with the full intent of becoming a biologist. 

I ended up a U.S. Marine, East Asian anthropology student, and an advanced SCUBA diver on the beautiful island of Okinawa for the most meaningful years of my youth.

Today, I am more like old Uncle Partic, not Ian, but the dream lives on.

I have dreamed about traveling and exploring my whole life. 

I always wanted more than sunset sailboat cruises; I wanted to go somewhere to make a passage.

As a kid, I read books about explorers, starting with Jules Verne (properly pronounced żul vern). 

Returning to the quote from Moana and the title of this post: 

"We are all descendants of voyagers."

Most people, especially those comfortable with their lives at home, in the city, or in the village, do not realize that we are truly descendants of explorers. Without the drive to explore and travel, humans would likely not survive the bottlenecks of the evolutionary process. I discuss the eruption of volcano Toba 70,000 years ago in a separate post.

In Polish, we have a saying similar to "travels (will) educate (you)." It was also customary to send youth to be educated abroad, to become "cosmopolitan," as my mother would call it. The Greek word for cosmopolitan means a person from many cities.

The opposite of cosmopolitan is a beet (root), or if you prefer radish (root), in Polish "burak," describing a people who are settled, or planted, in their local opinions to the point they are red on the face.

So instead of treating vacations as glam, Instagram swimming pool-side photo shoot opportunities take kids and show them new places and cultures.

Okinawan Karate

Prolog

I should have written about Okinawan Karate (琉球空手, Ryūkyū karate) years ago, right after returning after 3 years in Okinawa, but I let life flow on, often without enough reflection. However, Okinawan practice is a personal and family affair (kizuna, 絆), practiced in out-of-sight courtyards (agariya 上り屋), and it requires personal touch.

English-Japanese vocabulary

I am using Japanese vocabulary because it is the default language in all traditional Karate, Kobudo, Aikido, etc., schools, and it creates a bridge of understanding among international students. 

I use rōmaji, kanji, and hiragana, e.g. karate, 空手 (からて) meaning "empty hand".

- Rōmaji is Japanese pronunciation written in the Latin (Roman) alphabet, not English pronunciation.

- Kanji are Chinese and Japanese word symbols

- Hiragana is the Japanese script for the most accurate pronunciation 

For example, "karate" is pronounced か ka ら ra て te, where te is pronounced as "television", not the drink tea. It is highly worthwhile to learn Hiragana.

Introduction

My adopted adult name is Uki, 宇氣 (うき), which means "universe-space energy." I grew up studying Shotokan karate (松涛館) under (hard core) Józef Rączka Sensei, 7 dan (先生, 七段), in Poland. After I moved to the USA and joined the USMC, I was introduced to the Marine Corps Martial Arts Program (MCMAP). While in the USMC, for 3 years, I lived in Okinawa, Japan, much of that time outside of the base, where I was exposed to Japanese and Okinawan Ryukyu (琉球) culture.

While the above resume looks very martial, I am primarily interested in karate's physical and mental health, cultural, and personal betterment aspects.

I studied the cultural anthropology of East Asia while in Japan. After leaving the service, I studied Aikido (合気道) while staying fit by practicing karate. Since returning, I have read and studied a library-worth of works on Japanese culture, human behaviour, and history. 

Okinawa is designated a "blue zone," so I learned about the lifestyle, longevity, and diet of its people.

It is impossible to overstate that all of the above became the most significant influencers on my life, my body, and my mind. 

I consider my growing up in Poland as "primary education" and my time in the USMC in Okinawa, Japan, as my "formative" years. The rest of my life in the USA, I consider as a long process of "polishing"  (migaki, 磨き) of my character.

The origins of self-defence arts

The spiritual origins of this story date back a few thousand years, but for now, I will have to skip the Vedas, India, Buddha's life, and start with Bodhidharma (達摩, だるま), who, among others,  in the 5th–6th Century brought Hindu-derived Buddhist culture, meditation, concepts of "chi" energy qigong (氣功), and breathing techniques from India to China. 

Chinese Shaolin Kung-Fu

Over time, Buddhism has established itself in China alongside Buddhist monasticism, asceticism, and rigorous Zen practice.

In China's political situation, Buddhist monasteries had to protect themselves, and warrior monks emerged with a strong focus on non-aggression and self-defence. 

The particular place of interest was the Southern Shaolin Temple (南少林, Nán Shàolín) in Fujian Province, China, where warrior monks practiced empty-hand and weapons techniques. 

After the South Shaolin Temple was destroyed, the monks went into hiding, where they practiced their Five Ancestor Kung-Fu in "Incense Shops". 

The Okinawan Shorin-ryū literally means Shaolin tradition.

Okinawan Chinese Hand (唐手)

The original name for "karate" in Okinawa was "ku-wa-t'" in the local Ryukyuan language (琉球語, Ryūkyū-go). Please note that the final letter "t" is soft "tĭ" and barely pronounced, like in American "but."

The kanji for "karate" 空手, meaning "empty hand," is a contemporary term. 

Historically, Okinawans used 唐手, also pronounced "karate" in Japanese, meaning "Chinese hand", but this name was not appealing to imperial authorities in the 1930s.

Sensei Sakugawa Kanga (坂川虎山)

The legend begins at dusk in the Tsurumichi district of Shuri, where a young Sakugawa Kanga practiced beneath the flickering light of shochu lanterns. Few knew then that this son of a humble farmer would become the architect of Shorin-ryū, the system that birthed modern karate.

Sakugawa’s fate turned when he became a retainer to Peichin Takemoto (a peichin was an Okinawan noble, akin to a European baron). Unlike the samurai of Japan, Takemoto rejected rigid hierarchy: "A man’s worth is measured by his character, not his birth."

Under Takemoto, Sakugawa trained in Okinawan ti (手), using tools like the sai, a three-pronged weapon designed to disable an opponent’s sword. Yet something was missing.

In 1760, Sakugawa embarked on a voyage to Fujian, China, where he sought enlightenment at the Southern Shaolin Temple. 

At Shaolin, he found what he sought under Kangryū (康琉), a warrior-monk who taught the fluidity of White Crane Fist (白鶴拳) and the explosive power of the Five Ancestors Style (五祖拳).

Returning to Okinawa, Sakugawa synthesized these arts into a new system.
His kata Niseishi (二十一手) became the first to blend Chinese techniques with Okinawan circular blocks.

He taught Matsumura Sōkon, who would later codify Shorin-ryū. 

Sakugawa died in 1815, his tombstone bearing no grand epitaph, just "The Way of the Karate Man."
His legacy lives on in the Niseishi kata, still practiced today.

Sensei Matsumura Sōkon

Sensei Matsumura Sōkon (松村宗棍, 1809–1896) is the founder of Seito (正統, "the orthodox tradition") and a cornerstone of Okinawan karate. As a shizoku (士族, a warrior class akin to samurai), he served three Ryukyu kings: Shō Kōku (尚灝), Shō Iku (尚育), and Shō Tai (尚泰).

His martial arts pedigree is legendary. After training under Wang Ji (王志, Ōji) at the Southern Shaolin Temple in Fujian, China, he studied under Sakugawa Kanga (坂川虎山), the originator of Shorin-ryū. Matsumura synthesized these influences into Shuri-te (首里手), a distinctive blend of Shaolin’s linear strikes and Okinawan circular flows.

His legacy extends through his students, notably Ankō Asato (糸洲安恒), after whom the Ankō-ryū style is named. Matsumura also created foundational kata like Seisan (十三手, "Thirteen Hands"), which emphasized practical combat techniques. Other kata such as Hakkaku (八角, "Eight Corners") and Chintō (鎮東, "Pacify the East") became pillars of modern karate.

Matsumura’s disciplined approach earned him the moniker "Bushi Matsumura"—a title reflecting his samurai-like rigor, uncommon among Okinawan warriors of his time.

Ankō Asato: The Merchant Warrior

The year was 1850 when a young Okinawan merchant named Ankō Asato (糸洲安恒) knelt before Matsumura Sōkon in the dim light of a Shuri dojo. Unlike other students, Asato wasn’t born to Okinawan nobility or the warrior class. His family traded silk and herbs between Okinawa and Fujian, China—a life of privilege that left him restless.

Matsumura saw something in the merchant’s son. Asato trained relentlessly, but his approach was different: "Fighting is not only for samurai," he often said. His kata Seipai (十八手) became legendary for its close-range strikes, designed to neutralize an opponent quickly—useful in the crowded streets of Naha.

Asato’s innovations didn’t end there. He developed breathing techniques that harmonized Shaolin’s qi (氣) with Okinawan circular motions. His students called this "the way of breathing"—a precursor to modern ki (気) training. One such student was Chōjun Miyagi, who later founded Goju-ryū (剛柔流). Under Asato’s guidance, Miyagi mastered the Sanchin (三戦) kata, which became Goju-ryū’s cornerstone.

Asato’s legacy extended beyond kata. He taught that karate should be "a way of life," not just a combat technique. His philosophy resonated with Okinawan commoners, who saw martial arts as a means of self-betterment rather than as a means of battlefield dominance. Even today, his Ankō-ryū style lives on at the Shōrinji Temple in Naha, where his disciples have preserved his teachings.

When Asato died in 1906, his grave bore a simple inscription: "The way of karate is endless."

Sensei Chōjun Miyagi

The year was 1895 when a young Chōjun Miyagi first entered Ankō Asato’s dojo in Naha. He wasn’t like the other students—no warrior blood ran through his veins, just the quiet determination of a merchant’s son. Asato saw something in Miyagi and took him under his wing.

Under Asato, Miyagi mastered Sanchin, not as a physical exercise but as a meditation. The kata’s slow, deliberate motions taught him that karate was a way of life, not just combat. When Asato died in 1906, Miyagi felt a hole open inside him—but he knew his path wasn’t finished.

At 20, he sailed for Fujian, China, where the monks of the White Crane Fist school recognized his potential. "Your fists carry Okinawa’s spirit," they told him, "but your heart is Chinese." The monks taught him to harmonize harsh strikes with fluid circular motions—a balance he’d later call Goju (剛柔, "hard-soft").

Returning to Okinawa, Miyagi synthesized his knowledge into Goju-ryū. His system wasn’t just about fighting; it was about breathing (ibuki), balance, and the flow of life energy. He taught that karate should be a philosophy, not just a sport.

In 1928, Miyagi made history by demonstrating karate in Tokyo—a move that brought Okinawan martial arts to the Japanese mainland. Yet fame never interested him.

Miyagi’s final years were spent refining his teachings. He emphasized the dantō (段当, "right path")—a way of life rooted in discipline and harmony. When he passed away in 1953, his students carried on his vision.

Today, Goju-ryū stands as a testament to Miyagi’s belief: "Karate is not just a martial art. It is the way of life."

Okinawa Hiji Falls

I have regularly visited Hiji Falls since 1995, when I lived in Okinawa for three years. It was long before they built wooden walkways and official trails at Hiji Falls. It was just me and a faint footpath weaving through the jungle, slick with mud, cool from the river in a dense, subtropical foliage.

On so many times, I’d wander to the falls barefoot, letting the warm, damp earth of the path cushion each step. I would prefer to go there early in the morning. Centipedes crawled on the ground, and large banana spiders had their 6-foot diameter nets spun across the path. I quickly learned to respect, but not fear, them. I do not remember ever being bitten by mosquitoes. Sometimes, the path was over river stones. The falls were deep in the hills. By the time I reached the waterfall, the outside world no longer mattered. There was just the steady pulse of crashing water, echoing off the rocks and trees. Below the falls, there was a 26-foot deep pool of water.

My favorite ritual was sitting directly beneath the 85-foot waterfall, letting the water pound across my shoulders, almost like a half-wild meditation. It reminded me of those Buddhist monks taking in the flow of nature’s power and beauty. In that moment, time blurred the present and the past. I could stay there for minutes or hours, carried by the waterfall’s steady drumbeat and the hush of the jungle around me.

I am writing this after I left Okinawa years ago, but whenever I think back on Hiji Falls, I can feel longing for the beauty and memories I have left there. It’s as if that quiet magic, hidden under the canopy, became a part of me—and though the trail may be more civilized now, I’ll always treasure the raw, unfiltered way I first experienced it.