Chapter 9, The Censor

In the early years of research into subliminal phenomena scientists discovered something peculiar. They conducted an experiment using two electrodes and tried to determine how close the two electrodes would have to be placed on a person's skin for that person to feel the two shocks as a single one.

The experimenters began by placing the electrodes far apart from each other on the subject's back so the he could clearly and separately feel the shocks. Then, as he no doubt wondered whether taxpayers' money had been used to fund such a project, the experimenters kept moving the electrodes closer and closer until they reached an area in which the person simply could not determine whether he was receiving one shock or two. In other words, the electrodes were so close their impact areas coincided in the sort of union that Venn diagrams so neatly illustrate.

Then the scientists played a kind of game. Confining themselves to just this narrow area, they shocked the subject sometimes with two electrodes and sometimes with only one and asked him to guess immediately - without thinking about it - whether they had used one or two electrodes. Instead of being 50% accurate, the statistical probability, the subject was amazingly accurate. When he had to respond spontaneously, he somehow knew the difference.

Something in the subject's brain had the power to raise or lower perceptual thresholds. Sigmund Freud wasn't surprised by this peculiar "something" in the brain. He had postulated its existence. He called it The Censor. In Zen we call it our Buddha Self.

This spontaneous state is precisely the egoless state that a martial artist strives to attain. An old Buddhist story helps to further clarify the difference between spontaneous and contrived thought:

A novice approaches a Zen master and begs to be accepted as a disciple. "I'll accept you," says the master, "providing you can say one word of truth. Come back when you can tell me a truthful word."

The novice leaves and begins to think and think until he decides he's got the right word. He returns to the master and kneels before him. At the master's nod, the novice softly intones, "Buddha."

"Get out, you fool!" shouts the master, "and don't come back until you can utter a truthful word!"

Again the novice thinks and thinks and decides upon another word. He returns to the master, kneels, and whispers, "Love."

"Get out, you fool!" shouts the master. "Don't come back until you can utter a truthful word!" The novice thinks some more and finally decides upon another word. He returns to the master and as he kneels, the master kicks him. "Ouch!" cries the novice and jumps up.

"Sit down," says the master. "You have just uttered a truthful word."

Thoughts generated in ego-consciousness are usually self- serving, compromised thoughts. They are products of deliberation and as such have a manufacturing time-line. Spontaneous intuitions, simply because they occur without considerations of advantage or detriment, cannot be devious and, taking no detours, are direct, immediate, and "true".

In a monastic setting, training is an uninterrupted and comprehensive process. One area or another of a novice's development is always being addressed. Just how the spiritual curriculum proceeds is often a mystery to the harried novice, but his martial arts' training is usually clear and unambiguous. One approach, which has had a long and colorful literary career, is typified in the following anecdote:

A novice enters a monastery prepared for some serious theological instruction only to discover that every monk in the institution has been given permission to strike or kick him not only at will, but at the most unexpected times, and in the most unlikely places. He may be walking in the garden, or working, or eating, or even sitting in the privy, when suddenly a passing monk may strike him. The blows are hard and so randomly delivered and from such a variety of sources, that the novice, disheartened and battered by what seems to be perpetual hazing, quickly doubts that he will survive his freshman year - or even the first 1/12th of it. Since he cannot initiate an attack, he finds himself in a curious situation: before he can counter a strike, he must first be able to block it - and this, as yet, he lacks the skill to do. Unfortunately, he possesses no firearms.

Inside or out of a monastery, the best way to deal with a problem is, of course, to avoid it; and the novice quickly learns how to determine when a strike is imminent. He studies the approaching monk. Is his expression different just before he actually strikes from the way it is when he passes without striking? When he does strike, will it be from the right or left? With fist or open hand? From above or below? Will the blow be a kick? From which direction? What balancing movements will the monk make before he kicks? At what precise point is the monk looking when he strikes? The novice becomes extremely observant and soon compiles a compendium of the most incredibly subtle mannerisms about his potential attackers. No nuance goes unnoticed. He has no choice in this: he cannot maintain the tension of constant alarm. A warning siren that doesn't cease, ceases to be a warning siren.

All animals have an attack mode, attitude, or poise; and humans, being members of the animal kingdom, share this behavioral trait. Discretion is still the better part of valor; and an accurate reading of a potential opponent's intentions is better than a constant state of Code Red readiness. So the novice submits to a training game, a contest of wits which requires enormous concentration; and concentration, as we know, is the first step in meditation.

It is at this point that the path of the merely skillful diverges from the masterful. The sine qua non of the true martial artist is his peaceful demeanor and peace, as it happens, is Buddhism's most vaunted state. While Buddhists do not hold universal patent rights on Peacefulness, if any one group can be said to revel in it, to prize it more highly than any other state, Buddhists are that group. Zen Buddhists, be they martial artists of the most deadly and consummate skill, are nothing if not tranquil.

On the surface, paradox defines the incongruity: the peaceful warrior. Do these opposed characteristics function in spite of each other or because of each other? Let us take an admittedly oversimplified look at their baffling contrariness.

Just as the brain has two independent but cooperative halves, the body has two autonomic nervous systems: the sympathetic and parasympathetic.

The sympathetic nervous system is activated in the cause of fear, anger, pain, and, oddly enough, seminal ejaculation. By releasing adrenalin into the bloodstream, an increase in heart rate and blood pressure and a dryness of mouth is produced. The concomitant mind-set is one of self-preservation, and the attention contracts and focuses upon egoistic demands. Sensory input diminishes. We do not savor the fragrance of flowers when we are running for our lives. We do not note which key we are screaming in. And the Gucci silk we pierce with a steel blade we rend without due esthetic appreciation.

The parasympathetic nervous system is activated for feeding and for sexual arousal. Blood pressure and heart rates drop and we secrete saliva to the point of drooling. Long wet kisses or filet mignon with sauce Bernaise: juicy mouths attend them both. Blood is needed elsewhere than in the extremities of brain and feet and everything slows down to let us enjoy its midway pooling. The concomitant mind-set is convivial, expansive and sensory-appreciative. We smell the perfume. We taste the cinnamon. We hear the steak's tiniest sizzle or feel the slightest wisp of breath in our ear. In short, we are completely aware of the moment as we relish and linger in it. Assuming we are not psychopaths or perverts, we are joyously peaceful and in no way looking for a fight.

It should come as no surprise, then, that meditation techniques facilitate parasympathetic responses, that hunger and the preparation for feeding are excellent inducements to sharpen sensory awareness, and that martial artists or meditators are always advised not to practice "on a full stomach".

As the body relaxes, the mind expands. Brain activity slows down in order to increase awareness. Brain waves go from the frazzled, albeit normal, beta rhythms of ordinary or alerted consciousness to slower more sensory-aware alpha and theta rhythms, the frequencies associated with states of deep relaxation, subliminal awareness, and the vaunted Meditative Zone. Clearly, a combatant who experiences fear or pain, inhibits his ability to enter the Zone.

The first of the necessary disciplines the martial artist must master is Pranayama, the science of controlling breath and circulating energy. Every training program incorporates its rigorous practice. Each martial arts' "form" must be learned with the appropriate breath inhalation and exhalation in concert with the choreographed movements. Naturally, these forms must be practiced until they are performed reflexively. Just as we frequently operate a car in traffic, braking for red lights and avoiding pedestrians as often as possible, with all our movements made automatically - our minds being engrossed in other scenarios, so the martial arts' students must learn the various forms so thoroughly that he can perform them unconsciously.

Controlled breathing invariably slows down breathing rates, initiating a biofeedback loop: because breathing slows, heart rates decline, blood pressure drops, awareness increases, and in this relaxed, non-threatened state, the meditative Zone may be entered. The martial artist must maintain a peaceful demeanor since before his mind can enter the meditative state's higher zone of total awareness it must pass through this "base-camp" stage of relaxation. Tension, a product of fear, anxiety, aggressiveness, pain, or anger, will cause his sympathetic nervous system to secrete adrenalin; and this will prohibit him from experiencing this necessary relaxed awareness. All subliminal lines of information will thereby be obliterated.

Preserving the peace is a singularly militaristic poise.

The student's Buddhist training complements his physical regimen. The Eightfold Path requires him to scrutinize all of his actions to determine if they are noninjurious, generous, self-reliant, and directed towards his maturity.

The student who neglects his spiritual development stultifies his progress, arrests it at the level of the consciously athletic. He must be loving. He must truly care about the welfare of all other human beings. He must be committed to their salvation as well as his own. He must be receptive to their needs, gentle in his help, and generous in forgiveness. In all this he must personify humility. This is basic Buddhist training regardless of whether the discipline is flower arranging, tea service, archery, or swordsmanship. Therefore, it is not from entirely altruistic motives that the martial arts' master insists upon the essentially passive code of Wushidao/Bushido. The impervious and imperturbable fighter must get himself into the egoless Zone of absolute awareness, i.e., the pure meditative state.

Accordingly, in any confrontational situation, the master instructs his disciples to achieve a lessening of tension: The warrior must first actively strive to avoid conflict by gracefully removing himself from the argumentative equation.

If his antagonist persists, he must try to blunt the edge of his anger by apologizing for inadvertently having given offense. He should assure his antagonist that he had no intention to inconvenience or discomfit him and suggest peaceful ways to resolve the dispute.

If the antagonist physically attacks, only minimal force to repel the attack should be used. The martial artist should merely defend or, if necessary, disarm, but not counter attack.

All effort should be made to let the antagonist retain his honor. Conciliatory gestures and statements should again be made.

If the antagonist proceeds with an obvious intent to kill, he should be dispatched cleanly and with appropriate regret. At this point, the warrior is blameless. All will respect him. None will condemn. He won't need a lawyer and he won't have to worry about vendettas.

In addition to pranayama, the martial artist must, of course, master Pratyahara: the ability to eliminate any sensations which he wishes to exclude. For example, he does not want to feel pain (since pain provokes an adrenalin response), and so he practices entering those trance states which produce "anesthesia" effects; and, just as a dentist can use hypnosis to control blood flow, the martial artist knows that he can staunch his wounds by the same trance-induced method. He can also use the trance state to help him to overcome the effects of heat, thirst, and fatigue.

This is the totality of martial arts' training: the inculcation of Buddhist values of love and understanding; the acquisition of a natural state of vigilance; the proficiency in trance-induced hyperesthesia (the ability to respond to subliminal data); the disciplined obedience to rules of engagement; the clear and unequivocal adherence to peaceful objectives; the embrace of humility which fosters the control of mind and body; and the combat skills acquired through constant practice.

The secret of the master is that he melts into his skill a coolness of mind. He never becomes emotional. His focus is upon reconciliation and not upon egotistical preservation or posturing. If he can't quite feel genuine love for his antagonist, he can at least feel respect and sympathy. He finds more honor in yielding than in defeating. The attitude of the Zen warrior is achieved and maintained in training's Mobius strip - one side martial and the other spiritual - in an ever- circling progression traced endlessly in the disciplines of meditation.

This is adherence to the Paladin's Creed: Wushidao.

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