In the practice of Iaido (居合道), Battodo (抜刀道), and Kenjutsu (剣術), we often focus on the physical alignment of the blade or the precision of a cut. But for the practitioner of Mugai-ryū (無外流), the ultimate challenge lies within the mind. At the core of our lineage is the concept of Muga (無我).
The Origin: A Poem of Enlightenment
The name of our school itself is rooted in a profound spiritual realization. The founder, Tsuji Gettan Sukemochi (辻月丹資茂), reached enlightenment after years of deep Zen meditation at the Kyōun-ji (慶運寺) temple.
The name “Mugai” comes from a verse in a poem he received from his master:
Ippō mugai nashi (一法無外)
Nyoze dō dō dō (如是道同)
This translates to: “There is no law outside the One Truth; It is everywhere the same.” The word Mugai (無外) means “Nothing Outside.” It implies that there is no separation between the self and the universe. From this flows Muga (無我) — the state of Non-Self.
The famous poem that helped found Mugai-ryu
What is Muga (無我)?
In Japanese, Mu (無) means “nothingness” or “void,” and Ga (我) means “self” or “ego.”
In our daily lives, our Ego (我) is always busy. It judges our performance, fears failure, and seeks praise. In Budō (武道), this ego is an obstacle. It creates tension in the shoulders and hesitation in the spirit.Muga is the process of stripping away this “I.” When the ego is absent, there is no “me” trying to cut; there is only the movement happening in perfect synchronicity.
Muga in Battodo (抜刀道): The Pure Cut
In Battodo, when facing a Wara (藁 – straw mat), the ego often whispers: “Don’t miss,” or “Make a perfect angle.” This thought creates a physical “hitch.”
By seeking Muga, we aim for Mushin (無心 – empty mind). In this state, the Tenouchi (手の内 – the grip) and the Maai (間合い – the distance) are not calculated by the brain, but felt by the soul. The sword becomes an extension of your nervous system, and the cut becomes an effortless expression of reality.
Muga in Kenjutsu (剣術): The Absence of the Opponent
While Iaido is often a solitary pursuit, it is in Kenjutsu (the art of the sword in combat) that Muga undergoes its most intense test. When facing an opponent in Kumitachi (組太刀), the ego naturally reacts with fear or aggression.
In a state of Muga, the opponent is no longer viewed as an enemy to be defeated, but as a mirror. You do not “react” to a strike; instead, your body moves in Shizen-tai (自然体 – natural posture) before a conscious thought even arises. This is the expression of Munami (無波 – “no waves”), where the mind remains undisturbed. By losing the “Self” (Ga), you also lose the “Other.” The dualism of winning and losing simply ceases to exist.
My conclusion with the Ken Zen Ichi Nyo (剣禅一如) Concept
My Liomugai journey is a journey toward this “Non-Self.” Each Kata (型) is an opportunity to shed a layer of vanity. We do not polish the steel to see our reflection; we polish it to understand the void behind the reflection.
As the old saying goes: Ken Zen Ichi Nyo (剣禅一如) — The Sword and Zen are one. Through the discipline of the blade, we find the silence within.
Most travelers visit Hiroshima to witness the scars of history—an essential pilgrimage for anyone visiting Japan. Walking through the city is an experience beyond “emotional”; it is difficult to pin down a single feeling when the mood shifts like a tide. Yet, as a practitioner of Budo, I found that a single day here offers something deeper: a profound lesson in Resilience (see my post on Fudōshin) and the evolution from the “Sword that Kills” to the “Sword that Gives Life.” If you have 24 hours in this rebuilt metropolis, here is how to navigate its complex emotional and historical layers.
If you have 24 hours in this rebuilt metropolis, here is how to navigate the emotional and historical layers of Hiroshima.
1. The Genbaku Dome: A Frozen Moment in Time
I started my journey at the A-Bomb Dome. It is a heavy, visceral sight. This structure—the former Prefectural Industrial Promotion Hall—was nearly at the epicenter of the 1945 explosion. Though the rest of Hiroshima was flattened, these columns refused to fall. Eighty years later, the Dome remains frozen in time: a stark reminder of total destruction and an icon of human resilience.
My Tip: Arrive early (before 8:30 AM). The morning light hitting the exposed red bricks against the quiet flow of the Motoyasu River creates a space for silent contemplation before the crowds arrive.
2. The Peace Memorial Park: The Heart of Remembrance
Crossing the bridge from the Dome, you enter the Peace Memorial Park. This isn’t just a park; it’s a sacred space designed by the legendary architect Kenzo Tange.
The Cenotaph and the Flame of Peace
I spent a long time at the Cenotaph for the A-Bomb Victims. Its saddle-like shape is designed to shield the souls of the deceased. If you stand at the center, you can look through the arch to see the Flame of Peace.
The Vow: This flame will burn until every nuclear weapon on earth has been dismantled.
As a martial artist, this site resonates with the concept of Katsujinken (活人剣)—the “Life-Giving Sword.” It reminds us that the ultimate goal of mastery is not conflict, but the preservation of peace.
3. Lunch: Hiroshima-style Okonomiyaki
You cannot visit Hiroshima without trying their soul food. Unlike the Osaka version, Hiroshima Okonomiyaki is layered, featuring noodles (soba or udon) and a generous portion of cabbage.
My Tip: Head to Okonomimura (Okonomi Village), a building with three floors of small stalls. It’s the perfect “Ha” (break) in your day to refuel.
4. Hiroshima Castle: The Return of the Carp
After the emotional weight of the morning, I walked 15 minutes north to Hiroshima Castle (Rijō or “Carp Castle”).
Originally built in 1589, the castle was a total loss in 1945. However, its 1958 reconstruction is a stunning tribute to the city’s samurai origins.
What to Look For:
The Survival Trees (A-Bombed Trees): Inside the castle walls, look for the Eucalyptus and Willow trees. Despite being charred by the heat of the blast, they survived and continue to grow today. They are living symbols of the samurai spirit—unyielding and rooted.
The Museum: The interior of the keep houses an excellent collection of Edo-period armor and katanas. For an Iaidoka, seeing the local craftsmanship and the history of the Asano clan is a must.
The View: Climb to the 5th floor for a panoramic view of the city. Seeing the modern skyline from a traditional fortress gives you a true sense of Japan’s ability to honor the past while embracing the future.
Practical Information for Your Visit
Location
Suggested Time
Entry Fee
Genbaku Dome
30 mins
Free
Peace Museum
2 hours
200 JPY
Hiroshima Castle
1.5 hours
370 JPY
How to get around: Use the Hiroden (the iconic streetcars). They are a living piece of history—some of the trams running today actually survived the 1945 bombing and were back on the tracks just three days later.
My day in Hiroshima followed the rhythm of Jo-Ha-Kyū:
Jo (Begin): The somber, slow realization at the Dome.
Ha (Break): The movement through the park and the vibrant energy of the city streets.
Kyū (Fast/End): The ascent to the top of the Castle, looking out over a city that refused to die.
If you are intreseted in the Budo Jo Ha Kyū concept, please have a look on my dedicated post.
Hiroshima is more than a tragic history; it is a vibrant, green, and welcoming city that embodies the very essence of Budo: the strength to remain calm and kind, no matter what storms have passed.
If you have ever watched a Mugai-ryū master perform a kata, or if you have attended a tea ceremony (Chanoyu), you have likely sensed an invisible progression. It isn’t a constant speed, but rather a wave that builds, breaks, and stops dead.
This ternary rhythm is Jo-Ha-Kyū (序破急).
Far more than a simple technical instruction, it is an aesthetic and spiritual law that governs almost all traditional Japanese arts. Let’s dive into this essential concept to understand the dynamics of the sword and Japanese culture.
What is Jo-Ha-Kyū?
The term is composed of three kanji that define the phases of a movement or an event:
Jo (序) – The Introduction: Begin slowly, with restraint. This is the moment of concentration, setting the posture, and grounding the breath.
Ha (破) – The Rupture: The movement develops and accelerates. One “breaks” the initial calm. This is where the action takes shape and unfolds.
Kyū (急) – The Culmination: A sudden, lightning-fast acceleration—the peak of the movement that ends sharply and decisively.
Did you know? This concept was theorized by Zeami Motokiyo, the founder of Noh theater, in the 14th century. He believed that everything in the universe—from a bird’s song to an entire play—followed this natural rhythm.
Jo-Ha-Kyū in Mugai-ryū Iaihyōdō
In Iaido, and particularly in the minimalist style of Mugai-ryū, Jo-Ha-Kyū is what distinguishes a mechanical execution from a demonstration of life (Sei).
The Art of Nukitsuke (Drawing the Sword)
Watch a Nukitsuke closely:
Jo: The hand grasps the Tsuka, the thumb releases the Tsuba (Koiguchi no kirikata). It is an internal movement, almost invisible.
Ha: The sword exits the scabbard (Saza-muchi), speed increasing as the blade glides.
Kyū: The tip clears the scabbard and strikes in a flash. The stop is instantaneous, charged with energy (Zanshin).
If you maintain the same speed from start to finish, your movement becomes predictable. Jo-Ha-Kyū allows you to surprise your opponent by shattering their own rhythm.
A Universal Aesthetic: From Noh Theater to the Tea Ceremony
The genius of this concept is that it applies to fields that seem polar opposites to combat.
In Noh Theater
A Noh play begins with slow, solemn gestures. Gradually, the movements become more complex, the music intensifies, finally ending in a fast, percussive dance before the final silence. Without this rhythm, the audience would lose focus; with it, they are transported into a trance.
In the Way of Tea (Sado)
Even when serving a bowl of matcha, the master follows this curve:
Jo: The slow and meticulous cleaning of the utensils.
Ha: The preparation of the tea, with more fluid and dynamic movements.
Kyū: The final gesture of presenting the bowl, precise and without hesitation.
Why is it important for your practice?
Mastering Jo-Ha-Kyū means learning to manage your energy.
In our modern lives, we are often in permanent “Kyū” mode (urgency, speed). Practicing Iaido forces us to rediscover “Jo” (preparation, conscious slowness).
Dojo Tips:
Don’t rush: A start that is too fast often ruins the end of the movement.
Breathe: Use the inhale for Jo, the breath-hold or controlled exhale for Ha, and the explosive exhale for Kyū.
Observe nature: Think of a water droplet gathering on a leaf (Jo), beginning to slide (Ha), and falling abruptly (Kyū).
Jo-Ha-Kyū is the heartbeat of Budo. By seeking this rhythm in your katas, you are no longer just working your muscles, but your presence in the world. The sword then becomes an extension of this universal pulse.
Whenever I visit my Japanese family’s hometown near Mount Fuji, there’s one place I always try to go back to. It’s not a big city, not a famous temple, and not one of the crowded viewpoints of Fuji.
It’s a quiet waterfall hidden in the forest called Shiraito Falls.
The first time my family took me there, I didn’t really know what to expect. Japan has many waterfalls, after all. But as we walked down the forest path and I heard the sound of water echoing through the trees, I realized this place felt different.
Shiraito Falls isn’t dramatic or overwhelming. Instead, it’s peaceful, delicate, and strangely mesmerizing—the kind of place where you end up standing still for a long time without even noticing.
The Short Walk to the Falls
Getting to Shiraito Falls is part of the experience.
From the parking area, you follow a small path that slowly winds downhill through the trees. It’s not a long walk, but the atmosphere gradually changes as you go.
The air becomes cooler. The forest feels thicker. And the sound of water begins to grow louder with every step.
My family always walks slowly here, pointing out little things along the way—moss growing on rocks, small streams crossing the path, and sometimes the distant shape of Mount Fuji visible between the trees.
Then suddenly the path opens up.
And there it is.
Waterfall Made of “White Threads”
The first time you see Shiraito Falls, the shape of it might surprise you.
Most waterfalls crash down from a single point. This one doesn’t. Instead, water flows out from hundreds of small openings along a curved cliff face.
The streams fall gently down the dark rock, forming thin white lines across the entire wall. From a distance, it really does look like hundreds of threads hanging in the air.
That’s exactly where the name comes from—“Shiraito” means “white threads.”
The waterfall stretches about 150 meters wide, but it’s not especially tall. The beauty isn’t in its height or power. It’s in the delicate way the water flows.
Every stream moves slightly differently, creating a constantly shifting pattern.
I remember standing there the first time and thinking it almost looked like nature was quietly weaving something.
Water From Mount Fuji
Another thing that makes Shiraito Falls special is where the water comes from.
The water actually starts its journey on Mount Fuji. Rain and snow on the mountain slowly seep into the volcanic layers of rock and soil. Over time—sometimes years—it travels underground before finally emerging from the cliff at Shiraito.
So when you’re standing there watching the water fall, you’re really seeing water that has been slowly filtered through the mountain itself.
It’s incredibly clear and pure. When the sunlight hits the mist rising from the basin, you can sometimes see faint rainbows forming in the air.
In Shinto, the traditional belief system of Japan, natural places like mountains, forests, rivers, and waterfalls are believed to be inhabited by spiritual presences called kami.
These aren’t “gods” in the way many Western religions think of them. They’re more like sacred energies or spirits connected to the natural world.
Waterfalls are especially meaningful because flowing water represents purification.
For centuries, people practiced a ritual called misogi, where they stood under cold waterfalls or in rivers to cleanse their body and spirit. The rushing water symbolically washes away impurities.
Shiraito Falls has long been connected to spiritual practices linked to Mount Fuji. Pilgrims and mountain ascetics would visit places like this as part of their training before climbing the sacred mountain.
Whenever friends ask me what they should see around Mount Fuji, they usually expect recommendations for famous viewpoints or big tourist attractions.
I always recommend them to go to walk around the Tanuki Lake and to visit Shiraito Falls.
In my Japanese family, the falls are a place of deep significance, visited to honor life’s most important moments. These pilgrimages are more than just trips; they are key milestones that connect our generations. My own martial path—from my teenage years in Goju-ryu to my current role as a Uechi-ryu teacher—is deeply tied to this imagery. I often recall the legendary Gogen Yamaguchi practicing misogi under the cascade, a powerful symbol of the discipline I strive to follow.
In the modern world, the act of bowing to a weapon can appear—at least to the uninitiated—as a curious form of reverence, even idolatry. Yet for a practitioner of Mugai-ryū or Battōdō, the ritual of Reigyō (礼行, etiquette in action) is not symbolic theater. It is one of the most practical and transformative elements of training.
When we kneel before our iaitō or shinken, we are not venerating an object. We are directing our attention inward, executing a deliberate strike against the most dangerous adversary we will ever encounter: the ego.
What is Reigyo?
In Japanese martial traditions, there is a well-known saying: “Budō begins and ends with rei.”
Reigyō is often translated simply as “etiquette,” but this rendering barely scratches the surface. Reigyō is the embodied expression of respect, gratitude, awareness, and restraint. It is etiquette made physical—conduct that shapes the mind as much as the body.
In the context of sword practice, Reigyō is expressed through rituals such as:
Tō-rei — the formal bow to the sword
Shinzen-ni-rei — the bow to the shrine or the front of the dōjō
Otaga ni rei — the bow to one’s training partners
These are not merely “rules of the dōjō.” Psychologically, they serve a precise function: they create a liminal space—a threshold between the disorder of daily life and the focused, potentially lethal discipline of the sword. Crossing this threshold prepares the practitioner to train with clarity, humility, and intent.
Why Bow to a Piece of Steel?
The sword is a paradox. Historically, it is an instrument of death. Philosophically, within many koryū traditions, it is a means of cutting away illusion—most notably one’s own. We bow to the sword for three essential reasons.
1. Acknowledging the Danger
The instant you stop respecting the blade is the instant you invite injury. Bowing is an explicit acknowledgment of danger—an admission that you are handling something capable of taking life.
This act cultivates mindfulness. It anchors you in the present moment. One cannot bow sincerely while the mind is wandering through errands, emails, or distractions. The bow demands presence.
2. Gratitude for the Path
The sword is an uncompromising teacher. It offers immediate and honest feedback: a flawed grip alters the tachikaze; a distracted mind causes the kata to unravel.
To bow is to express gratitude for this ruthless clarity. It is an acknowledgment that the practice itself—through success and failure alike—is shaping the practitioner.
3. Connection to Lineage
Mugai-ryū was founded in the late 17th century by Tsuji Gettan Sukemochi. When you perform the same tō-rei that has been enacted for more than three centuries, you momentarily step beyond your individual identity.
You become a link in a living chain of practitioners—each bound by the same forms, the same discipline, and the same silent understanding. The bow dissolves the illusion that you practice alone.
Zen Philosophy is promoting as well a non ego way
The Ego’s Greatest Enemy: Humility
The ego thrives on comparison. It wants to feel superior—to win, to look impressive, to master a technique faster than those around us. Left unchecked, it turns training into performance and progress into vanity. Reigyō stands as the antidote.
When you bow, you deliberately lower your head—the most vulnerable part of the body—beneath your heart. This is not a symbolic gesture; it is a physical declaration of humility. In that moment, you submit not to a person or an object, but to the art itself. The bow reminds us that the art is larger than the individual who practices it.
In Mugai-ryū, deeply influenced by Zen philosophy, the aim is to approach a state of Mu—emptiness, the absence of ego-driven interference. One cannot arrive at emptiness while being full of oneself. Each bow becomes a conscious act of self-emptying, a methodical clearing of pride so that technique may emerge unimpeded.
“The sword is not used to defeat others; it is a means to achieve self-mastery and to harmonize the spirit.”
Reigyo inside and outside the Dojo
The true measure of a swordsman is not how precisely they bow within the dōjō, but how faithfully they carry that spirit beyond its walls. If you can bow to a blade with sincerity, can you listen to a colleague with the same presence? Can you meet failure or criticism with the same Fudōshin—the immovable mind—you cultivate during a demanding kata?
Reigyō is not about surface-level politeness or empty formality. It is about wakefulness. Through bowing to the steel, we learn to move through the world with awareness, respect, and restraint. More importantly, we learn to recognize—and temper—the quiet voice of ego before it hardens into arrogance.
In this way, etiquette becomes discipline, discipline becomes character, and character becomes the true cutting edge of the sword.
