I know how busy life can get. Between work, family, and training, it isn’t always easy to sit down and read long-form articles—even if you want to stay up to date with the latest insights.
To make my website posts more accessible when you are short on time, I have officially launched a brand-new audio companion: Liomugai: The Way of the Sword.
This is a brand-new venture for me, so consider this our first official start! The audio and production quality will naturally get better with time. Thank you for your patience and for joining me on this learning curve.
We are hitting the ground running with 5 episodes already available for you to listen to:
Episode 1: Introduction to Liomugai’s podcast
Episode 2: The Sacred and the Sharp: Whispers of Mount Fuji
Episode 3: The Mugai-ryū and the Way of Zen
Episode 4: The Soul of Hiroshima and Miyajima
Episode 5: Muga : The Zen Heart of Mugai-ryū
And then a new episode will be available every Tuesday morning
Why listen?
Time-Friendly: Perfect for your daily commute, a walk, or while you’re prepping your gear.
Audio Companion: You won’t miss a single website post.
Deep Dives on the Go: Explore the philosophy, history, and mindset of the sword wherever you are.
Whether you prefer reading at your desk or listening through your headphones, you can now engage with the content in whatever way fits your schedule best.
If you enjoy the show, please consider hitting Subscribe and leaving a review on Apple Podcasts—it helps other martial arts and sword enthusiasts find us!
Thank you all for your support as we start this new chapter.
Why In-Yō (Yin-Yang) is About Collaboration, Not Opposition
Every practitioner of the Japanese sword eventually encounters the concept of In-Yō (陰陽)—the Japanese reading of Yin and Yang. Frequently, it is explained as a simple list of opposites: dark and light, soft and hard, passive and active.
But if we treat In-Yō merely as a switch we flip back and forth, we miss its true power.
In-Yō is not a battle between two opposing forces. It is a relationship of absolute codependency and mutual support. In Iaido, Battodo, and Kenjutsu, In and Yō do not compete; they serve each other. One generates the other; one protects the other. To master the sword, we must stop seeing them as opposites and start seeing them as a single, unified engine.
Here is how this vital partnership supports every layer of our training.
1. Iaido: The Hidden Seed of Movement
Iaido is often described as the transition from stillness to explosive action. But true mastery reveals that the stillness (In) is actively supporting the action (Yō), and vice versa.
Stillness Generates Action: When you sit in seiza or stand in shizentai, your exterior is calm and hidden (In). But this isn’t dead inertia. Deep within that stillness, your focus is sharpening and your breath is dropping to your core. This quietude is the literal launchpad for your nukitsuke (drawing cut). Without the profound calmness of In, your explosive Yō will be tense, erratic, and telegraphed.
Action Returns to Protect Stillness: Conversely, after the decisive cut (Yō), you return the blade to the scabbard via noto. This return to In is protected by zanshin—a state of heightened, active awareness (Yō). The physical passivity of sheathing the sword is only safe because it is cradled by an active, vigilant mind.
The Interlocking Reality: You cannot have a fast draw without a relaxed starting posture. The “soft” In gives birth to, and structurally supports, the “hard” Yō.
2. Battodo: The Mechanics of Supported Power
In Battodo, we test our form against physical targets like tatami omote. Here, the illusion of pure power (Yō) is shattered. We quickly learn that power is completely dependent on its opposite: softness and structural relaxation (In).
Softness Drives the Hard Edge: If you try to cut a target using pure muscle power (pure Yō), your body tightens, your shoulders rise, and your blade will likely stall or bend in the mat. True power requires the muscles of the arms and shoulders to remain incredibly loose, heavy, and receptive (In). This softness allows the blade to achieve maximum velocity.
The Partnership of Tenouchi: Look closely at your grip (tenouchi). If your hands are clamped tightly onto the tsuka (hilt) throughout the entire swing, the cut fails. Instead, the grip must be soft and yielding (In) during the arc of the swing, tightening into a firm, supportive squeeze (Yō) only at the exact microsecond of impact, before immediately melting back into In.
The Interlocking Reality: The “hard” impact of the sword is entirely fueled by the “soft” velocity of the swing. Yō cannot do its job of cutting the target unless In provides the relaxed speed. They are two sides of the same physical coin.
3. Kenjutsu: Tactically Feeding the Opponent
When facing a live partner in Kenjutsu, In-Yō becomes a tactical dance of mutual support. A strike is never just a strike; it is an invitation, and a defense is never just a block; it is the birth of an attack.
Yielding to Redirect: When an opponent launches a fierce, aggressive attack (Yō), meeting it with equal brute force creates a collision that risks breaking your blade. Instead, you accept their force by yielding, slipping, or absorbing their strike with a receptive posture (In). By being the “soft” to their “hard,” you control their balance.
Creating the Void: By offering your opponent an opening—showing them emptiness (In)—you actively draw out their attack (Yō). The moment they commit their energy to that void, they exhaust themselves, leaving a vacuum. Your defense instantly becomes the offense.
The Interlocking Reality: In partner work, you use your In to manipulate their Yō, and your Yō to exploit their In. You flow between them seamlessly because you recognize that their attack is actually giving you the exact energy you need to defeat them.
The Unified Body and Mind
When In and Yō support each other perfectly, your martial arts become effortless. You begin to realize this balance is present in every fundamental mechanic:
Your Posture: Your upper body, shoulders, and chest are relaxed, open, and calm (In), while your lower body, hips, and feet are rooted, powerful, and driven into the floor (Yō). The upper body cannot be free to move unless the lower body provides a rock-solid foundation.
Your Breath: The inhalation (In) gathers energy and centers your mass, directly preparing the body for the exhalation (Yō) which expresses that energy through the tip of the sword. One cannot exist without the other.
Ultimately, In-Yō teaches us that we do not try to eliminate weakness to become strong, nor do we eliminate stillness to become fast. We use our stillness to feed our speed, and our relaxation to power our strength.
In a recent post, I shared my experience in Hiroshima, along with a suggested one-day itinerary for travelers short on time. A city that embodies resilience and rebirth, Hiroshima still bears the marks of humanity’s darkest capabilities—yet stands today as a powerful symbol of peace.
Just a short journey away, crossing the bay by ferry, lies one of Japan’s most enchanting places: the sacred island of Itsukushima, better known as Miyajima, which literally means “Shrine Island.”
A Floating Sanctuary
Known worldwide for its immense torii gate rising from the sea, this Shinto shrine was originally built in the 6th century and took its current form under the influence of Taira no Kiyomori (1118–1181).
For centuries, the island was considered so sacred that births and deaths were forbidden, in order to preserve its spiritual purity.
⛩️ The Great Torii of Itsukushima
The island’s undisputed icon, the Great Torii offers two completely different experiences depending on the tide:
High tide: The gate appears to float on water—mystical and almost surreal.
Low tide: You can walk right up to its base and admire its monumental scale (and even spot tiny shells clinging to its pillars).
If you have the time, stay for sunset. The sky fills with shades of orange and pink, blending with the shimmering sea and the vermilion reflection of the torii—a truly unforgettable sight.
Equally magical is watching the tide slowly rise while standing on the shrine’s wooden walkways, with the gentle sensation of floating above the water.
The Gods’ Messengers… on Four Legs
In Shinto belief, deer are sacred animals believed to act as messengers between humans and the gods.
They may look adorable—but don’t be fooled by their innocent eyes! After generations of interacting with visitors, they’ve learned that they rule the island… and won’t hesitate to check your pockets for snacks.
Itsukushima Shrine: A Masterpiece of Architecture
Listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, this Shinto shrine is dedicated to the three daughters of Susanoo-no-Mikoto, the god of storms.
Why is it built on water? To respect the sacred nature of the island, the shrine was constructed on stilts within the tidal zone—allowing worshippers to “float” above the divine ground without setting foot on it.
The floating torii: Rather than being anchored deep into the seabed, it stands purely under its own weight (around 60 tons), a true feat of traditional engineering.
Mount Misen: The Spiritual Heights
While the lower part of the island is deeply rooted in Shinto, the upper slopes tell a different story—one of Buddhism.
In 806, the monk Kukai (also known as Kobo Daishi), founder of the Shingon school, established a spiritual training center here. Near the summit of Mount Misen burns an eternal flame, said to have been alive for over 1,200 years and this flame was used to ignite the Flame of Peace in Hiroshima’s Peace Memorial Park.
In the world of Japanese martial arts—and particularly within the discipline of Iaidō—mastery is not a destination to be reached, but a lifelong process of refinement. It is an ongoing evolution of body, mind, and spirit. This journey is elegantly expressed through the timeless concept of Shu–Ha–Ri (守破離).
Whether you are just beginning to tie your hakama or you have spent decades polishing your nukitsuke, understanding these three stages of learning is essential to genuine progress. Shu–Ha–Ri offers more than a pedagogical framework; it is a mirror held up to the practitioner’s inner development.
Originally articulated in the teachings of the legendary tea master Sen no Rikyū, and later embraced by generations of swordsmen, Shu–Ha–Ri describes the transformation of a student—from one who faithfully imitates the teacher, to one who ultimately embodies the art itself.
Phase 1 : Shu (守): Protect and Obey
The first stage, Shu, literally means “to protect” or “to preserve.” At this level, the student’s primary responsibility is to safeguard the tradition by receiving it intact.
The Mindset: Absolute obedience—not blind submission, but humble receptivity. Shu is about protecting the purity of the teachings from the intrusion of ego, impatience, and premature interpretation.
In Practice: In a Mugai-ryū dōjō, Shu means copying the sensei precisely. You do not ask, “Could I place my foot slightly differently?” You mirror the angle of the blade, the depth of the stance, the rhythm of the breath, and even the silence between movements.
The Goal: To build an unshakable foundation. Repetition engrains the forms into the body until technique becomes instinctive. You are learning the alphabet of the sword—without which no meaningful expression is possible.
In a nutshell: You cannot transcend the rules until you have fully internalized them.
Phase 2 : Ha (破): Detach and Break
The second stage, Ha, means “to break” or “to detach.” It is often the most misunderstood—and the most perilous—phase of the journey.
The Mindset: Inquiry and discernment. After years of disciplined practice, the student begins to perceive the why behind the how. Curiosity replaces imitation, but respect remains.
In Practice: You start to explore the underlying principles of Battōdō and how they adapt to different bodies, distances, or combative realities. You may study other ryūha, exchange insights with fellow practitioners, or observe how the same truth manifests through different forms.
The Goal: Integration. Ha is not about rejecting the teachings of Shu, but stress-testing them. You “break” the mold to confirm that the essence of the technique remains intact when adapted. The form loosens, but the principles endure.
Shu Ha Ri concept can be found in all martial arts and not only …
Phase 3 : Ri (離): Transcend and Depart
The final stage, Ri, means “to leave” or “to separate.” This is the realm of the master, where art and practitioner are no longer distinct.
The Mindset: Naturalness. Action arises without deliberation. In Zen terms, this is Mushin—no-mind. There is no hesitation, no calculation, no inner commentary.
In Practice: The practitioner no longer performs Mugai-ryū—they are Mugai-ryū. Movement is spontaneous, fluid, and perfectly attuned to the moment. The rigid instructions of the past dissolve into creative freedom grounded in deep understanding.
The Goal: Harmony. The sword becomes an extension of the self, and the self moves in accord with the universe. Rules are no longer followed consciously; they are fulfilled effortlessly.
Shu Ha Ri modern life
This cycle extends far beyond the dōjō. For a business professional, the parallels are clear: You first learn industry standards and best practices (Shu), then innovate and adapt them to your strengths (Ha), and eventually lead with an intuitive clarity that appears almost magical to outsiders (Ri).
In martial arts, Shu–Ha–Ri protects us from stagnation. It teaches the beginner patience, the advanced student discernment, and the master humility. Above all, it reminds us that the path of the samurai is not linear—it is spiral. We return to the basics again and again, each time with deeper understanding, broader perspective, and a quieter ego.
Mastery, in Iaidō as in life, is not about arriving somewhere. It is about becoming.
Living in the Shadow of Fuji: A Personal Reflection on Fujisan Hongū Sengen Taisha
There’s something quietly profound about living near a place that has been sacred for over a thousand years. For my Japanese family, home is not just defined by streets and houses—it is shaped by the ever-present silhouette of Mount Fuji. Close to this holly mountain, you can find the Fujisan Hongū Sengen Taisha (富士山本宮浅間大社), a shrine that has watched over generations beneath the ever-present silhouette of Mount Fuji.
A Shrine That Breathes With the Mountain
Unlike many historical sites that feel distant from everyday life, Fujisan Hongū Sengen Taisha is deeply woven into the rhythm of the community. Visits to the shrine aren’t reserved for special occasions—they happen naturally. A quiet walk, a New Year prayer, or a moment of reflection by the clear waters of Wakutama Pond all become part of daily life.
Growing up around this environment (or even just visiting often), you begin to understand that Mount Fuji is not simply scenery. It is a presence. In the Shinto worldview, it is alive—home to the kami, especially Konohanasakuya-hime, whose story embodies both beauty and fragility.
From Fear to Reverence
Historically, Mount Fuji was feared for its eruptions. The shrine itself was established as a way to calm and honor the spirit of the mountain by Tokugawa Ieyasu. Today, that history still lingers, but it has transformed into something more balanced: a deep respect rather than fear.
Living nearby, you don’t constantly think about volcanic danger. Instead, you notice the changing light on Fuji’s slopes, the seasonal festivals, and the steady flow of visitors beginning their pilgrimage. The mountain becomes both ordinary and extraordinary at the same time.
The Meaning of Everyday Ritual
One of the most striking things about having such a sacred place close to home is how spirituality becomes subtle. It’s not always grand or ceremonial.
It might be:
Pausing briefly at the shrine gate before heading into town
Washing hands at the purification basin without thinking twice
Watching the still surface of Wakutama Pond reflect the sky
These small actions echo centuries of tradition, connecting the present moment to something much older.
A Personal Connection
For my family, the shrine is not just a cultural landmark—it’s part of our identity. It’s where celebrations begin, where prayers are made, and where we return in moments of uncertainty.
Being close to Fujisan Hongū Sengen Taisha means growing up with an unspoken understanding: nature is not separate from us. It deserves respect, attention, and humility.
And perhaps that’s the most powerful lesson this place offers—not just to visitors or pilgrims, but to those lucky enough to call it part of home.
Closing Thoughts
In a fast-moving world, places like Fujisan Hongū Sengen Taisha remind us to slow down. To look up at the mountain. To listen to the quiet. To recognize that some connections—between people, place, and spirit—are meant to last far longer than a lifetime.
Living near Fuji isn’t just about proximity. It’s about perspective.
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.
