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.
Last week, I had the honor of being invited by Luciano Morgenstern (Chairman of Mugai-ryū Europe and Representative of the Mugai-ryū Meishi Ha in Europe) to the summer seminar in Cologne, Germany. Despite the scorching heatwave sweeping across Europe, over 60 practitioners gathered for two days of intensive training.
The first day focused on technical work, as the gymnasium was sweltering under the summer sun. The senseis covered a wide range of topics, including maintaining flow, power generation, and the execution of all Mugai-ryū basic katas—with special attention to Ryōguruma, one of the most challenging forms for shodan candidates. The final hour was dedicated to exam preparation, a critical aspect of the seminar.
As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, To Rei (刀礼, sword etiquette) in Mugai-ryū is highly ritualized. For beginners, performing a test in front of such esteemed masters for the first time can be intimidating—an experience I know all too well. We wrapped up the day in Cologne’s city center at the Tenshinkai Dojo, where I was pleasantly surprised to find my name displayed on the wall alongside other students of Luciano Sensei. To cap off the evening, Sensei organized a barbecue, offering a wonderful opportunity to connect with everyone outside of training.
After 5hrs of training in Cologne
The second day began with one hour of Zazen (座禅, seated meditation), guided by a Zen monk. This set the tone for the most anticipated moment of the seminar: the examinations, ranging from sankyū to sandan. The atmosphere was intense and deeply emotional for all the candidates. What made it even more special was the presence of practitioners from other schools, including Genkō Nitō-ryū (two-sword fighting) and Tōsei-ryū (stick fighting). Observing these different traditions gave me a fascinating glimpse into the techniques and precision I’ll need to master as I progress through the ranks.
Candidates ready for test
Despite the oppressive heat, the weekend was a refreshing experience for the mind and spirit. It allowed me to assess my progress on my learning journey, but more importantly, it gave me the chance to meet this incredible community—a group of truly impressive individuals who share the same passion for the Way of the Sword.
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.
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.
12,000 Views: Sharing the Path of Mugai-ryu Iaihyodo
Since returning from Japan, I’ve been overwhelmed by the curiosity and support from the community on Instagram.
To better document and share my journey in Mugai-ryu Iaihyodo, I decided to launch my YouTube channel—and the response has been incredible.
I want to say a massive thank you to everyone who has tuned in. Starting from scratch with a niche martial art can be a quiet journey, so seeing over 12,000 views on my weekly content is truly humbling.
A special thanks goes out to the Japanese viewers who regularly watch my videos and reach out via Instagram. Your insights and encouragement mean the world to me. I look forward to sharing more Mugai-ryu techniques and katas as I continue to learn and grow.
In the history of Japanese martial traditions (budō, 武道), few figures embody the union of swordsmanship and Zen Buddhism as completely as Tsuji Gettan Sukemochi (辻月丹資茂, 1648–1728), founder of Mugai-ryū (無外流).
Gettan’s life traces a rare and profound arc:
from samurai swordsman to Zen monk, from technical mastery (waza, 技) to realization of emptiness (mu, 無). His school is not merely a system of combat, but a physical expression of Zen insight, where the sword becomes a vehicle for awakening.
Edo Period and the Way of the Sword
Tsuji Gettan was born in 1648, early in the Edo period (江戸時代), a time of peace under the Tokugawa shogunate. With warfare largely absent, the samurai class faced an existential shift:
What is the purpose of the sword in an age without war?
This question gave rise to a new understanding of martial practice:
Swordsmanship as self-cultivation (shugyō, 修行)
Combat as a path toward ethical refinement
The integration of Zen (禅), Confucianism (儒教), and martial discipline
It was within this atmosphere that Gettan’s transformation became possible.
Early Life and Martial Training (武芸修行)
Tsuji Gettan Sukemochi was born into a samurai family (侍). From a young age, he was trained in classical sword arts (kenjutsu, 剣術), eventually studying several established schools, including:
Sekiguchi-ryū (関口流)
Yamaguchi-ryū (山口流)
These traditions emphasized:
Correct posture (shisei, 姿勢)
Efficient body mechanics
Decisive, realistic technique
Gettan sensei gained a reputation for calmness and precision rather than brute force. Yet even as his skill deepened, a realization emerged: technical excellence alone was incomplete.
The Inner Conflict: Technique Without Awakening
Like many elite swordsmen of his time, Gettan reached a point where further refinement of technique failed to bring clarity.
Questions arose:
What remains when technique disappears?
Who cuts when there is no thought?
Can the sword reveal ultimate truth (shinri, 真理)?
In Zen terms, Gettan faced the limit of form (kata, 形) without essence (ri, 理). This inner conflict pushed him beyond martial schools and toward Zen practice.
Encounter with Zen Buddhism (禅)
Tsuji Gettan became a disciple of the Rinzai Zen monk Sekitō Kisen (石頭希遷系臨済禅). Under his guidance, Gettan undertook severe spiritual training, including:
Zazen (坐禅) — seated meditation
Kōan practice (公案) — paradoxical Zen questions
Monastic discipline designed to exhaust ego and attachment
Through this process, Gettan confronted the root of fear, identity, and duality. Eventually, he attained satori (悟り), a direct realization of reality beyond conceptual thought.
Upon awakening, he received the Buddhist name Gettan (月丹):
月 (getsu / tsuki) — moon
丹 (tan) — cinnabar, elixir, essence
The name evokes the moon reflected in still water — pure awareness, unattached, illuminating without effort.
Ginkaku-ji (Kyoto) – Photo Liomugai
The Birth of Mugai-ryū (無外流)
After his Zen realization, Gettan returned to swordsmanship with transformed perception. From this union of Zen insight and martial experience, he founded Mugai-ryū.
The name of the school is profoundly philosophical: 無 (mu) — nothingness, emptiness, non-being
外 (gai) — outside, beyond
Mugai may be understood as: “That which exists beyond emptiness.” This does not imply nihilism, but freedom from duality — beyond self and other, life and death, victory and defeat.
Mugai-ryū specializes in iaijutsu (居合術), the art of drawing the sword and cutting in a single, decisive action.
Key characteristics include:
Simplicity (簡素, kanso) — no unnecessary movement
Directness (直截, chokusetu) — immediate resolution
Stillness of mind (静心, seishin) — action arising from silence
One cut, one life (一刀一命, ittō ichimei)
The kata are minimalistic, but unforgiving. They demand:
Perfect timing (hyōshi, 拍子)
Complete presence (zanshin, 残心)
Absence of ego (muga, 無我)
Teaching Beyond Technique: The Sword as a Zen Koan
As a teacher in Edo, Gettan attracted both samurai and scholars. However, he did not view Mugai-ryū merely as a fighting system.
For him:
Kata were moving kōan
Training was Zen practice in armor
The opponent was a mirror of the self
He emphasized key Zen-martial principles:
無心 (Mushin) — no-mind
不動心 (Fudōshin) — immovable mind
平常心 (Heijōshin) — everyday mind
True victory, Gettan taught, was victory over delusion.
In his later life, Tsuji Gettan increasingly withdrew from worldly ambition, focusing on teaching and Zen practice. He passed away in 1728, leaving behind:
Mugai-ryū Iaijutsu
A lineage of Zen-infused swordsmanship
A model of martial enlightenment
Mugai-ryū continues to thrive globally as a living expression of Zen. Speaking from experience, practicing it daily is more than just training; it is a vital asset for navigating the stresses of modern life.
