Some things cannot be explained with words. I have tried for years to explain the subtle use of internal connections to produce power. Words may create appreciation or intellectual recognition that such a thing exists, but neither of these helps a person generate power or truly feel it.

I remember how I first came to understand that such subtlety exists. Mr. Ohshima had come to Boulder to visit. We trained together and afterward adjourned to Steve’s house to share food and conversation. Our group was close in those days, and as comrades we spoke often about karate and training.

Steve had a bokken (wooden sword), and Mr. Ohshima picked it up, feeling its heft. “Very nice,” he said, holding it forward as if weighing it in his hand. At some point he must have been speaking about connection—perhaps about a particular hand position in Empi. As usual, I asked him more about it.

“Come here,” he said.

He positioned me in front of him and placed the bokken across the top of my shoulder.

Without warning, I was flung backward—squeezed out from beneath the bokken and the floor like a watermelon seed pressed between fingers. I landed with a huff on the couch. The room fell silent as everyone turned to see what had just happened.

I was fascinated.

I stood up and asked as politely as I could, “Would you mind doing that again?”

The room laughed. Mr. Ohshima chuckled and did it again. I landed on the couch once more, eyes lit with the mystery of sublime action.

That moment became a quest—to understand what had just happened.

I imagine I gained a certain appreciation from my seniors that day, because my reaction likely mirrored their own at some earlier point. When confronted with something you do not understand, there are perhaps two reactions: one is to deny or dismiss it in order to preserve your existing worldview; the other is to open yourself completely to the mystery and allow your worldview to transform. Anyone who makes martial arts a true journey chooses the latter.

This is one aspect of the line between seniors and juniors. A senior recognizes kinship from the fire in your eyes. When you see that same fire in your juniors, you recognize it again. This is what is meant when the sages say, “Everyone has three lives: their own, their seniors’, and their juniors’.”

But this is about transmitting subtle skills, and my story emphasizes the necessity of experience. Over the years, I eventually abandoned purely intellectual explanations of efficiency in favor of practices and drills that physically demonstrated how to find such power. This approach was marginally more successful. Demonstrations—like my bokken experience—illustrated that effortless power existed, but no number of impressive examples helped students assimilate the understanding into their own movement.

Caylor Adkins was one of my seniors. Among my generation he was somewhat enigmatic. Early in my training I heard about him often but saw him infrequently. Many of my seniors had trained with him extensively and spoke of him with respect.

One time I was in Seattle with comrades, and Caylor happened to be visiting as well. A practice was organized. My son Jake and I eagerly joined.

In my mind, Caylor was an outlier—one of those rare creative individuals who thought freely and studied widely. I felt a kinship with him, though I did not know him well beyond post-practice conversations. Living in remote places, I was always searching for inspiration. Whenever I pursued something new, I would call Mr. Ohshima out of respect to ask permission. His answer was always the same: “Yeah, yeah, sure, sure… go ahead, Mike!!”

Caylor seemed to have done the same.

I knew he had practiced boxing, tai chi, and other Chinese arts. He opened that workshop with stick fighting and spoke about the Dog Brothers. As a massage therapist specializing in Rolfing, he had worked on some of them and become acquainted with their training. He showed us drills that emphasized whole-body striking with escrima sticks. Along with some college fencing I had studied, this ignited my interest in weapons arts. The power he generated was effortless, and his movements reminded me of kata I already knew.

In the second half of the workshop, Caylor brought out a shot put—an iron ball. He demonstrated simple exercises and spoke about his own journey toward deeper understanding of movement and power. He had written a book—still in print, I believe—and emphasized that assiduous practice with the iron ball would transform your training.

The iron ball movements resembled the stick drills. This was no coincidence. Both were linked through internal dynamics and the use of an implement—stick or ball—as a means of discovering integrated power.

This was the path I had been looking for.

I bought an iron ball and acquired escrima sticks. For a year or so I played with them, becoming familiar, but I was not progressing much. So I committed more seriously. I had already learned the value of repetition through kata and basics. I decided that volume mattered. My goal became 500 iron ball figure-eight patterns per day for a year. I gradually built up to 500 and then began counting.

Fast forward a few years.

My current generation of students was working diligently on fundamentals. Many had trained for years, yet the subtlety of power remained elusive. I introduced the iron ball and told them, “If you want to understand what this can do, build up to 500 figure eights per day and sustain it.”

You cannot make someone learn. You cannot force discovery. Something must exist inside a person—that fire in the eyes. It is a fierce desire to know, familiar to scientists, musicians, artists, and teachers alike. Its presence is what makes martial arts an art.

After some time, those who committed would return.

“My hips feel different.”
“My sword stroke is stronger.”
“I understand now.”

When I watched them, they had indeed changed. Their hips connected to the weapon. Their rooting improved. They were harder to throw.

Today, many young people seem in a hurry to develop. The language is about “hacks” and shortcuts. With that mindset often comes anxiety—what is called imposter syndrome. They do not feel worthy of their position. And perhaps sometimes they are not. A person may be technically capable and athletically skilled, yet lack conviction and depth. They have not assimilated the training. They have not been transformed.

In older traditions, the body was sometimes hardened first to withstand the rigors of martial practice. I suspect those methods also conditioned the spirit and mind. Through such effort came deeper, subtler understanding.

Before adaptability, before tactics, before variation, the body must discover how to transmit force coherently. Subtle, integrated power arises from disciplined, attentive repetition under constraint. Words can guide the process, but only embodied practice reorganizes the body and mind.

The iron ball comes from that world—a time when standing in horse stance for an hour a day was normal before learning advanced skill.

Some things cannot be explained.

They must be lived.

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