I want to make a few observations on the concept of
michi and the possible significance of this concept
for teachers working in Japan. For the many of you who
have a better grasp of michi than I, it is quite
obvious that such an enormous topic can only receive
the most superficial of treatments in a short article.
I'll try to do my best.
Michi “¹, as you probably already know, is the Japan
ese word for road or path. In its Sinified reading "
do" (less frequently "to"), it can be found in literally
hundreds of terms for a wide variety of teachings,
philosophies, practices, religions, and so on. In such
uses the word is normally translated as "way." Familiar
examples include Shinto, the way of the Kami (god),
kendo, the way of the sword, kado, the way of flowers,
etc. In Chinese "do" is tao (or dao),
as in taoism.
Before moving on to a discussion of the relevance of
this concept for teachers, I think I should introduce
one other important concept which must be borne in
mind. It comes to us from the vocabulary of Buddhism
and is referred to in English as the principle of
expedient means, or "hoben" in Japanese. Briefly put,
this principle maintains that there are many paths for
a individual to attain spiritual enlightenment. The
scriptural source for this idea comes from a sermon
contained in the Lotus Sutra (Skt:
Saddharmapundarikasutra; Jpn: Hokkekyo) known as the
parable of the burning house. As the story goes, there
was once a rich man with a great house. Unfortunately, the
house caught fire one day with the man's children
inside. The rich man called out, urging his children to
run for their lives, but the little ones apparently
couldn't understand the meaning of words like "fire"
and "perish." The man called to them again, this
time luring them out with the promise of gifts.
Presently, the children came out, and their lives were
spared. After telling this story, the Buddha explains
that the great house represents the world, engulfed
with the destructive flames of passion. The father's
deception was necessary to save the lives of his
children. In this way, the Buddha accounts for the
several paths to salvation. The fact that some of them
are not true makes them no less serviceable.
Another important text is a very famous couplet from
the Chinese poet Po Chu-i in which he expressed his
wish that somehow his "wild words and fancy language"
might work as a means toward enlightenment. The
implication of this for poets was enormous. It meant
that they might accrue religious merit though their
steadfast devotion to their art. This went beyond the
notion of didacticism-- infusing moral and ethical
themes into their literary works for the edification
of their readers-- it was concerned more with the
relationship between poetic composition and the form
of meditative practices observed by Buddhists in their
pursuit of salvation. The point to be stressed is that
a single-minded devotion to a single art (or
disciple) was regarded as an important way to attain
spiritual awakening.
This idea received additional validation through further
developments in Buddhist doctrine and praxis. One
important concept to emerge was the belief that the
same essential truth underlay all endeavors. In other
words, the attainment of perfection within a particular
skill or field of knowledge was a means of
comprehending a universal truth. Naturally, it doesn't
follow that all instances of intense specialization are
pursued in the hope or expectation of awakening. But it
does extend considerable significance to
the custom of concentrating one's energies within a
single discipline.
Translated into practice, this belief seems to have
taken the form of a transmission from master to student
via a process of imitative rehearsal and unquestioning
adherence to the received knowledge. An example can be
taken from some of the methods used to train actors for
the noh theatre. Not only is it surprising to find
that acting is considered a hereditary
occupation, and that the traditional way to become a
bona fide noh actor is to be born into one of its
families, it comes as a small shock to discover that
young actors are often drilled in the recitation of
lines without any demand that the student understand
what they mean. Donald Keene describes part of the
training of a Kyogen actor: "The teacher explains neither
the meaning of the words nor the mood they are
intended to convey, but insists instead on exact,
unquestioning conformity to his own delivery." While
this practice probably applies only to the earliest
phases in an actor's training, it demonstrates the
importance of submitting oneself, as a student, to the
virtually inflexible precepts introduced by the
instructor. Some might argue that the insistence upon
slavish emulation has had a damaging effect on
creativity. But others counter that it produces different
rewards. While recognizing that improvement within
a particular michi is incompatible with the development
of one's individual creativity, Konishi Jin'ichi
writers, "Progress and achievement of a different sort
are effected through a denial of one's immediate
creativity." In discussions of education in Japan over
the last 20 years, a lot has been said about the
need for schools to foster the creativity of their
students. One wonders how this stated aim can be
implemented against so strong a tradition.
Where does this lead us? Well, it helps to explain why
Japanese students tend to join only a single club
or dedicate themselves to a single sport. More
significantly, however, it may account for the seemingly
unquestioned acceptance of authority and general
conformity that we sometimes witness in our classrooms.
The "shyness" of our students and their reluctance
to express their opinions or challenge those of others
may be a by-product of the michi tradition or, possibly,
the deeper principles underlying both.
Anonymous