The “Budo Beat” Blog features a collection of short reflections, musings, and anecdotes on a wide range of budo topics by Professor Alex Bennett, a seasoned budo scholar and practitioner. Dive into digestible and diverse discussions on all things budo—from the philosophy and history to the practice and culture that shape the martial Way.

I was in Auckland, New Zealand this last week to lead a kendo and a naginata seminar. The theme was en (縁)—an idea that had already shaped my seminars in England last year for the BKA, and again in Croatia (Zadar) where I explored the “rings of kendo.” There’s definitely a book in all this, but I’ll keep it short[ish] for this blog post. The strands of connection between these seminars, much like en itself, seem to weave their own patterns, and whether I’m in Europe or back home in NZ or Japan, the underlying lesson remains the same: nothing in budo stands alone. In fact, if the spirit of budo could be summed up in one word, I reckon it’d be en.

The concept of en (縁) is one of those curious Japanese ideas that resist simple translation. En can be understood as connection, fate, or bond—an invisible yet tangible force that links people, moments, and circumstances, shaping relationships, encounters, and the continuous flow of learning and exchange in both life and budo.

Interestingly, another kind of ‘en’ is written as 円, meaning ‘circle’, a shape or idea that holds profound significance in budo. This is also the word for ‘¥en’, as in money—but that’s not the kind of balance we’re talking about here. If it were, more people would be trying to master the art of making crass amounts of cash through some kind of pseudo ‘budo’. Come to think of it, a lot of charlatans already are—the quintessential McDojo Bullshido artists with titles like Professor 13th Dan Grand Poobah Master Soke Sifu Sensei Ben Dover of Dipshit-ryū.

But, I digress. While the 縁 kind of en represents connection and relationships, the 円 type of en conveys the idea of continuity, fluidity, and completeness. The circular nature of movement in martial arts—whether in the way a strike is deflected, the path of a cut or throw, or the strategic positioning and pivoting of combatants, or the spiralling process of perfection—embodies both meanings of en in harmony. Just as 縁 binds people and moments, 円 represents the never-ending cycle of learning, adaptation, and refinement that defines the path of budo.

So, these two en’s really go together, almost like two wheels of a cart. To keep it simple for the sake of this blogpost, however, think of en as a combination of both, but with more focus on the 縁 (connection) side of things. In budo, en is not an abstract notion confined to philosophical musings; I look at it as the pulse running through every encounter, the unseen hand shaping the engagement. It is a presence that even dictates victory and defeat before bodies have even clashed.

The character 縁 carries deep philosophical significance. In the context of budo, it embodies ideas that are crucial to both technical training and the deeper spiritual aspects. Naturally, there is always a good old poem that captures this essence:

“Face an opponent without spirit in your sword tip, and their intent will fill you with fear.” [1]

At first glance, it seems to be a straightforward admonition: commit yourself fully or be undone by surprise, fear, doubt and hesitation. But as with all things in budo, its meaning deepens the more one reflects. The poem is not merely a call to confidently confront your destiny; it’s a lesson in the delicate interplay between self and other, where one’s mental and physical state is inextricably linked to the opponent’s very existence. En is the bridge between you and them, the silent dialogue of steel and will.

This is the paradox of the genuine martial art mind: it is not just a matter of striking first, nor even of superior technique. It is a matter of controlling the unseen current that flows between two combatants. En governs the start, instant, and end of engagement. It is not a mystical force but a tangible reality, shaped by intent, perception, and movement. Hesitate even slightly, and the opponent will sense it. The connection shifts, and suddenly, you are no longer dictating the encounter; you are responding to it, and from that moment, you are losing.

It was with this in mind that I focussed the recent Auckland kendo seminar on the importance of motodachi. In budo, the role of motodachi vs. kakarite (or uke vs. tori in judo, uke vs. tori or shite in aikido, and uchi vs. shi in various classical schools) is often misunderstood. In kendo, motodachi refers to the receiving partner in training, who provides proper targets, pressure, and opportunities for the practising kakarite to execute techniques. A good motodachi maintains strong seme (pressure) and correct posture, gauges the distance meticulously, and guides the kakarite’s development through controlled and purposeful engagement.

In kendo, we all take turns attacking and receiving—one moment you’re the striker, the next you’re the target. But let’s be honest: is it not true that many motodachi have a habit of just switching off, standing there like a sack of rice waiting to get whacked. If that is the case, in essence, that’s half the training session wasted. Fifty per cent on, then fifty per cent off. Being a motodachi isn’t a coffee break; it’s your chance to sharpen your own seme, read the opponent, and bring the best out of your training partner by making the engagement as realistic as possible. Otherwise, you’re just a numpty without a pulse.

Allow me to elaborate. To the untrained eye, it may look like the motodachi is just standing there, letting their partner attack them like some kind of glorified hit dummy. But with a good motodachi, that’s far from the truth. A proper motodachi (or its equivalent in other disciplines) doesn’t just receive strikes; they shape the encounter, weaving an invisible thread of connection—en—that determines whether the training is lifeless repetition of techniques, or a session of real, electric, ki-infused engagement.

Ask yourself this in training: Are you simply going through the motions, or are you doing the locomotion…? Because, yes, it is a kind of dance performance. Which, come to think of it, reminds of yet another en—演—which carries the meaning of performance, acting, or demonstration and is commonly used in contexts related to expressing, displaying, or enacting something. This is the en in enbu (演武 = martial arts demonstration).  

A good motodachi isn’t just thinking about blocking, deflecting, evading, countering, determining the optimal distance, or passively receiving. They’re reading their partner’s intent, sensing their level of commitment, and responding with just the right amount of resistance. Too much, and they crush the flow, forcing their training partner into unnatural movements. Too little, and they give nothing back, leaving their partner to flail around without meaningful feedback. The imperative of en lies in this balance, this finely tuned ability to meet force with just enough guidance to keep the training alive without distorting the outcome.

A motodachi who just stands there idly getting hit isn’t just missing the point—they’re missing a serious opportunity for their own improvement. The best motodachi don’t wait to be struck; they take the initiative, setting the tempo and shaping the engagement. This awareness of en turns passive receiving into active learning, leading to a deeper understanding of, for example, the initiation of ōji-waza—counter techniques that are not just reactions, but creations. A skilled motodachi doesn’t just respond; they subtly manipulate the encounter, drawing out attacks in ways that refine their own timing, control, and strategy. The magic of en in this role is that it creates a loop of improvement—by being an effective motodachi, you elevate your partner’s level, and in turn, your own. Mutual growth, born from shared connection, is at the heart of true budo.

And then there’s the movement itself. En, as we have seen, can also mean circle (円), and in motodachi’s work, that connection of circularity is everywhere. The way energy is received, redirected, and returned is never about rigid opposition; it’s about flow. The start of a technique and the culmination of that technique, always loops back to the start of yet another technique. It is a circular three-dimensional exchange, not a linear two-dimensional one. Well, at least it should be! A solid motodachi doesn’t stop attacks, they absorb and reshape them and ensure continuity, making the exchange feel less like a brick wall and more like a perfectly timed invitation to unleash. This is the heart of budo—not resistance but connection; not obstruction but cultivation.

But there’s more. Much, much more. There’s also the matter of tradition. Motodachi isn’t just a role to play in the dojo; it’s a responsibility handed down through generations, an embodiment of the unbroken lineage of learning. When you take on that responsibility, you’re not just responding to your training partner—you’re standing in for everyone who came before, offering the same lessons, the same structure, and the same silent cues that have been shaping martial artists for centuries. In this sense, en isn’t just about the connection in the moment; it’s the bridge between past and future, and motodachi is one of the strongest pillars supporting it.

Closely tied to all of this is the concept of ichigo ichie (一期一会), the idea that each encounter is unique, fleeting, and unrepeatable. Every engagement—whether a bout in keiko, a formal match, or even a single exchange of strikes—is an opportunity that will never come again in the exact same form. Recognising this impermanence should sharpen one’s focus, ensuring that each moment is given full commitment and awareness.

Just as en links individuals and circumstances, appreciation of ichigo ichie demands that practitioners honour each encounter as if it were the only one they will ever have. This is why we always bow to each other at the start and end of each engagement. And, this serves to deepen the connection between teacher and student, between opponents, training partners, and between the martial artist and their own evolving skill. This invisible web of connection is what makes budo not just a physical discipline but a study of relationships—between individuals, between technical skill and deeper philosophical comprehension, and between the practitioner and the culture of the art itself.

In other words, it is not just in the actual fray that en reveals its importance. The entire path of budo is shaped by it. Teachers and students come together not through random chance but through a web of unseen causes. Encounters with those who guide us, challenge us, and refine us are not accidents but part of the unfolding of en. Those who train in budo for long enough come to recognise how their progress is determined not only by individual effort but by the relationships that shape their understanding. One teacher’s casual remark, one training partner’s insight, even a single fleeting moment of clarity in the midst of practice—all of these are strands in the intricate weave of en, forming a kind of tapestry that stretches across lifetimes.

The great martial artists of the past understood this well. They did not see their skill as an isolated achievement but as part of a lineage, an unbroken thread of transmission stretching back through history. Hence the word ryū (流 = flow) used to designate martial art schools. So, en is not just the connection between individuals in the present—it is the bridge that links practitioners across the ages, ensuring that the knowledge, spirit, and essence of budo continue to evolve without severing their roots.

Again, this continuity mirrors the circular nature of 円 (en), reinforcing the idea that tradition in budo is not static but flows in cycles. The past feeds into the present, and the present shapes the future, creating an ongoing dialogue between generations. Every technique, every kata, every principle is conveyed and inherited through en, binding the modern practitioner to the hands and minds of those who shaped the art long before them. To stand in the present moment, sword in hand, or even empty hand, is to be connected to all who came before and all who will follow. It is to recognise that one’s own development is not a solitary endeavour but a continuation of something far greater.

En is connected to the Buddhist teaching of innen (因縁), the principle of cause and effect, like dominos falling. This suggests that one’s actions in training and in life shape the en that follows. Even the decision to enter a particular martial tradition is sometimes viewed as a matter of en, as if one’s path is shaped by both fate and the sum of prior actions. This is why in budo, arrogance is not just a character flaw but a fundamental misunderstanding of reality. The moment a practitioner begins to believe that their skill is theirs alone, severed from the connections that made it possible, they lose sight of the deeper truth.

Appreciating en also brings an awareness of responsibility. In every action, every encounter, we create new connections. The way we conduct ourselves in training, in teaching, and in daily life influences those around us in ways we may never fully grasp. The marks we leave on others, whether through a well-placed strike or a quiet word of encouragement, are the imprints of en, shaping the flow of budo long after we are gone. The most revered masters are not necessarily those who were technically brilliant, but those who understood their place in this greater network of influence, leaving behind something that continued to grow beyond their own lifetime.

To sum it all up, the study of budo itself can be considered an en—a lifelong relationship between the practitioner and their art. In the end, budo is not simply about defeating an opponent. It is about navigating the unseen currents that link all things. A duel is not two isolated individuals clashing but a moment of profound connection, where the truth of each combatant is revealed. The same holds true for life itself. To understand en is to move with awareness, to recognise that we are never acting in isolation. Each choice, each movement, each moment of hesitation or resolve reverberates outward, influencing outcomes in ways we may never see. And finally, ponder this for a second. Without en, kendo is nothing more than k’do.

The En[d]

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[1] Kinoshita Toshinori, Kenpō Shigoku Shōden (Budō Shōreikai, 1914), “太刀先に心なくして立合へば　敵のこころのおそろしきかな (Tachisaki ni kokoro nakushite tachi aeba, teki no kokoro no osoroshiki kana)

*The videos in this post were taken from this event.