I was fourteen years old when I began practicing karate. At the time, I had no clear idea of what I was looking for.
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Behind the repetition, the discipline, and the physical effort, I was told that there was a path concerned with understanding oneself as much as learning technique.
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The karate available to me then was almost entirely framed around athleticism, competition, and outward performance. While I trained seriously, doubts crept in. I was improving physically, but something felt incomplete.
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Around that same period, a close friend and I found ourselves drawn to the philosophical atmosphere of the television series Kung Fu. The idea of a wandering Shaolin monk moving through the West was compelling, but it was the tone rather than the fighting that stayed with us – the quiet weight given to reflection, restraint, and responsibility.
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At the time, my friend was learning kung fu himself, and we shared a similar dissatisfaction. Later we worked at the same company, and during lunch breaks we could often be found comparing notes and techniques, usually to the bewilderment of our colleagues. We travelled together to martial arts shops around London, buying the odd piece of equipment, clothing, or book, and talking endlessly about what training was supposed to be ‘for’.
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It was during one of those visits that I came across a book almost by accident – ‘Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance’ by Robert M. Pirsig. What the heck was that?
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I was drawn to it initially because of the motorcycle connection. My family and I were involved in motorcycle competition, and the title alone was enough to catch my attention.
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It quickly became clear that the book was something else entirely. While reading the opening sections, particularly those touching on Zen and attention, something resonated.
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From that point on, I began reading everything I could find on Zen. The sources were limited to books and magazines at the time, but they were enough to give shape to ideas I had only sensed until then.
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Among those early readings was ‘The Way of Zen’ by Alan Watts, which helped articulate a relationship between effort, awareness, and limits, without presenting them as something to be mastered.
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Today, people sometimes assume from my writing that my interest in karate lies solely in practical self-defense. I am often told that they could not “just” train for self-defense for all those years.
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That assumption misses something fundamental. From the very beginning, I never believed karate could be reduced to one thing alone.
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A martial art must seek effectiveness in a combative situation, but had that been the sole aim of my practice, I would likely have abandoned it decades ago. It’s simply too narrow a goal when compared with what long-term training can offer.
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In my experience, traditional karate is, above all, an instrument of self-knowledge. It reveals habits, limitations, fears, and reactions. It develops awareness of others, and of how we occupy space in the world with responsibility and intent.
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And yes, this is still about self-protection.
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I have always had an interest in meditation, and I continue to practice it. Anyone who isn’t a monk knows that staying fully in the present moment is difficult. Past experiences intrude, current pressures remain, and attention drifts.
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The practice is about recognizing distraction and returning attention to the task at hand, again and again. In that respect, it’s no different from training.
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In martial practice, you are confronted directly with yourself. When training is well guided, it becomes an ongoing study rather than a destination. That combination of effort, attention, and honesty is what has kept me practicing – far more than technique alone ever could.
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“I seek not to know the answers, but to understand the questions.” – Kwai Chang Caine, Kung Fu.
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– Adam Carter