Be Like Water: Harmony and Balance in Kosho-ryu and Bruce Lee by Michael Mulvihill

Bruce Lee wrote a book called Tao of Gung Fu. In it, we gain ideas that martial artists, in general, can apply. What we are going to do in this essay is examine the common ground between the writings of James Mitose and Bruce Lee, and see how they align with Mitose’s philosophy and principles, as well as with the broader sphere of martial arts.

Harmony and balance.

What Lee writes could just as easily have come from the founder of Aikido, Morihei Ueshiba. He writes that the idea is not to dominate your opponent, but to achieve harmony with them. This closely resembles the concept of blending found in the teachings of Mitose.

When you are attacked, the opponent’s centre line shifts. You must then find a new centre line that conforms to this change. According to Mitose, the head leads this adjustment—where the head goes, the body follows. In other words, you are locating what Bruce Lee refers to as balance.

Balance in martial arts comes from the harmonisation of opposites—yin and yang. Yin is soft, receptive, and often associated with the scholar; yang is firm, direct, and physical. But these are not opposites that remain divided—they are forces that integrate and support one another.

From the Mitose perspective, harmony is found within waza, or technique. When tori (the attacker) moves and their centre line shifts, uke adjusts accordingly. This is often described as going “off-centre,” but in truth, you are not losing centre—you are moving onto a new one.

In doing so, harmony is restored through blending with the attack. The compass that guides you to this new balance is the head. The body follows.

Situational awareness and bodily conditioning: insights from Bruce Lee

Martial artists often speak about environmental awareness, which goes hand in hand with spatial awareness. This is something Bruce Lee understood deeply—something Ueshiba would not have needed explained, and something Mitose would have fully recognised.

The best way to block a punch is not to be there in the first place. That is situational awareness: the ability to sense danger in your environment before it fully emerges.

James Mitose referred to this as the development of peripheral vision—the ability to be aware of what lies beyond your immediate focus, even at the edges of your awareness.

We can take this further and speak of anticipation and predictability. If we can sense that danger is on the horizon, why not use that information to alter our behaviour? A natural extension of this is trust in our instincts. If something in us—what we might call a sixth sense—detects danger, then that is the moment to begin planning an exit.

This is why learning to trust our instincts is essential. Very often, that instinct is what alerts us before a situation escalates.

On a practical level, I apply this myself. If I see a person who is tense, or striking an inanimate object, I recognise this as a prelude to aggression. I do not wait to confirm it—I simply remove myself from the area.

Exit strategy, awareness, and situational awareness are all interconnected. They are not separate ideas, nor are they opposites. They work together, in harmony.

Let us now consider how this aligns with what Bruce Lee wrote.

Bruce Lee wrote: “Your chances of assault are reduced if you stay aware, alert, keep an eye on those around you, and remain conscious of your environment. It is hard to avoid serious injury once engaged, so you must prepare through counterattack and decisive action.”

Bruce Lee’s language is, in essence, the language of going off-centre, entering, and exiting. It is the same language found in World Karate Federation combinations. It is a language of distance, timing, and speed. It is the language of movement—off-line and on-line—the language of training itself.

You do as Bruce Lee suggests: you prepare for combat by exercising every part of your body. It is a language of endless training, building endurance and resilience. Just as the Shaolin monks developed demanding physical practices for combat, so too do modern practitioners. We see this in systems like Shodokan, where strenuous, structured exercises are performed with purpose and discipline. Likewise, Mitose and his contemporaries trained with tools such as the makiwara—on uneven ground, on rocks, even by the sea—developing adaptability as well as strength.

This is not excess or irrational extremism. It is not martial arts pushed beyond reason. It is the balanced expression of yin and yang—hard and soft, effort and awareness—working in harmony, not imbalance.

Ultimately, the principle is simple: be aware of your surroundings, assess for safety, and if danger presents itself, exit. This is martial logic.

At the same time, it is also martial logic to prepare your body for what may be unavoidable.

Bruce Lee was speaking realistically when he wrote that we must be able to take some level of pain. The idealised notion—that we block everything and execute techniques perfectly, emerging untouched—is unreliable. Violence is unpredictable.

We may be off form, injured, exhausted, or simply aging. We may not be at our best. Reaction times may be slower. We may be caught off guard, and the first strike may already have landed.

I speak from experience. After two hip replacements, a fall, and a near-fractured ankle, I know what it means to rebuild. It is a gauntlet. My answer to it is to return to stance, structure, coordination, and reaction time—but I do so with realism. I can wish to be as I once was, but wishing alone is nothing. Only training answers that wish.

In the meantime, I accept that my reactions are slower than they once were. This is acceptance—not defeat, but a mature martial arts perspective. I accept what arthritis has done to me, and I accept how my body has been renewed through surgery.

The real martial value lies in building a body that has a story—a body that can take a strike and respond well enough not to end up on the ground.

Bruce Lee is right to emphasise staying to the outside path. At night, when turning a corner, one can be blindsided if unaware of what lies ahead. To be aware is to be forewarned, and therefore forearmed.

It is no surprise, then, that Bruce Lee described kung fu as requiring intelligent thought—and as hard work. He wrote that we must strip movements to their essential purpose. What remains is a smooth-flowing system of self-defence: an accumulation of training, discipline, health, cultivation of the mind, and ultimately, self-protection.

Here is another common ground I found between James Mitose, Bruce Lee, and also in the writings of Morihei Ueshiba. It is the idea that teaching must be understandable and relatable to the student.

Why should martial arts training—something that is lifelong and endless—become so dense and convoluted that the essential lessons are lost?

Some teachers focus heavily on in-depth physiology and anatomy, which I personally find difficult to follow. This is not a criticism. In fact, encouraging students to study these areas is admirable. But for me, it is a bridge too far. At times, this material is introduced at an almost university level.

The reality is that in a fight, identifying specific body parts is not your first priority, nor is predicting exactly how a strike will affect your opponent. It is not an exact science.

Ed Parker expressed this idea simply: any part of the body, from head to toe, is a target.

So we have a choice. We can spend time explaining, in complex terms, how a strike delivered with a particular part of the hand will affect the opponent’s neuroanatomy. Or we can stay grounded and focus on something more practical—like the humble reverse punch.

And even that, simple as it seems, requires deep thought, careful practice, and understanding to perform correctly.

In Kenpo Karate, a technique can sometimes feel incomplete unless it is followed by a sequence of five, six, or more strikes. But this raises an important question: are we losing sight of what is essential?

We must occasionally draw back and return to the basics—to what is truly fundamental.

Rather than becoming absorbed in dense anatomical theory, we can adopt simpler models of understanding the body—models that are accessible to students. We can focus on one strike at a time, because a single punch or kick is, in itself, a complete technique.

The straight punch, humble as it seems, is not simple in origin. It is the result of centuries of refinement. It has taken generations to develop something so direct, so efficient, and so effective.

Bruce Lee was not telling us to abandon structure or become reckless individualists. Nor was he encouraging empty rebellion. His thinking can be better understood through a comparison with James Joyce.

Many assume that Joyce, in writing Ulysses, simply discarded grammar, structure, and convention, producing a chaotic and confusing work. But this is a misunderstanding. Joyce did not write a manifesto of disorder—he wrote a disciplined masterpiece.

The question, then, is how?

Joyce achieved this by doing exactly what Bruce Lee advocated—though in a literary context.

Bruce Lee’s model is simple:

Learn the standard

Keep the standard

Dissolve the standard

In other words: learn the rules, follow the rules, and then transcend the rules.

It is easy to mistakenly believe that both Bruce Lee and James Joyce simply “broke the rules.” In reality, the opposite is true. Joyce was highly educated, deeply grounded in language and literature. Bruce Lee was a skilled martial artist, trained rigorously in Wing Chun under Ip Man.

You cannot create your own way without first having a foundation.

However, not every student will engage easily with complex anatomy or physiology. If, like myself, this level of study does not resonate, then we must compensate. We simplify. We structure. We create models that allow us to understand movement in a practical way.

Once we understand structure, we can move beyond it.

Martial artists have always created such models to understand the body in motion. This is also seen in the thinking of Morihei Ueshiba, who used metaphor and imagery to communicate deeper principles.

Similarly, James Mitose used the idea of the “imaginary octagon” within the body as a way of understanding movement and positioning. He also offered simple but powerful guidance on motion itself—most notably in his principle: where the head goes, the body will follow.

These are not complex theories. They are clear, direct, and usable. And perhaps that is the point.

This may seem like a simple point, and I am sure some will recoil in boredom at its humility. It may feel too basic, too obvious to be of value. But often, it is precisely this kind of simplicity that challenges the ego.

You can return to these ideas once the ego has quietened—because it is then that their value becomes clear.

In the meantime, let me offer a practical example of how this principle, when applied to kata, can increase speed and efficiency.

Schwarzbrett von Emrah, a national champion karate athlete, demonstrates this principle clearly. In a short space of time, he shows how effective it is in practice. In kata, when changing direction, the head moves first. The eyes look to the new direction, and then the body follows.

Why?

Because, as Mitose taught, the head leads and the body follows.

The principle is simple. The question is: are we willing to accept and apply something so simple?

Mitose repeatedly pointed to the greatest barrier to learning—the self. This is not a modern problem; it is an ancient one. As Marcus Aurelius wrote:

“Men despise one another and flatter one another, and wish to raise themselves above one another and crouch before one another.”

Ego interferes with understanding. It resists simplicity.

To help us understand movement, different masters have offered different models.

Mitose used the body through the concept of the octagon—a way of visualising direction and flow. Bruce Lee, by contrast, simplified the idea further using a rectangle. The upper centre of the rectangle corresponds to the eyebrows, the lower centre to the groin, and the four corners represent the shoulders and hips.

Both models aim to do the same thing: make movement understandable.

Mitose spoke of natural movement. Bruce Lee described the parameters of movement—up, down, and sideways.

From this, simple principles emerge. An attack to the outside is met with an outward block. An attack to the inside is met with an inward block. If the first block does not fully deflect the strike, the other hand is already in position to assist.

Again, nothing here is complex.

But simplicity, properly understood, is not weakness. It is clarity.

We begin by protecting the middle gate. This is central.

We use the concept of the immovable elbow, held approximately three inches from the middle gate. It remains stable. From this position, we protect the most vulnerable lines—the eyes, the hands, and the legs.

Bruce Lee advised keeping the lead leg and foot out of range of a sudden attack. Distance and awareness are part of defence.

Within these models, movement becomes precise. We gain ground through small, rapid steps rather than large, committed motions. Like the tiger, we keep our eyes fixed. We do not turn our back on the opponent. In Lee’s teaching, you face your opponent directly—nose to nose—reducing vulnerability and maintaining readiness.

In Kenpo, there is often a tendency to view a technique as a long succession of movements. In Ed Parker’s American Kenpo, these combinations can extend continuously. While valuable, this approach can sometimes obscure the importance of kihon—the fundamentals.

My solution is to return to strikes, focusing on one strike at a time.

This approach is clearly seen in Japanese karate styles such as Shotokan and Wado-ryu, where training often begins with the straight punch.

The straight punch is not simple by accident. It is the result of careful analysis over time. It is faster than circular strikes such as hooks, and often more direct and accurate.

At the end of the straight punch, there is one key action: the snap.

When practising the straight punch, consider the following:

Eliminate wasted motion

Apply correct timing

Coordinate with proper footwork

Do not aim for the surface of the target. Aim three inches beyond it.

Relaxation is essential. Bruce Lee emphasised striking in a relaxed manner. He advised against tensing or clenching prematurely.

Here, we see the yin-yang principle in action. Firmness gains its strength through gentleness, and gentleness is guided and activated by firmness.

In conflict, your awareness must be rooted entirely in the present moment. Not in the past, not in the imagined future, but in what is happening now.

This is a positive and necessary mentality. You deal with what is in front of you—nothing more, nothing less. You do not become distracted by what has already happened, nor by what might happen. You deal only with what is present.

Bruce Lee expressed this clearly: do not think of victory, and do not think of yourself.

This mindset removes hesitation and comparison. You are no longer asking: is he more skilful than me? Stronger? Faster? More powerful? These questions weaken the mind and delay action.

Bruce Lee taught that we must embody a spirit that goes beyond the inferiority complex. That kind of thinking can completely undermine our ability to respond effectively. It strips away confidence and replaces it with doubt.

Instead, we must cultivate the mentality and character of the warrior.

He writes of a mind that is free—free from unnecessary thought and emotional interference. In such a state, even the fiercest opponent finds no opening. There is no hesitation to exploit.

The real danger lies in psychological conditioning—when fear, intimidation, and inferiority take hold. This is what empowers the bully and the oppressor.

As a Turkish proverb puts it: if you are kind to the wolf, you are cruel to the sheep.

In other words, we owe it to ourselves to act with clarity and purpose. We must think and respond intelligently, without becoming paralysed by imagined outcomes.

We deal with what is—and we deal with it fully.

 

References

1953 – James Masayoshi Mitose – What Is Self-Defense? Kenpo Jiu-Jitsu

1975 – Bruce Lee – Tao of Jeet Kune Do

1975 – Bruce Lee – Tao of Gung Fu