You walk into a martial arts training studio (in Japanese styles, a dojo) and you scan the room. Everything going on here looks, well, unpleasant. In one corner, you observe a group of students performing kata, choreographed sequences of kicks, punches, and blocks that simulate the experience of fighting multiple opponents. Sweat pours off them. In another corner, you see two students engaged in sparring exercises, or kumite. The sharp, smacking noise of one student striking the protective pads worn by another carries across the room. In a third corner, you notice students doing push-ups, working their muscles until their arms tremble and their shoulders twitch. Just when they think they’re done, their instructor barks out a command for more. In the fourth corner, you watch a taciturn master test a student for a belt promotion. He breaks his silence only to issue the next order or to offer a correction.
Almost everything you see here looks tedious, torturous, or terrifying, or all of the above. Nothing you see here looks like anything that even remotely resembles joy. And yet, paradoxically, a kind of joy is precisely what most of these students are experiencing.
As practicing martial artists who hold advanced belts in Chung Do Kwan Tae Kwon Do and Goju Ryu Karate, we understand how and why that’s possible. And, as lawyers who have spent decades litigating cases, we see related sources of joy in that activity—even though litigation has its tedious, torturous, and terrifying moments, too. In our view, grasping the ways in which martial artists find joy in their training can teach litigators a lot about finding joy within that profession.
As a preliminary matter, we should note that in both martial arts and litigation—as in life, generally—we don’t get to joy by chasing joy itself. The route is necessarily indirect. Aristotle understood that the path toward happiness lies in the pursuit of excellence. In the same way, the path toward joy lies in and through other things. And this holds as true in the courtroom as it does in the dojo, where (it turns out) many of the same sorts of “other things” matter.
One of those things is preparation. The practice of martial arts and the practice of litigation both stress the importance of becoming and staying ready for the adversities headed our way—including the ones we can’t anticipate. Prince Hamlet says that “the readiness is all,” and martial artists and litigators agree.
In martial arts, we train until our responses to certain inputs become reflexive. A punch toward the face doesn’t leave time to consider all the plausible countermeasures. So we work to expect that strike, to see when certain movements signal it’s coming, and to block the blow before it reaches its destination. A statement attributed to George Patton holds that “he who sweats more in training bleeds less in battle,” and martial artists prepare in that spirit and toward that end.
Litigation similarly demands diligent preparation. We’ve all been there: Weeks before an oral argument, we’re already poring over briefs, transcripts, and cases, laboring to settle on the best way of expressing our points and striving to anticipate every question and to formulate answers that are short, compelling, and persuasive. Toward the end of his career, Edward Bennett Williams joked that he felt like an old fighter: He didn’t mind climbing into the ring; he just couldn’t stand the training. Every litigator knows what he meant; the training is hard, and it is everything.
But walking into a deposition, motion hearing, or trial feeling well prepared is a source of great joy and is worth every cup of stale coffee it takes to get us there. Preparation breeds competence, competence breeds confidence, and confidence tends to fulfill its own prophecies. Few things in our professional life feel better than being told by a colleague or a client that we nailed an argument or a cross-examination or a closing statement. That sort of success, and the pleasure that attends it, comes only with exhaustive preparation.
In addition to being well prepared at all times, martial artists strive to cultivate the quality of zanshin. The Japanese word zanshin resists an easy English translation. To make things still more complicated, it has two connected, but different, meanings.
In a literal sense, the word zanshin means “remaining mind.” Focusing on the “remaining” component, martial artists sometimes use the word to express the importance of seeing every individual technique, every kata, every kumite, through to its completion. No martial arts exercise should fade out like a song on the radio; each one should instead arrive at a perfect ending. The last move of a kata should be so strong and so filled with intentionality that an observer would think another move was already on its way.
This concept has an important place in every litigator’s playbook. Nevertheless, it goes largely neglected. Most briefs and oral arguments don’t just fade out—they fizzle out. Briefs and arguments routinely conclude with some wince-worthy and formulaic recitation like this: “For all those reasons, we ask that the court do X.”
Ending this way wastes time. Unless you’ve made a complete hash of things, the court already knows what you want it to do. But, more importantly, it wastes an opportunity—the chance to finish with your most persuasive point ringing in the court’s thoughts. Martial artists don’t end a kata with a weak and weary punch, and no litigator should end a brief or oral argument with its functional equivalent.
One of the authors was present when Ted Shaw of the NAACP Legal Defense Fund was arguing to the Sixth Circuit that the court should allow his clients to intervene in a case that involved issues important to their lives and futures. Ted closed the argument by saying: “In sum, your honors, it shouldn’t be about us, without us.” Boom. Zanshin. Request to intervene granted.
The other meaning of zanshin is a bit more complicated. Zen and martial arts master Taisen Deshimaru describes it as “the mind that remains still without being attached to anything, watchful, alert, but unattached.” Someone who has zanshin in this sense resembles the calm in the middle of the storm. They are completely in the moment and completely aware, but they are also free from encumbrances that might prevent a swift and effective response to a threat or opportunity. Another term, mushin, is sometimes used to describe a related state of simultaneous mental “emptiness” and readiness.
If you want to see zanshin at work, watch a really good martial artist spar multiple opponents—or watch a really good trial lawyer do his or her stuff in a courtroom. Many of the best litigators we’ve known cultivate zanshin, although they probably don’t label it as such. They have the capacity to remain poised, focused, and mentally agile even in the midst of all sorts of background noise: anxious clients, nervous witnesses, grouchy judges, unsympathetic jurors, and belligerent opposing counsel. A lawyer’s capacity for zanshin signals mastery of the profession, and in the mastery of any craft, we can find joy, as we’ll discuss more later.
Both good martial artists and good litigators also embrace—and find joy in—the ideal of fighting hard but fairly. For many of us, the “fight hard” part comes easily and naturally. An intrinsic drive to prevail in an adversarial setting may be what attracted us to the dojo or the courtroom in the first place.
These contexts fuel that impulse. In the martial arts, we bow to our opponent, the instructor signals the start, the fight instinct is triggered, and off we go. And because we think the fight matters—that it tests something within us and about us—we do not stop until the contest is called or someone taps out.
So it goes with litigation. We have the tremendous privilege of representing clients whose financial, reputational, and even liberty interests are at stake. They have come to us because they believe we can help them in their most trying times—that we will fight on their behalf. Because we care deeply about our clients, and because we are human beings who also care about our own livelihoods and reputations, we want—we need—to win.
But neither the dojo nor the courtroom endorses a no-holds-barred free-for-all. In the practice of litigation, the rules of civil and criminal procedure, evidence, ethics, and the like place boundaries around just how far lawyers may go to win. To add some martial arts color to Berger v. United States, 295 U.S. 78, 88 (1935), good litigators may strike hard blows, but there should be no litigation equivalents of metsubushi (eye gouges) or kinteki uchi (groin hits). Similarly, the civility principles adopted by a number of federal courts suggest that, unless we are litigating on a beach in Okinawa, we probably shouldn’t indulge in any sunakake—kicking sand in our opponent’s face.
To be clear: We can fight fair and fight hard. Indeed, the essential natures of martial arts and litigation demand as much; neither of them is tiddlywinks. And anyone who thinks otherwise is in for a rude and bruising awakening.
Consider: The first three kata that students learn in Goju Ryu Karate—Geikisai Dai Ichi, Geikisai Dai Ni, and Saifa—roughly translate as “attack and destroy number one,” “attack and destroy number two,” and “smash and tear.” A basic kata in Tae Kwon Do simulates using a hand as a spear so aggressively as to drive the solar plexus into the spine. In the words of the Talking Heads: “This ain’t no fooling around.”
Neither is litigation. Comment 1 to Rule 1.3 of the ABA Model Rules of Professional Conduct—the rule that requires diligent representation—commands that we must “act with zeal in advocacy.” This language was added to the comment after horrified lawyers discovered that the drafters had left the word “zeal” out of the main text. Zeal is an essential part of our job description, and it is not for the fainthearted.
Again, however, neither the martial arts nor litigation endorses victory at all costs and through all means. We need to win without resorting to cheap tricks or abusive tactics and within the letter and spirit of the rules. When we can manage not just to prevail, but to prevail nobly by outthinking, outmaneuvering, and outworking our opponent, we experience one of the great joys of practice.
Martial artists also find joy in demonstrating the respect for others that the discipline demands. From the moment we enter a dojo to the moment we leave, we must show a level of respect that matches the solemnity of the place and honors the people who teach and train there. That means bowing to teachers and higher-ranked students and bowing before stepping onto the tatami, or mats.
It means sitting quietly in seiza (kneeling) for sometimes uncomfortably long periods. It means following instructions. It means taking time to understand the history and culture of your art.
In Goju Ryu Karate, before we begin to train, we bow and say “onegaishimasu,” a word that in everyday parlance means “please” or “I beg of you.” In the dojo, though, it takes on a more nuanced significance. There, onegaishimasu reflects both respect and humility; it says to fellow students, “Thank you for the opportunity to train with you.”
Both of us have found this attention to respect a welcome respite from the incivility that can characterize daily law practice. It creates a special atmosphere and demarcates a border between the outer world and the special inner world of the dojo. And it serves another important instrumental purpose: Martial arts involve a risk of injury; it is serious stuff, and these shows of respect remind us to practice in a way that honors that seriousness.
We think that good litigators strive to imbue their practice with similar ideals of respect. Some of this gets done through the minor formalities we all follow: We stand when the judge or jury enters the courtroom. We begin arguments with “May it please the Court.” We end our briefs with “Respectfully submitted.” We shake hands with opposing counsel.
But, in our view, the best and most effective litigators, like the best and most effective martial artists, consistently reflect this notion of onegaishimasu across their actions and interactions. For example, these litigators recognize the importance of all the people who make the courtroom and courthouse work. These lawyers show respect and gratitude to everyone in that category, from the courtroom deputy to the marshal to the court reporter to the law clerk to the cashier at the newsstand to the security officer at the front door.
We need to take on this broader responsibility not just because it is the kind, decent, right thing to do. We need to do it because walking into the courthouse, like walking onto the tatami, is serious business. The work that gets done in courtrooms is crucial to our representative democracy. And we must practice law in a way that honors that seriousness.
Good martial artists also work diligently to develop mental and physical stamina. In the dojang where one of us trains (for Korean martial arts), students who wish to promote to black belt must pass a grueling test called “the gauntlet.” For hours, they run a circuit of nonstop calisthenics, bag striking, kata, and kumite. At any given moment, an instructor may pull a student aside to do something that tests the student’s mental resilience as well, for example ordering the student to perform a kata backward.
But martial artists don’t develop stamina just as training for a specific event, like a belt test or a tournament; they do so because having stamina defines what a martial artist is and prepares the martial artist for whatever the future may be. In an old martial arts story, a student says to his instructor: “Master, every day and every night I see you training. What are you training for?” The master replies: “I don’t know yet. Something will come along.”
Litigators also benefit from such stamina, although some of us do a better job than others at cultivating it. Indeed, the stereotype of the cigarette-smoking, hard-drinking, sleep-deprived, work-addicted litigator can undermine the mindset and habits necessary to achieve the mental and physical toughness our profession demands. We’re not suggesting that litigators need to become monastic warrior ascetics, but it is true that walking into a courtroom or conference room in a state of solid physical and mental fitness is both a strategic advantage and a meaningful source of joy.
Martial artists spend a lot of time considering their strengths and weaknesses, maximizing the former and doing what they can to improve on the latter. To take a simple example, in kata a right-handed practitioner of the martial arts will work to develop the quality of left-handed techniques until it becomes impossible to tell which side of the body is dominant. This empowers the practitioner in kumite to draw on a mixture of dominant- and nondominant-side moves based on the position of the opponent, the openings that materialize, and the element of surprise. Many a martial artist has been stunned by a kick to the solar plexus when an opponent who has consistently presented as right-side-dominant suddenly spins around and kicks with the left foot.
At the same time, no matter how much training and preparation we do, there are some things we can’t change. For example, height has a significant effect on which strategies are effective for a fighter in kumite. A short martial artist who chooses a barrage of round kicks to battle a tall martial artist may find herself taking a lot of knocks to the head.
Good litigators similarly know the importance of recognizing and addressing their weaknesses. They seek feedback from mentors, attend continuing education programs, hone their skills through organizations like the American Inns of Court, and sit down with colleagues when a case is over to discuss what went right and what went wrong. They candidly acknowledge their limitations and figure out how to work past them or work around them. These efforts require time, dedication, and intentionality, and busy litigators can come to think of them as luxuries. But litigators who ignore them will probably find themselves in a joyless professional place, settling for getting by instead of getting better.
Good martial artists and good litigators also work to cultivate the virtue of courage. And we can find great joy in the discovery that we have the capacity to conquer our fears. But, at the risk of extravagant understatement, it’s not always a pretty process.
Beginning practitioners of martial arts have a “courage learning curve.” In time, they discover that they can take a punch, even though, as a general proposition, getting punched hurts. Doing martial arts helps them understand, at a physical and emotional level, that the pain is (nearly always) fleeting and that—while they might be black and blue the next morning—they can push through, survive, and (preferably) punch back.
New litigators often enjoy hitting but lose their enthusiasm as soon as a return strike comes their way. They, too, have a courage learning curve. In time, the good ones discover that getting hit is part of the game and that they need to get comfortable with it. Litigation is its own kind of contact sport.
Taking blows is inevitable—at least, if you’re doing it right. In kumite, a fighter may need to move very close to his opponent to be effective, knowing he will suffer some strikes getting there. In litigation, a lawyer may need to call a hostile witness to testify to establish critical facts, knowing she will get some bad answers to questions along the way.
Indeed, the practice of litigation, like the practice of martial arts, is rich in opportunities to get hit. We cross-examine a sympathetic witness in a way that risks alienating the jury. We cite cases or raise arguments that have an uncomfortable provenance or lack the persuasive muscle we would like. We tell our clients bad news and listen patiently while they unfairly blame the messenger. We defend an unpopular client or an unpopular cause and find ourselves unpopular in other parts of our lives. We push back—hard—against a judge who has the capacity to make us pretty miserable and who decides to exercise that capacity. Everyone reading this article can insert 1,000 additional examples here.
None of this is easy. And it’s not as though joy wells up within us every time we show courage. To the contrary. Still, we don’t serve our clients, or our ourselves, if we shrink from the fight just because we might get hit. No one retains us to run off the mat as soon as things get tough.
Finally, in our view, the best martial artists and the best litigators have something else in common. They strive for perfection. In the pursuit of that excellence—to return to Aristotle’s formulation—they find happiness.
A vital part of martial arts training is practicing kata over and over and over again. At one level, kata might best be described as ballet with violent intent. But, done really well, a shodan (black-belt) level kata performance makes for a beautiful, flowing set of strictly prescribed moves, with varying tempos and demanding poses. And the real purpose of kata—demonstrating the martial artist’s mastery of severe and demanding fighting techniques—is never far from the surface.
At the beginning of the performance, before the first move, the performer cries out the name of the particular kata in an intimidating tone and volume. And at the end of the kata, when all the uke (blocks), geri (kicks), and tsuki (punches) are complete, the performer must demonstrate the zanshin discussed above—surveying the field of battle for the next opponent. Doing a kata well is extremely difficult; doing it perfectly borders on the incomprehensible.
To come even close to reaching mastery of even a single kata is extraordinarily demanding and requires years of training. It means repeating the kata hundreds, if not thousands, of times, breaking it down into its components, studying the bunkai (applications) behind each move, and then starting again from scratch. It means zeroing in unsparingly on the portions of the kata that give us the most difficulty and practicing those specific parts to the point of exhaustion. It means having the instructor repeatedly interrupt you after you’re only a few moves into the kata: “No, not right. Start again.” And we do.
One of us knows of a highly ranked master who entered a kata competition. At the tournament, he performed the very first kata that beginning students learn. It was a brilliant stroke of both mastery and humility, and he won.
Practicing kata can, indeed, be very humbling. To focus so critically on the particularly weakest part of our performance, again and again, is tough. Progress is slow at best. And concentrating on one kata may mean we need to relearn others that have faded from our mental and muscle memories.
But then the exercise sometimes rewards us with short flashes of something like perfection. Every once in a while, with all that training, we find ourselves performing a kata in a way that is transformed and transformative. Those rare, fleeting moments bring us joy. They keep us coming back to the dojo for all the other, less transcendent days—just as the smooth and perfectly executed cross-examination sustains us through all the bumpier, messier ones we endure later.
In the dojo, as in the courtroom, through hard work, discipline, intensity, and focus, we can get better. We do get better. We make perfection our goal, and on the very best of days, we get glimpses of it. But, in both disciplines, it is not perfection that brings us joy.
We find that in the path itself.
