"Think lightly of yourself, but deeply of the world."

身遠 安左久 思、 世越 不可久 思不

At some point in life, every person inevitably asks themselves: What in my life truly belongs to me? Are my values genuinely my own, or were they subtly instilled in me when I wasn’t paying attention? Are my reactions to the world conscious choices, or mere reflexes? Am I free, or do I simply follow unseen influences—other people’s expectations, fears, habits, and desires imposed upon me by the world?

Dokkōdō is not an ethical code. It does not tell us what is good or evil. It does not preach how one should live in society. It does not aim to instill loyalty, morality, or “character building” in accordance with external expectations. This is not bushidō—the way of the samurai, whose life was rooted in submission. Dokkōdō is a unique form of Japanese stoicism: a higher degree of self-determination—a path for the one who no longer needs to belong to anyone. Here, the samurai is first intellectually independent, only then feudalistically loyal.Though they could never have met, it is astonishing how similar the writings of Musashi Miyamoto and Marcus Aurelius can be in their understanding of the world.

Musashi did not write Dokkōdō for the world. Not for Japanese society. Not for the samurai. Not for future generations. He wrote it for one person—his disciple, to whom he wanted to impart his most valuable lesson. That is crucial. This was not a text meant to build a legend. It was not moralizing for the masses. It was a guide for his student—a man who already knew the way of the sword but had yet to learn the way of freedom. And perhaps that is precisely what makes Dokkōdō so unique.

Though Musashi’s world was vastly different from ours, his philosophy is more relevant today than ever before. We are no longer enslaved by daimyō or feudal lords—but how many people today are slaves to their own desires, carefully cultivated by the pleasure industry? How many are prisoners of their ambitions, hostages of social entanglements, or victims of their own egos, craving audience approval, fueled by the commercial machine?

So, what can we learn from Master Musashi today?

"Accept everything just as it is."

世々の道を背く事無し

Dokkōdō—A Radical Path

Near the end of his life, Miyamoto Musashi wrote Dokkōdō—“The Path of the Lone Wanderer.” It was neither a war treatise, nor a battle strategy, nor even a guide to morality. Dokkōdō was a testament—a short, austere set of principles, seemingly carved in stone, meant to ensure true independence—independence of the spirit.

This was Musashi’s final gift to his closest student. He did not write it for the world, for posterity, or to construct his own myth. He wrote it for someone who had already mastered the way of the sword but had yet to master the way of freedom.

And though centuries have passed since then, the question remains just as relevant: Can one be truly free in a world full of dependencies? Can a person exist independently of their emotions, of external events, of other people?

Dokkōdō does not offer a gentle answer to this question. It does not speak of compromises. It does not suggest half-measures. It speaks plainly: if you wish to be free, you must be no one’s prisoner—not of the world, nor of yourself.

Dokkōdō—The Solitary Path

Musashi was not a philosopher in the academic sense of the word. He did not theorize—he lived by what he preached. In his time, those who could not adapt to reality perished. Life was brutal and unpredictable. To be independent was to be capable of survival.

But Musashi went further—it was not enough just to avoid death. One had to avoid internal enslavement, for enslavement was the beginning of defeat.

Though he never states it outright, it is difficult to ignore the impression that, in Musashi’s view, honor meant independence of judgment more than loyalty to a feudal lord. Perhaps, if he had written these principles for the world, for society, they would have been more instructional—for the greater good. But he wrote them for one person, and that gives us a rare insight into what he may have truly thought.

Dokkōdō is not an ethical code. It does not dictate what is good or bad. It does not teach how one should behave within a community. It does not aim to cultivate loyalty or morality or shape character in line with societal norms.

This is not bushidō—the way of the samurai, whose existence was built on obedience. Dokkōdō is the highest level of self-determination—the path of someone who no longer needs to belong to anyone. And truthfully, such independence is even harder to achieve in the 21st century than in feudal times, albeit for different reasons.

It is no coincidence that Musashi wrote it at the end of his life—when he had relinquished all material possessions, when he had no more enemies, no more masters, when he had become both “empty” and full at the same time. Only then could one speak of true freedom.

Dokkōdō vs. Bushidō—A Philosophy of Independence vs. A Philosophy of Loyalty

Pop culture has shaped the image of the samurai as fanatically loyal warriors. And indeed, the bushidō code emphasized service. A samurai lived for his lord, for his clan, for his duty. His existence was conditional—he had value only as long as he met the expectations of others.

But this was not the only samurai worldview.

Musashi lived on the margins of the feudal hierarchy. He had no master, no teacher, no allegiance. And not because he could not—but because he chose not to. He was not a rōnin in the pejorative sense—he was a rōnin by choice. For him, a true warrior could not be dependent. For how can one speak of honor if a person has no freedom of choice?

What kind of honor exists if one does not fully bear responsibility for their own actions, instead allowing themselves to be directed by others, embracing values and ideals that have been programmed into them?

In Musashi’s eyes, honor was not blind loyalty—it was responsibility. It was the full acceptance of the consequences of one’s actions. And full responsibility is only possible for an independent person. 

Bushidō created loyal soldiers. Dokkōdō created self-sufficient minds.

Stoicism and Dokkōdō – In Search of Emotional Freedom

Did Musashi know the writings of Marcus Aurelius? Certainly not. Yet when he said, “Accept everything just the way it is,” it echoed the words of the Roman emperor-philosopher: “If you suffer because of something external, it is not that thing that troubles you, but your judgment of it. And you have the power to remove that judgment.”

Dokkōdō is a form of Japanese Stoicism—not in an academic sense, but in a deeply practical one. It is a philosophy that allows one to navigate a world full of chaos and unpredictability while maintaining unwavering inner balance. It is not about indifference; it is about understanding that the world does not need to adjust to us—it is we who must adjust to the world. It is not about passively accepting everything that happens but about acting without the illusion that reality must conform to our expectations. It is not about living without emotions, but about achieving freedom from emotions that strip us of control over ourselves.

Dokkōdō is not a warrior's code. It is a code for those who seek to be free. And that is the true path of the samurai—one that continues to inspire us today. Not the one from films, not the one from legends of loyal warriors dying for their lords, but the path of Musashi, the path of a man who knew he was alone. And precisely because he sought no one to guide him, no one to support him, no one to save him—he was stronger.

Samurai Independence—Before Pop Culture "Corrected" It

Pop culture adores samurai, but it rarely delves deeper into their way of thinking. It presents them as warriors of unwavering loyalty, ready to sacrifice their lives for their lord, never questioning their place in the hierarchy. And while there is some truth to this (starting from the very name samurai, which literally means “one who serves”), too often, the portrayal remains superficial. The samurai of films and books is obedient, and his honor is reduced to servitude. In reality, however, honor was something far more complex. It was not blind devotion but a full assumption of responsibility for one's actions. This means that a true samurai could never be entirely dependent on others, for true responsibility comes from acting according to one’s own deeply understood values—not from blindly adhering to ideals instilled since birth.

A samurai who acted solely out of duty was nothing more than an automaton. But a samurai who understood his decisions and accepted their consequences was something more—a person of full inner independence.

Honor, in the Western sense, is often seen as reputation—something that exists in the eyes of others, something that can be lost through gossip, betrayal, or public humiliation. In feudal Japan, it was similar—the good name of one’s clan, obligations to one’s lord, and the honor code (which, from the Edo period onward, became known as bushidō) meant that a samurai could be forced to die not because he had committed a dishonorable act, but because the situation demanded it. This is a profoundly Confucian notion: “To be sincere is not to speak what is true, but to say what ought to be said in a given situation.”

But Musashi saw honor differently. To him, honor was neither a facade nor a social label—it was an internal value that existed independently of others' opinions. True honor meant acting with full awareness and taking full responsibility for one’s decisions, and this was only possible when free from manipulation, expectations, and attachment to external validation.

If honor is loyalty, then loyalty to what? To a lord? To a clan? But what if the lord acts dishonorably—meaning, contrary to your own values? What if the clan demands actions you do not accept? In such cases, loyalty ceases to be a virtue and becomes blind submission. Musashi understood that honor is meaningless if one does not have the freedom of choice. A person dependent on others is not responsible for himself, because his actions are merely the fulfillment of someone else's will.

This is what made Musashi truly free—not because he could do whatever he pleased, but because nothing could control him except his own judgment.

"In all things, have no preferences."
物毎に好き好む事無し

Acceptance and Lack of Expectations

A person who expects nothing cannot be disappointed. This seemingly simple truth was known to the ancient Greeks. He who does not attach himself to how things “should be” remains untouchable by the whims of fate. This is not indifference—it is the highest form of freedom.

We live in a world that teaches us to cling to our desires. We have expectations of people, of work, of the future. We believe that if we can only control reality well enough, it will align with our plans. But the world does not operate according to our plans, and Musashi understood this perfectly.

It is not about ceasing to act. It is about ceasing to delude ourselves that reality will adjust to us. “Should be” applies only to things we can create ourselves. The rest of the world does not care about our “should be”, and there is no point in being upset or resentful about it.

Musashi and a Reality That Does Not Care for Humans

Musashi survived dozens of duels. He wandered without money, without protection, without comfort. He never had any guarantee that he would live to see the next day. But there was no sense in lamenting his fate—because the world had no obligation to care for Musashi.

It was precisely this stoic approach that made him invincible. Every duel, every night spent in the rain, every new challenge—Musashi never expected them to be different. He never asked why life was hard. He never wondered whether he deserved something better. He understood that reality is unpredictable and indifferent to human desires.

But does that mean Musashi rejected all comforts? That he saw luxury as something evil, or poverty as a spiritual virtue? No. It was not about rejecting comfort, but about not becoming dependent on it for inner peace.

A person who grows accustomed to comfort begins to expect it. When it is taken away—they suffer. The problem is not luxury itself—the problem is attachment to it. Musashi understood that if we make comfort and stability the foundation of our happiness, it becomes a fragile illusion, shattered by the slightest shift of fate.

There is nothing wrong with good food, a comfortable home, or a warm bed—but if someone cannot be happy without them, then it is not they who possess these things, but these things that possess them. Musashi knew that the strongest person is the one who can feel at ease in any situation—whether in a palace or sleeping under the open sky.

That is why he attached himself to nothing that could be taken away from him. Not because he was an ascetic, but because he was free. And that is the true lesson of Dokkōdō.

“Do not seek pleasure for its own sake.”
「身に樂しみを巧まず」

Mental Self-Sufficiency

Musashi did not reject pleasure because it was "bad" or "immoral." He did not view life in terms of sin and virtue, as was common in medieval Europe or in modern consumer culture (in the former, sex might have been a sin, in the latter, not being "up to date" might be). Dokkōdō is not a code of ethics—it is a code of independence. Musashi does not claim that pleasure itself is evil. He merely says: "Do not become dependent on it if you wish to live freely."

This is a crucial distinction. It is not about asceticism—it is about freedom. One can enjoy the taste of good food, but if one cannot be happy without it, then it is not they who control their life, but their habits. One can enjoy comfort, but if they lose their peace of mind when it is taken away, they are no longer masters of themselves—they are prisoners of their own expectations.

Musashi warns us not against pleasure itself, but against attachment to it. What brings satisfaction today can become a source of suffering tomorrow—if we are not prepared for the fact that life is in constant flux. The more things we consider "necessary" for happiness, the more we take away our own freedom.

A person dependent on pleasure is not free. It is not they who choose, but their desires that choose for them. Musashi understood that the pursuit of pleasure for its own sake is the fastest way to lose control over oneself. Hedonism works like a loop—the more stimuli we provide ourselves with, the more we need them. And when they become unavailable, we begin to suffer.

“Do Not, Under Any Circumstances, Depend on a Partial Feeling”

「一生の間欲心思わず」

Independent from Impulses

Musashi did not trust fleeting impulses. Emotions are like the wind—unpredictable, capricious, capable of throwing a person from euphoria to despair. People often believe they are their emotions—that if anger arises, they must surrender to it. That if jealousy surfaces, it must consume them. That if fear takes hold, they have no choice but to obey it.

But this is an illusion.

An emotion is like a spark. It may appear (and whether it appears may not even be within our control)—but it is we who decide whether we will allow it to ignite a fire. Musashi did not let his actions be dictated by the chaos of feelings. He did not reject emotions (they are part of reality, and the first principle of Dokkōdō states that one must accept reality as it is). However, he assigned them their proper place—they were information, not a command.

The Stoics spoke of the "dichotomy of control"—there are things we can influence, and things that lie beyond our reach. Our reactions belong to the first category. A person who learns to distinguish between what they truly control and what is beyond their grasp regains genuine freedom.

Musashi applied this principle in practice. He did not waste energy on regret, anger, or resentment. He did not dwell on what he could not change—but he did exercise mastery where it was possible: over himself.

You cannot control the world. But you can control your response to it. This is what both Musashi Miyamoto and Marcus Aurelius teach us.

"Be Detached from Desire Your Whole Lifelong."

「萬に依怙の心無し」

Untouchable

Desire is a subtle form of dependence—not only in a material sense, but in every form of expectation that ties our happiness to something external. If a person must have something in order to feel fulfilled, they become a prisoner of what they possess.

It is not about wanting nothing—it is about not being enslaved by one’s own desires.

Musashi understood that attachment weakens a person. Attachment to possessions creates fear of losing them. Attachment to the approval of others makes one susceptible to manipulation. Attachment to a fixed vision of the future makes it difficult to accept reality when it turns out differently.

His solution was minimalism—not as an aesthetic, but as an internal practice. Musashi did not surround himself with unnecessary objects, did not accumulate wealth, and did not tie his fate to the possession of anything. This was not a rejection of the world—it was a conscious decision to avoid being enslaved by things that could be taken away.

"Never Let Yourself Be Saddened by a Separation."
「孰れの道にも別れを悲しまず」

Independence from Others

An independent person is not one who never loses anything, but one who does not allow loss to destroy them. Loss, separation, and change are inevitable aspects of life. Every bond, every relationship, every situation we find ourselves in is temporary. The Buddha taught that attachment to impermanent things is the source of suffering—and modern psychology confirms this (which, of course, does not mean it confirms all Buddhist teachings).

Studies on emotional acceptance show that people who understand impermanence and do not base their identity on external factors are more psychologically resilient. Research by Gross and John (2003) on emotion regulation indicates that individuals who practice reinterpreting events and accepting their transience experience less stress and adapt better to change.

Musashi learned this lesson from life. If you allow separation—whether from a person, a place, or a situation—to consume you completely, it means you have tied your sense of stability to something that was never within your control.

This does not mean one should be cold and unfeeling. It means one should not build their identity on something that can be taken away. Because if your strength comes from something impermanent, then your strength is also an illusion.

"Resentment and Complaint Are Appropriate Neither for Oneself Nor for Others."

「自他共に恨み託つ心無し」

Resentment and grievances are emotional prisons. When we hold grudges, we do not punish those who have wronged us—we punish ourselves.

Psychological studies on forgiveness (e.g., Enright, 2001) show that people who learn to let go of grudges experience better mental health, lower cortisol levels (the stress hormone), and a greater sense of control over their own lives.

Musashi advises against clinging to the past or wasting energy reopening old wounds. Life is action—and dwelling on past wrongs saps the energy needed to move forward. The Stoics spoke of amor fati—love of fate. It meant embracing everything as it is, without resistance, without complaints. Epictetus wrote:

"It is not things that disturb you, but your judgments about them."

If you keep reliving resentment, you do not allow yourself to move forward. If you blame the world for your suffering, you surrender control over yourself. Forgiveness does not mean forgetting—it means severing the chain that keeps you shackled. And in forgiveness, the wrongdoer is entirely irrelevant.

"Think Lightly of Yourself and Deeply of the World."

「身を淺く思ひ、世を深く思ふ」

Free from the Aches of Ego

People who are prisoners of their own ego are also prisoners of others' opinions. If we attach ourselves to the image of ourselves that we have constructed—whether as a strong person, as someone "infallible," or as someone who must always be admired—we become vulnerable when the world does not affirm our vision. Or, we become susceptible to manipulation—when someone discovers our weakness and controls us through flattery and validation.

Baumeister’s research on self-esteem and its impact on psychology shows that individuals with high but fragile self-esteem, who cannot tolerate criticism, are more prone to anger and anxiety. In contrast, those who maintain a healthy distance from their self-image experience fewer emotional disturbances.

Musashi knew that those who cling too tightly to their own identity become easy targets. If you believe yourself to be wise and do not allow for the possibility of being wrong—any doubt will wound you. If you build your sense of self on praise—the absence of praise will destroy you.

Lightness toward one’s own ego is freedom. Freedom from the opinions of others. Freedom from one’s own internal fears. Freedom from the illusion that you must always be perceived in a particular way. Once again, there is no moralizing here—having an inflated ego is neither good nor bad. It simply gets in the way—and that is why Musashi warns against it.

Dokkōdō as the Path of the Modern...

Musashi did not write Dokkōdō for everyone. It is not a moral code or a set of rules to be accepted uncritically. It is, rather, a test—when we look into this mirror, do we see our attachment to things we do not control?

A modern person may believe they are free—they can make choices, forge their own path, express their opinions. But are they truly independent? If their emotions depend on how others treat them—are they free? If their sense of self-worth depends on achievements that could be taken away—do they truly have control over themselves?

Samurai were a social class—so among them were both sages and fools, drunks and masters. However, what is crucial is that in its ideal, the samurai was independent before they were loyal—this is something pop culture has forgotten in its glorification of Japanese warriors. There was no contradiction in this—quite the opposite. Only a person who can think independently can consciously choose whom and what they wish to serve.

Today, we do not have to live by Dokkōdō. We can avoid difficult questions, justify our attachments to transient things, and let the world decide for us. But we can also walk the path of Musashi and Marcus Aurelius. We can ask ourselves: What do I truly control in my life? What could I lose, and yet remain strong?

How to Practice Dokkōdō?

There are no instructions. There is no guidebook.
Each person must answer this question for themselves.

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"Strong Japanese Women"

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    未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

  Mike Soray

   (aka Michał Sobieraj)

未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

Mike Soray

(aka Michał Sobieraj)

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