Affection and Affectation by Ross Robertson
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An instructor of aikido, perhaps after having read one too many zen
fables, decided one day to take his students on a small field
trip. They left their dojo and went to a nearby park. Leading the
small group through the woods and along the meandering trail, they
arrived at a pleasant spot beside a small brook. The instructor
invited the students to make themselves comfortable, and directed
their attention to a large, smooth rock in the middle of the creek.
After a time, the sensei said to the students, "Consider the rock and
the water. Who can tell me where is the aiki?"
A young student, eager to please, said "The water best represents the
spirit of aiki. It moves around the obstacle effortlessly, and
continues on its natural path uninterrupted." There were some nods of
assent, as if the obvious had been stated.
"Good," said the instructor. Do we all agree then? he asked
Socratically.
A woman said, "I don't think the rock is any less aiki. It simply sits
imperturbably -- it has no mind to interfere with the water. I think
it represents calmness in the midst of chaos. Over time, it even
adapts its shape to ease the passage of water around it. I think that
is very aiki."
"Yeah, but eventually the water will wear the rock down to sand," said
a large guy, the same one who was often difficult for the woman to
work with. "This creek will be here long after that rock is
gone. Maybe it will even turn into a big river as it deepens its
channel."
An argument broke out among the students. Meanwhile, the less vocal
among them had their own thoughts. The one who is always worried about
getting his money's worth was thinking "I know were the aiki
is... it's back in the dojo where we all should be right now." Another
sat with a knowing smile at all the noise and ruckus. "Aiki is
everywhere, all around us, and in all things."
In defense of the woman's point of view, another man said, "But after
the rock has turned to sand, it becomes one with the river (for by now
it had become a river in everyone's minds)." The sand will wind up in
the sea, and maybe will turn into coral or seashell. The rock becomes
life. Isn't that aiki?"
The discussion then wandered into the subject of the Great Ocean,
Mother of all Life, and some of the students (they had read Lao Tzu)
asserted that this proved that water is still the best example in
nature of aiki. Others objected that life is made up of matter, and it
is as containers that organisms are able to live. Eventually the
moderates broke in, sure that they were sounding the voice of
reason. "The universe is both form and formlessness. Aiki is in
both. Each is aiki."
The instructor said nothing, but observed that the water ran roughly
here and there, and collected in still pools elsewhere. After some
time, the argument seemed to have exhausted itself.
Finally, one of the senior students said, "I don't think either the
rock or the water are aiki. I think aiki only exists between them,
where they meet. A thing can't be aiki or not aiki, only relationships
can be aiki."
By now everyone was too tired to argue, and besides, the instructor
didn't say anything to correct the senior student. They picked
themselves up and headed back toward the dojo. A light rain had begun.
On the way back, the instructor fell in beside the senior
student. "So, if it's about relationships, what is your relationship
with the rock and the water?" The student thought about it for a
while, and said, "Both the rock and the water are now in my mind, and
I'm different because of it. But I don't think my mind has had any
effect on the creek. The stone and the water affect each other, and
together they have affected me. But I haven't affected them."
At the door of the dojo, they let everyone else pass on through. The
instructor took his place last in line, and motioned the senior
student through the door. He smiled noncommittally at her, and made no
comment. If only she knew how the world is always affected by her
presence, he mused. He was suddenly filled with the sweet melancholy
of the rain, of distance, of teaching, and impossibilities.
As she went on in to join the others, she turned, smiled
affectionately, and shrugged.
"I guess some things are real even if we can't always locate them."
The water fell from the hard roof, ran through the gutters, and seeped
into tiny cracks in the moistened tarmac. Dewdrops beaded on the skin
of the instructor as he scurried inside. On the mat, sweat leaked
through pores, soaked into the threads of gi cloth, and through the
lining of lungs of students practicing kokyu-ho.
Not too far away, a stone was disappearing beneath the rising waters.
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