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[Originally posted on my blog www.grabmywrist.com, on 10/10/2009, at 4:25 p.m., when AikiWeb was down.]
I've heard it said that Aikido is more like police work than like the military. You want to control a bad situation, keeping everyone as safe as possible. There's nothing comparable to storming in and taking out the enemy. It's an analogy that resonates with me, and has been very useful in explaining to non-Aikido friends why my training isn't about fighting or beating people up.
But I've noticed something in the past week that brought another image to mind. First, I was watching Sensei working with some of the yudansha. There was no rushing, no anger, no malicious intent. What I saw was calm, composed compassion, along with undeniable power and absolute control. It suddenly reminded me of watching a veterinary technician (vet tech) control an animal patient. Vet techs have a variety of techniques they use to immobilize a animal so it can be safely treated without hurting them, the veterinarian, or itself. The animal is absolutely controlled, but with no intent to cause it harm, only kindness and sympathy. It's done firmly, so there's no question in the animal's mind that it might be able to get loose, but no more force is used than necessary. It's interesting that the animal usually feels safe, and calms down.
Later I got to experience being Uke as Sensei demonstrated a technique. The analogy held up. There was no pain, or even force, but there was also no question of resisting, and a sense of total safety.
It's easy to imagine some of the sense of safety being
I didn't know what to expect from this seminar. Relaxation is something I knew I needed to work on in my riding, at least, and it was bound to be a pleasant enough experience, so I signed up. I regularly go to a 90-minute class, and the seminar was only 2 hours, so I wasn't expecting miracles.
But I knew immediately that something deeply important had happened to me in the seminar. The best I could do at the time was to see it as a mental image of hands lifting a stuck Roomba (a wandering robotic vacuum cleaner) out of a corner. Or perhaps more poetically, a little fish being helped from a tide pool into the open sea. (Funny that I think "kohai" sounds like it should be the name of a little fish.) There was a distinct sense of being set free from a tightly bounded existence, and having a vastly expanded space in which to live and play with others. I noticed friends laughing, and it made me happy. I seemed more receptive to the emotional states, both positive and negative, of people around me. Something happened, but I couldn't say what it was.
There's very little of the visceral, experiential "doing" of Aikido that I can put to words. I think that's why I end up writing poetry ab
I suppose it's true that in any pursuit, the more you learn, the more you realize how little you know.
At a few points thus far in my short Aikido journey I've had glimpses what might lie along the road ahead. Vague outlines of the tops of distant mountains. A barely perceptible pre-dawn glow from a city beyond the forest. Is that the wind, or the roar of a far-off river?
I had one of those glimpses recently, when Sensei demonstrated in a simple technique the difference that connection makes. No connection. Connection. Twenty seconds out of a ninety-minute class, and the impact was profound. More about that, please!
Tonight I was frustrated with myself, as usual, when I still couldn't get a technique right on the 4th or 5th try. My partner, as he's done several times before, just smiled and told me to be patient.
I was reminded of the sign which hangs on my office door: "Patience My A...". I originally bought it (at the local tack store, of course) because it so perfectly described how I felt most of the time. Obstacles be damned, let's get things done! That's a good thing, right?
And with most intellectual challenges I get right up to speed. I can become fluent in information, ideas, facts, concepts, and vocabulary really quickly. Throw me in a deep end, and I'll swim. I do it all the time in my work. I think my proficiency with that kind of learning makes it all the more annoying that physical learning doesn't work the same way.
Our bodies only "get" things just so fast. Rushing is counterproductive. If you play guitar, maybe you remember learning a barred F chord. You were never going to get it. It sounded awful, and felt awkward. You must not be doing it right. It was impossible, probably for months. And then one day it was just there, and it was easy. There were some tips to learn, of course, but hurrying, using more muscle, and getting mad at yourself didn't help a bit. You just had to practice.
There are days when one Aikido technique or other is that barred F chord. I can see how it's supposed to go. Everyone else is doing it gracefully and effectively, but I can't d
The same (basically) as my AikiWeb blog, & I'll run them in parallel. You can't comment on the other one. It's more for people who aren't on AikiWeb already. It's a bit easier to browse, has more photos, etc. But it's not a replacement for this AikiBlog.
I think I've noticed an interesting rhythm to what is covered in classes: As exams approach, about every 2 months, classes focus more on techniques that are required for the exams (thank goodness!). Just after exams, we get to try some more interesting things. Both of the classes I did today covered new (to me) ground. Fun stuff!
A few days ago I was reading some of the past newsletter articles on the Aikido of San Diego website, and was in a writing kind of mood, so I rewrote Sensei's "Subject of the Season" article from the Spring 2009 newsletter as a poem, just for fun. (This one actually came before the one I posted a few days ago.) I thought you might enjoy it.
More Than Technique by Linda Eskin
Derived from Dave Goldberg Sensei's Spring09 Newsletter
Words are not the essence of poetry.
Techniques are not the expression of Aikido
Poetry evokes, conveys, inspires.
Aikido balances, grounds, frees.
Brushes and paint are not the artwork.
The toddler, barely walking, dances freely.
Express your Aikido fully, from the beginning.
You know how being cooped up inside all day makes you want to run and play once you get outdoors? I think writing deadly dull things like software specs does the same for my writing. I have to run around and play. I've been reading some of our dojo newsletters online, and although they are written in prose, I hear what's said as poetry. So because I tend to rewrite anything that crosses my path, I've been running around and playing with rewriting newsletters as poems. I can't say if this a "good" poetry, but I hope it touches you.