On Focus and Dedication

There is a small conversation going on over at Crazy Hobbit’s. The primary topic is on builds on a seemingly simple question: “Can one be truly dedicated to a martial art if one is not also in a state of war?” (Okay, the question wasn’t exactly phrased that way, but it was the question that came to my mind as I was reading.)

In one of my earlier posts, I pointed out that you cannot be a jack-of-all-trades in self-defense and, as a result, it is often ill-advised to practice more than one martial art. This is because we often dedicate only a few hours a week to our training; to divide that small amount of time up between several martial arts can greatly reduce the usefulness of that training.

But what if your focus was constant. In The Code of the Samurai, there is a common theme that everything one does, from menial daily tasks to fighting in a battle, depends on you presuming that you could die at any moment. When I came across this notion, my initial thought was that this was an incredibly negative way of living one’s life. Yet, as I read further, I found that nothing could be further from the truth. The sole point of keeping death in mind was to ensure that every moment you spent living had value, purpose, and focus, that not a single minute of the day was wasted frivolously. Through this mindset, you treated your friends and family respectfully, you worked hard, you had constant focus. The result? Your mind was always in a state of sharpening, your reflexes and awareness were continually honed.

In short, the samurai seemed to take each moment as an opportunity to improve their training. Their focus was constant.

Most of us do not live in a society in which war is a constant. However, that does not necessarily give us the right nor the excuse to allow our minds and bodies to degenerate into uselessness. For example, we often use the expression “wearing many hats” to denote someone who has multiple roles in a given organization or task. This expression seems to highlight the fact that we expect our minds to be fragmented; that we do not expect to work as a cohesive whole. Who we are at work is often not who we are at home; we sit behind a desk all week and become weekend warriors on Saturday. Unlike the samurai, our focus shifts from situation to situation; we rarely have a constant.

What if, instead, you were to spend a day in total focus? What would that day be like? Here is my opinion:

1. You wake, and immediately get out of bed. You do not hit the snooze alarm; you do not spend 10 minutes groggily staring at the ceiling.
2. You shower, and dress appropriately. You do not dress sloppily, even if your work has a lax dress code.
3. You eat a good breakfast.
4. You leave for work on time, accounting for traffic and other issues.
5. You arrive at work, and you focus on your tasks. You do not spend hours surfing the Web, nor do you spend too much time talking with co-workers.
6. You eat a good lunch.
7. You leave for work at an appropriate time. That may mean exactly 9 hours later, if you have a family, or later, if you are single.
8. You arrive home, and you take care of your family and your house.
9. You train in Aikido, or study tea, or flower arrangements, or iaido.
10. You eat a good dinner.
11. You go to bed at a reasonable hour.

This is just a bare-bones, on-the-fly example. But you notice a common theme? Moderation, focus, a clear delineation, but not separation, of work and family life. It doesn’t seem that complicated, yet how many of us live life like this? What would happen if we did? Would our lives have more focus? More enjoyment? This certainly isn’t a hedonistic lifestyle. Yet I can’t help but wonder if our lives wouldn’t be better if we lived with this sort of simple focus and dedication.

And then, with a solid foundation of living, what would our Aikido technique be like?

Other Arts

Another fellow blogger and Aikido enthusiast, Crazy Hobbit, made this post regarding training in multiple martial arts. He uses a great reference to a book, Another Fine Myth, by Robert Aspirin:

…the Main Character (a Magicians Apprentice) asks a Demon why he can’t learn both physical and magical attacks and defenses. Aahz, the demon, throws a log at Skeeve, the apprentice, and tells him to block it. Skeeve first attempts to use his hands, but then decides he should impress Aahz by using magic, and ends up getting hit during his indecision.

I was a fan of those books a long time ago, and I had forgotten about this particular passage.

I think this passage makes an excellent point. It can be very challenging to learn two or more arts that, to use Crazy Hobbit’s phrase, share the same utensils. Not only can it lead to mental indecision, but it can also interfere with your muscle memory as well. Much of our responses in dangerous situations hinge on muscle memory, or how well our bodies remember certain movements. Indecisiveness at this level can dramatically slow down your reactions.

Yet, studying another art that does not share the same utensils, such as Iaido, does not have this same risk. If you are in a dangerous situation and you have a sword (granted, an unlikely scenario), you will respond one way. If you are empty-handed, you will respond in another way.

(As a side note, I really like the term, utensils, here, because it does not imply the core values shared by most martial arts. Both Iaido and Aikido can be incredible tools for learning calmness, centeredness and control. But they employ very different utensils when learning the lessons these arts have to offer.)

One other item I’d like to point out: in more traditional times, training for war was often a necessary and full-time occupation. Consequently, there was time to practice several different arts, because most of your day would be solely devoted to training. Now, martial arts training is a small slice of our daily lives. For many of us, it is difficult to carve out two or three hours a week for our training. Given that, training in multiple arts today requires someone who can make the time commitments necessary to give these arts at least a modicum of attention and focus. This can be extremely challenging… and while I applaud those who can do it, lack of time remains the another prime reason why I often caution people from practicing more than one art.

Self defense, after all, is not an activity where “jack of all trades, master of none” is sufficient.

Excellence

What is excellence in terms of Kokikai Aikido? Let alone any martial art?

The answers that comes first to most people’s minds is: “Excellence is when you can successfully defend yourself.” But defend yourself when? I don’t get into street fights; I also know enough not to go down dark alleys late at night unless I have to. If I never get into a fight, am I unsuccessful?

The next answer, then, is often: “Excellence is when you have mastered the art.” But what is mastery? I am still learning. So is my sensei. So is his sensei, and he is the one who founded this martial art! When even the founder is continually improving, can one say that anyone else has mastered the art?

Now, the next potential answer: “Excellence is when you can perform at a certain level at a certain period of time.” Certainly, many people use this definition during tests. After all, an excellent 6th kyu test is not the same as a shodan test. But how do we define “at a certain level?” Is it physical ability? That seems counterintuitive; especially for an art such as Kokikai Aikido. After all, this is an art form that is designed for everyone, regardless of age, gender, or physical ability. Is it mental ability? That doesn’t wash either. There are far too many people who “think” a technique, but can’t actually do the technique. That cannot be excellence.

The question, “What is excellence?” is important. We often are very quick to judge someone’s ability. But we are rarely honest about the criteria on which we judge that person. I think that, were we to be honest with ourselves, we would admit that, when we judge someone’s technique, we are judging them based on a combination of how we perform ourselves and how we think they should perform. After all, most of us do not teach; therefore, we see most things only from our own perspective.

This method of judgement is, however, incorrect. In Kokikai, we have a variety of people training. To impose biased set of criteria on another individual is wrong. Worse than that, it can lead you into a false sense of security in regards to your own technique. A large man moves differently than a small man, a young person moves differently than an old one. How can one decide that one is “excellent” and the other is not?

Yet, a set of criteria must be in place. Otherwise, we are not training; we’re playing a game.

I think that, now that I have seen a great deal of tests, I have a good idea as to what is excellence in Kokikai Aikido: Excellence is progress. At different ranks, we expect different levels of progress. Testing for shodan demands that you have progressed past a certain point since you began your training. It means that you have requires a certain level of understanding about the Basic Principles; about how to move. Does that mean that two shodan candidates testing at the same time will move the same way? Absolutely not. It means that many people will test and train in very different ways. It is the responsibility of the judges and the instructor to determine how well a given student is doing. This is why students must be recommended for tests. That recommendation tells the judges that the instructor has seen this student move. He or she knows them, and knows what their general level of training is like. That can go a long way with judges when it comes to testing for rank. It also means that, with each test, an instructor is putting his or her reputation on the line, and that is no small matter.

I would like to remind everyone, including myself, that we are all different. In the end, the only person who truly knows how well they are doing is the student. Be honest with yourself and train hard: that, perhaps, is the only true meaning of excellence in Kokikai Aikido.