On Losing

At work, I am fortunate enough to have a friend who is not only an Aikido enthusiast, but also willing and able to let us use his dojo’s space every now and then during lunch. We train in different styles, so our sessions often center around differences in movements; both the practical (re: martial) reasons behind a given technique or strategy, and the philosphical aspects.

Today, he brought up the fact that he had been struggling with Tsuki (punch). Not just regular, we’re-in-a-martial-arts-class tsuki, but the real thing. Jabs, body blows, the whole shebang. No problem, I thought to myself. I’ve trained in this type of situation before. I know what principles to apply and what strategies to employ. I have something to bring to the table here. I admit it: in my own mind, I felt that I was going to really show that I could dominate such a situation. I had the knowledge! I had the practice! I was ready to go!

Right.

When we got to the mat and began our workout, I lost. A lot. By “lost,” I mean that either I was forced to the ground or was hit hard enough/in the right area that, had this been an actual conflict, I would have been hurting. Certainly not the outcome I was anticipating. In all fairness, I don’t think I lost every time. But I lost enough that I found myself frustrated and upset. What made it more challenging for me was that I had done this exercise countless times, successfully! Why was it not working now? Was my training flawed? Was the uke that good? Am I just not that good of an aikidoka? I am a sandan, after all. I should win, and win often!

When we left the dojo, I found myself with these questions bouncing around in my head. I’ve come up with the following answers:

1. Was my training flawed? Doubtful. I’ve done this technique before–at least enough times to know that I can be successful.
2. Was the uke that good? Probably! He’s not unskilled, and is extremely committed. If anything, he is more of a martial artist than I am.
3. AmI just not that good of an aikidoka? What a ridiculous, egotistical question. I should know better than to beat myself up over the poor execution of a single technique.

Aha! Ego! Perhaps the problem lay there. I thought back, and attempted to remove my ego from the situation. When I did so, I realized several things. First, I realized that the very fact that my ego got involved at all shows that I have a long way to go before I master this art. Aikido is not about ego. It is about calmly accepting the situation and responding as needed. With my ego in play, I was resisting my uke; I was not attempting to blend with him. I wanted to beat him. What I should have wanted was to join him.

Second, I realized that, the closer you get to real fighting, the more luck can become a factor. Sometimes I think I won because I shifted my weight at just the right time. Other times, I think I lost because I made a slight mistake in my movement. These are things that cannot be helped, and could happen to anyone.

Third, while I didn’t win every time, I didn’t lose every time either. Yet all my mind wanted to focus on was losing. Again, an illustration of how far I have to go in this art.

Fourth, even though I lost sometimes, and even though I was frustrated because I couldn’t figure out why, I didn’t get overly upset. Granted, I wasn’t the perfect example of calmness, but I was at least present enough to realize that I needed to keep myself calm and collected. That alone shows that, as far as I have to travel, I still have made some progress.

In the end, we gradulally slowed down the attacks. After a certain point, we reached a speed at which I became successful nearly every time. That tells me something. Just like with kokyu doza, perhaps the solution lies in slowing things down and rewarding correct movement even if it still could be improved. The next time we have the opportunity to do this, we agreed to start at a slower speed, and slowly increase that speed until we reach a point where the technique falls apart. The goal would be to get to where the point where things fall apart is beyond the speed at which any reasonable uke will attack.

In the end, I was grateful for this training opportunity. Next time, I’ll do better.
And, next time, I promised that I would not bleed all over the mat. But that is another story.

Choosing a Dojo

Yesterday, a friend of mine sent me an e-mail. Apparently, she’s looking to take up a martial art, and wanted ot know my thoughts on what she should look for. Of course, my first reaction was: Aikido! But, after a moment, I realized that there is quite a lot to say on the subject.

For your interest, I thought I’d post my reply to my friend here:

Well, you’ve definitely asked me about something to which I can speak at -great- lengths. As both a martial arts practitioner and instructor, I’ve wrestled with what you’re thinking about numerous times. I hope the following helps:

First, you’re already one step ahead because you’ve defined your goals. Most people join a martial art unsure of what they want. Is it self-defense? Physical fitness? Inner harmony? While I never expect a student to clearly identify these goals off the bat (especially since they are likely to change over time), it’s good to at least have an -idea- of what you want. What I’d recommend is that you prioritize these goals a little bit–especially between physical fitness and self-defense. Why? Well, in my school, I focus on self-defense first. That sometimes means that you can come to class and actually not get a “full” workout, because we’re working on strategy and/or tactics. If you’re primarily looking for a good sweat, then that methodology can be frustrating. On the other hand, if you’re school focuses primarily on getting a workout, you may get frustrated later on when you realize you don’t really know much about how to apply your technique in a meaningful way. Don’t stress too much about this, however. It’s a bit like Elvis versus the Beatles. You can like both, but you probably like one more than the other.

Second, choosing a school depends on a variety of factors. I don’t know the style of Aikido that you were looking at (and there are many kinds), but there are some general questions I ask myself (or the instructor!) when I visit a new dojo:

1. What is the overall strategy of the martial art?
2. How does daily training implement that strategy?
3. How does the instructor conduct him/herself? As a stern kung-fu master? As a laid-back ex-hippie? Something in-between?
4. How do students conduct themselves? Friendly? Cold? Are they respectful to each other, their instructor, and their training area?
5. What is the history of the martial art? How does this style/school fit into this history?
6. What is the instructor’s background?
7. Do they require a year-long committment?

In the end, you have to go with your gut. If you walk in, and you think that the place feels weird/creepy/military/anything else you don’t like, then go with that. I also highly recommend that you allow yourself the chance to -try- the art first. See if you can train for one class for free. In all likelihood, the class will be confusing and/or difficult. But if you leave it feeling as if you had a great time, then you know you can continue.

Third, the Physical Fitness/Age/Gender issue. In my opinion, a solid self-defense system is applicable regardless of whether you are male or female, young or old, fit or not. In this regard, Aikido excels. I can tell you, right now, without ever having met you in person, that if you can walk across the room without difficulty, then you can do Aikido. However, you -must- be patient with yourself. I’ve seen many people start a martial art and quit because they don’t live up to some inner image of themselves. When you start training, you need to remember that, just like anything else, it takes progress and time. And, in the end, you’re only competition is yourself. With luck, you’ll join a club that has a friendly atmosphere. When you do, make friends with other students! Nothing helps you overcome feelings of frustration than chatting with someone who is feeling the same way or has felt that way before. On a similar note, if your friend joins along with you, that’s great! But I recommend you each make a committment to yourselves that your training is your responsibility, and is independent on whether the other one is able to get on the mat. For example, I have a father/son team as students. They used to train together–if one couldn’t make it, the other one wouldn’t either. Today, they both realize that their training is important to them as individuals, so if one can’t show up, the other one will anyway.

In case you can’t tell, I -love- Aikido. It forms a fundamental core of who I am. I am always happy to talk about it and help others decide if it is right for them. I’m also happy to help find good deals on uniforms, weapons, and so forth. So… if you decide you have more questions, I’m really happy to help

Dave

I think this pretty well states what I recommend students when they are looking for a dojo. It really does come down to the following questions:

• Does the strategy make sense?
• Is the environment serious, yet friendly?
• Is the instructor both competent and compelling?

If you answer yes to these three questions, odds are you have found a place in which you can successfully begin your martial arts career.

KI, Part One

It forms the central part of Aikido training. In Kokikai, it has so much significance you can’t even say the name of our style without mentioning it twice. It is often the subject of whispers, occasionally the subject of scorn, and always the subject that any aikido student, of any skill level or experience, struggles to understand.

By this time, it should be obvious: I’m talking about ki.

But what is this ki? How do we define it, work with it? Does it even exist at all? Or is it just some sort of metaphysical mumbo-jumbo? “In Kokikai, we define ki as mind-body coordination.” That’s the standard line, and it’s true. But what does it mean? What is mind-body coordination? Aren’t we just switching an undefined phrase for an undefined word? Truthfully, it’s been made clear that, in Kokikai, the understanding of ki is a personal one. You’re meant to figure it out yourself. There are some good reasons for that, which I hope to get to in time. But for now, I thought I’d at least try to help by pointing out a few things that ki is not; perhaps that way, we can have a starting point for trying to discuss what ki actually is.

Disclaimer: These are my thoughts, as most of you know. No doubt discussing ki is akin to discussing religion; there are likely to be many opinions, and mine is only one of them.

First, ki is not magic. You’d think this is pretty obvious, but I want to make it clear. Magic, according to Webster’s, is “the art that purports to control or forecast natural events, effects, or forces by invoking the supernatural.” This is not ki. There is no magic going on here. There is no mystical forces at work, no secret enchancements that activate it. I’m actually often surprised at how many people think of magic or the supernatural when they think of ki. I won’t digress into a discussion of what I think ki is just yet, but I will say that there is nothing in ki that is magic; therefore, there is nothing in ki that does not make some logical sense. Some people may use terms like “magic” or “mystical energy” or “universal energy” as terms of convenience; however, the connotations associated with these terms paints an incorrect and highly-distracting picture of reality.

Second, ki is not religion. You do not have to “believe” in ki. It is not a faith to which you subscribe, there are no tenets that you must follow. Again, there may be a great many people to whom ki is a fundamental part of their belief system. Yet I do not think that ki is, in and of itself, its own religion. A part of religion is faith which, again turning to Webster’s, is a “belief that does not rest on logical proof or material evidence.” We know that ki cannot be a belief or religion, then, because we have seen both logical proof and material evidence that it exists.

Third, ki is not an intellectual concept. This again is a common trap for many practitioners of Aikido. It is very easy for us to mentally process the words “ki,” “mind-body,” and “coordination,” and say to ourselves, “Ah yes, I understand now.” Such an understanding exists only in the mind, and does not permeate through the rest of one’s consciousness. All too often I see people mentally process a concept like ki, only to demonstrate that their understanding is superficial at best. This attempt to treat ki like a textbook subject always reminds me of a certain relative of mine. This relative will tell you, at every opportunity, that they feel “at peace.” Every day, all the time, they mention that they’re at peace. Over and over again they repeat this phrase, like it’s a mantra. After a few conversations, you realize something: this person probably has no real understanding what “being at peace” really means. Consider such individuals like the Dali Lama. He doesn’t exactly walk around, telling everyone: “I’m enlightened! Did you know that I’m enlightened? I’m telling you that I’m enlightened!” No, he simply is enlightened. It permeates his entire being, and therefore there is no need to explain it. Being able to mentally and intellectually process the limited words and expressions that we can use to describe ki is not the same as actually understanding it.

I think that’s a good enough start, for now. Later, I hope to discuss some of the things that I think ki actually is, as well as what tools we have through which we can understand ki further.

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Trust

At a recent seminar, Sensei Jonathan Bannister gave a small, but incredibly potent lecture on trust. I won’t try to paraphrase what he said here; but I think the issue is a very interesting and very important one.

Any student/teacher relationship requires a level of trust. The more complex the subject matter, the more that trust is required. From the student standpoint, we need to trust that our instructors not only understand the subject matter, but are competent enough to teach it to us. (There are are many people who are experts in their field, but lack the ability to impart what they have learned to others.) From a teacher standpoint, we need to trust that our students are focused on learning. It can be frustrating, as an instructor, to spend so much time planning a class, only to discover that your students are really uninterested in what you have to say. (I don’t know how high school teachers do it, sometimes!)

This issue of trust is even more important when one studies a martial art. In this context, we are not just learning something that will help us improve as a human being; we are also learning something that is supposed to help us protect ourselves from harm. I can have a bad physics professor, for example, and the main consequence of that is that I will learn little about physics. A bad martial arts instructor, on the other hand, will leave me either understanding little about self-defense–or worse, an incorrect understanding about self-defense. Given the fact that self-defense is, at its core, about life and death, I think a bad martial arts instructor has a much more dire impact on the average person.

Because martial arts focus on life and death, it is critical that both the instructor and the student trust each other. In a striking art, such as Karate, this trust is easy to validate. Our fight-or-flight instincts help us understand rather quickly how a given block or strike is effective. The physical sensations alone are often enough to validate that our instructor is teaching us something worthwhile. We can feel that a given block works. We can tell that a given punch or kick has a powerful effect. Because we can feel that it works, we can trust our instructor more easily.

But what about an art like Kokikai Aikido? This is not a striking art. In fact, one of our fundamental principles is that the whole notion of fight-or-flight is no longer valid; that it is often an out-dated and ineffective response. Instead, we focus on relaxation, positioning, and timing. Unfortunately, these concepts are not always as easy to accept. A correctly applied Kokikai technique leaves an attacker helpless and, quite often, safe on the ground. But there is no actual sensation that tells us if we are correct. In fact, it is often said that when you move correctly, it feels like…nothing. If we combine this issue with the fact that new students often have to move slowly (to ensure safe practice), a fact that leaves movements feeling inelegant and rhythmless, it is easy to see why new students might be reluctant to trust their instructor.

Of course, it is not the job of the instructor to have to “prove” the techniques work at all times. Nor is it the job of the student to blindly accept everything the instructor says as “truth.” But in an art like Kokikai Aikido, in which we are asking new students to embark on a journey that requires a radical restructuring of how to move and think, we do need to look at this trust relationship between Sensei and student and how we can foster that relationship. Currently, I think the best solution is, as the instructor, to encourage students to ask questions, and to remind them about why we practice certain ways. We need to acknowledge that our movements can be difficult to understand, let alone imitate. We can’t count on students blindly trusting us; therefore, we need to start with little ideas, concepts are easier to understand. For example, I enjoy using our third basic principle, correct posture, when talking about techniques with new students. After all, the notion of “keeping one point” can sound very foreign, and the idea of being “relaxed” is hard to understand. But everyone can check their own posture, so this third principle becomes a concrete method through which new students can see if the art makes sense.

In a martial arts setting, a student must be able to trust his or her instructor. Those of us who teach must remember that we need to do everything we can to encourage that trust, while simultaneously illustrating the full beauty and effectiveness of Aikido.