Running ’round the mat

One of things that I’ve enjoyed most about the dojo’s new location is that we have a lot more space. In our previous location, at a nearby YMCA, we used a small multi-purpose room. It served us well for many years, but as classes started to grow we faced two problems: (1) we desparately needed more mat space, and (2) parents and siblings had no place to sit and spend their time.

While it would have been easy to focus on the first issue, the dojo as a community agreed that, when we relocated, we had to find a space that could accomodate families and siblings. Most of us who train have families of our own, after all. I’ve lost count of how many times my wife and I have taken little H to an activity, only to find that there’s no space for the parent’s to sit, let alone for any siblings to play or entertain themselves. I firmly believe that training is a family event regardless of how many people from that family actually step onto the mat. We can’t train unless our friends and families support us–at least, not for the long term.

Fortunately, as you can see in the picture, we were able to find a place that had ample room for kids and families to sit, play games, even (gasp!) do homework. As a result, our kids classes usually fall into a pretty regular pattern:

First, the kids arrive. We have a pretty simple policy at the dojo: before class, students and their siblings are allowed to get on the mat (assuming all waiver forms have been signed and so on). They play games of tag or other activities. It serves to get a lot of those wiggles out that seem to build up over a long day at school or sitting in the car. Since my wife is a creative dance instructor, I’ll often let the kids choose a prop that they can play with: hula hoops, streamers, etc. Yes, yes, it’s not martial. But the laughter these kids bring is wonderful.

When class starts, I ask one of the students to ring the bell. I have to admit: when I started allowing siblings on the mat, I thought I’d have a problem getting them to leave when class started. Turns out I needn’t be worried. As soon as they hear the bell, the students line up in seiza, and the siblings bow and step off the mat. (Yes, it’s understood that, even if they aren’t training themselves, siblings need to follow dojo etiquette as much as possible.) While I (or one of the senior students) leads warm-ups and the class activities for the day, the siblings have the entire waiting area to entertain themselves. The area is also where parents sit to have tea or coffee, read, and even use our wireless access to finish up work at the office. To be sure, the overall noise level is louder than what it could be if we were just doing aikido, but the noise is worth it.

At the end of class, we have our presentations. Each student comes up, selects an uke, and then demonstrates one of the techniques we have covered in class. By this time many of the adults have shown up for the first adult class of the evening, and they often participate in these presentations as the ukes. I definitely notice that the parents, who may have been engrossed in other things during most of class, suddenly are very attentive during this portion of class. These presentations not only provide students a chance to show their stuff, but to learn how to sit and pay attention to each other. Over the past couple of months, I’ve watched as students go from being barely attentive to the presenter, to highly attentive, to actually commenting on how this student stands up really tall during technique, and that student looks really calm when they throw.

After class, everyone quietly bows and gets ready to leave. Tempting though it may be to have a few more minutes of play time on the mat, we have a rule: you leave the dojo calmly–not all wound up from a game of tag! There will be plenty of time to play again next time.

Prove Yourself

Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve both written and thought a great deal about the notion of capturing one’s “best” feeling. This is an internal concept, a mental shift in which we attempt to use a inner feeling of calmness and, for want of a better word, joy, and apply that feeling in every action. While I think such a concept is given significant importance in an “internal” martial art (side note: I’m not sure how I feel about the terms “internal” and “external” when applied to martial arts, but that’s another post), it’s clear that any martial artist, regardless of style, must in some way capture a certain mental frame of mind in order for any technique or strategy to be successful. There simply comes a point where being able to physical do the technique is not enough. There needs to be something more, a whole-self commitment to action. In fact, I don’t think it would be stretch to say that any art, martial or otherwise, requires not only a deep understanding on a technical level but a deep understanding on a mental (or spiritual, if you want to go that far) level.

But we cannot forget that this state-of-mind, this best feeling, is not enough. You cannot sit atop a mountain and claim to be at one with the universe. You cannot stand in your dojo and say: “I’ve got nothing left to prove.” You cannot meditate for hours on end announce that you are enlightened. This state of mind requires, even demands, proof. If you were a painter, you could not stand in front an easel and claim you have mastered painting: you have to paint! Not only that, but you must have others view your paintings, and be willing to subject yourself to (even if you do not ultimately accept) their criticism or comments. I remember too well my time as an English major in college. My focus was on poetry; so I spent a lot of time with other would-be poets discussing other authors and (often harshly) critiquing each other’s work. I was constantly surprised to find that many of these writers refused to share their poetry with others–either at readings or in publications. Why? Because, they claimed, they had nothing to prove to anyone. That may very well have been true, but the fact that they never subjected their poetry to someone else’s perspective ensured that what they wrote had very little relevance. The purpose of writing is to communicate; by sharing your work with others you force yourself to refine how you communicate, which in turn helps you write better.

The same is especially true in martial arts. I have met many people (and have heard of many more) who study a martial art and never challenge themselves on the mat. Why not? Because, as with the would-be poets I met in college, they claimed they had nothing to prove to anyone. Many of these people were satisfied with the fact that they could throw or defeat the people in their dojo; they avoided situations in which they might be challenged by someone close to them in skill level. But a martial art, while it may share some similarities with poetry, is not verse; it is a system of movement and philosophy based in self-defense. Unlike poetry, if you do not attempt to prove yourself in martial arts, you are greatly at risk for self-delusion. You assume that, because you have arranged your circumstances so that you win every challenge, you are unbeatable. Worse, any student that you train with or teach is following your example; therefore, your weaknesses become their weaknesses. A quick search on YouTube yields many an embarrassing film clip of someone abruptly discovering their abilities are not what they thought they were.

So, if proving yourself is so important, how do you do accomplish it on a regular basis? Here are the different types of proof, as I see them:

• Dispassionate self-criticism. As a martial arts practitioners, you must be ever critical of your own movements, strategies, and executions of technique. The more experienced you are, the more likely you know what an “ideal” technique is; each time you train, you must hold yourself to that ideal and strive to meet it. However, I use the term “dispassionate self-criticism” for a reason. It is very easy, especially in Western cultures, to turn self-criticism into self-deprecation, which is not good for your overall well-being. Too often I see (in myself and others) people mentally berating themselves for failing to throw or move as they thought they should. This sort of self-deprecation runs counter to the notion of your best feeling. By being dispassionate in your self-criticism, you can critique your movements without becoming emotionally involved. See the areas in which you need to improve as they are: areas of improvement. They are not reflections of your worth as a person.
• Mutual respect in the dojo. Whether you are a teacher or a student, mutual respect among all members of the dojo is extremely important. Anyone, of any experience, has the opportunity to provide feedback for a given movement. If you are a senior student, it is easy to get irritated when you are challenged by a beginner. After all, you are the senior student! But resist the urge to tell the student they are moving incorrectly. Instead, respect their intentions (they are, in most cases, simply trying to move in the most natural way possible for them). Use their unfamiliarity with your technique to challenge yourself to be more correct. If you are a new student, respect that those senior to you are not trying to prove how “bad” they are by beating you. They are trying to practice the most correct technique they know at a level that ensures your safety. With a foundation of mutual respect, students and teachers alike are unafraid to test themselves and each other, which leads to further growth.
• Particpate in regional and national events. This is where having a strong organization or affiliation can be very helpful. Regional and national events–whether they be seminars, competitions, whatever–place you in an unfamiliar setting with unfamiliar people. This situation provides an excellent opportunity to raise your game and to learn from other senior students or peers. These events might not occur often, so you should always strive to take advantage of them when you can. If you belong to a style that is unaffiliated with an organization, try to find places where you might be welcome to participate. The use of the word “participate” here is deliberate. The idea is to test yourself by being in unfamiliar surroundings; not to challenge a dojo because they move a little differently from you.
• Be humble at all times. Sensei Maruyama, when talking about proving oneself, speaks a lot about how no one is perfect–even Sensei. Do not look at your instructor as if they are infallible; they aren’t. They have opportunities for growth just as you do. Don’t be too proud of your own technique; the next person who walks through that door is probably the one whose block you can’t counter, or whose balance you can’t take. The feeling in a dojo should always contain mixture of enthusiasm, commitment, and humility.

Proving yourself is a never-ending process. You never reach a point where you can say: “I’m done.” After all, when you stop proving yourself, you remove your best and most constant opportunity for growth. Rarely does a painter finish a work and say: “That’s it, I’m done.” A poet never finishes an ode and says: “Yup. I’ve said all that I need to say.” Instead, they are driven to paint, to write, in an effort to communicate and in an effort to push their abilities in their craft to the limit. So it is with the martial arts practitioner: we should never be satisfied; never willing to stop.

And certainly never willing to feel like we’ve nothing left to prove.

One’s Best Feeling

Yesterday, I had a very illuminating class.

Wednesdays at the dojo are often hit-or-miss. While our new club has seen remarkable growth over the past couple of months, most students have already cleared their schedules for a Tuesday-Thursday-Saturday training program. Consequently, our Mondays and Wednesdays tend to range in class size; sometimes one students, sometimes a half-dozen or so. I’m finding that I enjoy some of these smaller class sizes–they make a nice change from a crowded mat and give me an opportunity to really learn about why a particular student is studying aikido in the first place. And, of course, when there are only a few students on the mat, I get to practice more, which is an added bonus.

This past Wednesday, I had one student step onto the mat. A white belt getting ready for his first test, we started to work on several techniques and concepts. It was a good workout for both of us, but what really made the evening worthwhile was after we had adjourned for the evening. You see, this student is a member of the U.S. Coast Guard, and I had asked him about what his career was like. At first he told me a bit about the overall mechanics behind going under way and what life was like on the boat. Then, as he talked, he started bringing up images that had really struck him in his career:

• Being one of the few visitor’s of Scott’s Hut in Antarctica. Built in 1911, it is was designed to store supplies for expeditions into Antarctica. The air is so dry, and the temperatures so cold, that the hut has been nearly perfectly preserved for nearly 100 years.
• Standing on his ship as it moved at high speed, looking at the rooster tail in the water glow blue from the bioluminesence in the water.
• Looking up at the sky and seeing billions of stars, as opposed to the scant few we can see in the city.

As he talked, a calmness and joy seemed to settle on him. I could tell he felt honored to have experienced these things, that he relished going out to sea, that he couldn’t wait to return. It made me realize that, for him, these experiences brought about exactly what Sensei Maruyama speaks of so often: one’s best possible feeling. As our conversation came back to aikido (no room for aikido on a ship, it seems!) I mentioned this to him. “When you’re on the mat, train your body to understand how to move; but train your mind to bring back the same feeling you have when you think about your experiences at sea.”

I have not had many experiences where I could so clearly see someone else’s enjoyment of their life; I’m writing about it now on the chance that it prompts anyone else to think about when they have experienced the same level of satisfaction, of oneness, with the world around them. If we strive to capture this idea for ourselves, and learn to apply it to our physical movements, great things will happen.

I don’t normal ask non-rhetorical questions here, but this experience yesterday made me curious as to what state of mind others try to cultivate when they are on the mat. What memories or images do you envision when you attempt to achieve your own best feeling?

The Path

There is a thread in the forums of a popular aikido web site, www.aikiweb.com, in which an instructor asks the following: “Are there any students of the uchi deshi of O’Sensei, whose own students approach them in skill and understanding?”

It’s an interesting question. After all, in a martial art, the skills of the senior people must somehow make it into the next generation; if that does not occur, the art slips into a decline. And similar issues exist in other arts and sciences as well. This is one reason why I stopped being impressed by someone who could throw me. So you were able to take my balance–excellent! I certainly respect that. But the its the person who teaches myself and others how they did it and helps us understand that I can do it too–that has far more value.

There are many martial artists out there who have figured out how to become extremely proficient in their respective arts. Many of these martial artists become instructors, and draw students to them based on their strong technique. But only a small number of these individuals have the ability or the inclination to impart this knowledge to their students. As a result, these schools have one very strong individual, one or two students who, through luck or chance, have figured things out, and then everyone else. I suspect that this issue arises in part because true proficiency relies on such a fundamental understanding of yourself–your thought processes, your movements–that it is difficult to teach to others.

How does one break this cycle, then? If a martial art requires a deep understanding of yourself, and that understanding is unteachable, how do we improve from one generation of practitioners to the next? I think the answer lies primarily in teaching students to teach themselves–something I know is prevalent in Kokikai Aikido but hopefully exists elsewhere as well. It is not enough to teach someone how to throw or block. While this is extremely important, and one could spend a lifetime analyzing the minute details of timing and positioning, it forms only one half of the picture. The other half relies on encouraging students to learn for themselves. To think analytically about why a technique works the way it does. To urge students to not just rely on an instructor to tell them that what they are doing is right or wrong, but to look inward and judge for themselves.

In a way, I think a good school is similar to a PHD class offered at a university. Students in these classes rarely sit and in listen to someone lecture about a particular subject; they instead work with an experienced teacher, who then encourages the students to pursue their own independent studies. The role of the teacher is still vital; they provide an objective viewpoint on the student’s progress and help guide the student through difficult situations. But the PHD candidate spends a lot of time cultivating an inner drive to further understanding.

The same is true in martial arts. To be sure, a beginning student needs the instructor to be more direct: put your foot here, move your arms here. But as they make progress, the emphasis shifts towards “why does this work?” and self-analysis. This seems to be the teaching model in Kokikai, and I am finding that it seems to provide the best opportunity for the subsequent generations of martial artists to build on the preceding one. Time will tell.