Kids Class: 9-21-07

This month we’ve had a lot of new kids join the mat–and a lot of young kids to boot. As a result, the mat has gotten more and more crowded, but the energy level has also become increasingly fun and enjoyable.

At last night’s class, I was finally able to give uniforms to several of the new students. For many folks, this may not seem like a big deal, but let me explain the situation a bit. When new students join the dojo, they get a uniform. I do this primarily because I’ve found that people feel more comfortable when they feel like they’re wearing the appropriate attire for training; both physically, because a gi is better designed for martial arts training, and mentally, because the new student in question doesn’t feel like they’re standing out (or, at least, standing out as much). The challenge, however, is that in our area there are very few places in which you can walk in to buy a uniform. I’m not sure if this is because of where we are located or whether it is because most martial arts supply companies are moving to Internet-based businesses, but it is what it is. As a result, I have taken to stocking gis myself. Most of the time, I have a gi on-hand for new students; however, because we had so many new students, I found myself on short supply.

That’s not a big deal, right? I ordered more, and told the new students that they’d be here soon. The kids waited patiently for them to arrive. (One younger student kept telling me: “Only 5 more sleeps until my uniform is here?” Apparently, he marks time to big events by the number of times he has to go to bed!) Then, the uniforms arrived and…. they’re too big. I had switched supply companies, and the new uniform sizes run larger than the old company. For some of these kids, they’d step into the pants and disappear. I politely explained the situation to everyone and, one two-day-rush delivery later, had the correct sizes at the dojo. The kids were thrilled, and we decided for fun to take the picture you see at the top of this post. (Apologies for the resolution: the iPhone, while cool, is still only so-so when it comes to pictures.)

Class was good–we learned much and had fun. All in all, a great experience!

Strong Enough

There are certain moments that define the path you take when studying a martial art. An experience, a conversation, a demonstration–every now and again something happens that changes the way you look at how and what you study forever.

One of these events happened when I first began studying Kung Fu at the University of Washington. I had chosen the club there because it was small, intense, and dedicated to practice. I was thinner than I am now (who isn’t?), with little muscle or even much physical ability save for an annoying tendency to refuse to quit. The people I trained with often outweighed me by a good 30 to 50 pounds. Some of these guys were used to getting into street fights on a pretty regular basis. But they were good guys, and they were fun to train with.

But one day, I was sparring with one of the senior students. Our sparring system had the mentality of “If you got hit, it was because you didn’t block.” I’m sure this student pulled his punches a bit to give me a chance–but not by a lot. I was getting knocked about pretty good, with my forearms barely able to deflect the tremendous power of his fists. A few times, he even connected with my jaw, sending me reeling. To my credit, I refused to quit, getting up each time and trying to not just defend myself, but go on the offensive as well.

Afterwards, when class was over, this student came up to me. “You have good spirit,” he said. “But you should probably remember that you’re really never going to win a fight. Unless you really start working out and bulking up, you just won’t have the strength to defeat a larger opponent. The best you can hope for is to make it not worth the guy’s time to try to take you on.”

I nodded as he spoke, in an effort to appear like I understood. But in reality, I didn’t. I wasn’t studying self-defense to lose. I wasn’t studying to simply make my attacker shift to an easier target. I wanted to win! Why should victory go to the largest person, or the most muscled? There had to be something, I thought, some self-defense system, that would allow me to learn how to defend myself in a way that leveled the playing field, that negated differences in size and speed. I started looking around at different martial arts, and came across Kokikai Aikido. It was then I learned that, by studying things like posture, structure, timing, and rhythm, you could engage an opponent in a way in which it didn’t matter whether they were bigger or faster than you were. What mattered was how well balanced you were, how calmly you could assess the situation, and how well you could apply technique that disrupted your opponent’s structure to the point that they were simply unable to use their power effectively. Was it easy? No. And it still isn’t. But it works.

I bring this story up because I often read and hear about how martial arts require a certain level of physical ability; that without this physical ability, you will likely not win. Of course physical ability is important–on that point I agree. But I think these statements fail to recognize that there are different types of physical ability. If you find yourself studying a martial art in which you think that failure, or at the very least, limited success, is your best possible outcome because you do not have the physical abilities necessary to apply the techniques of that art successfully, then I encourage you to look at other martial art systems. I am willing to bet that there is at least one that contains a set of principles that make sense, a strategy that is proven effective, and a training methodology that will allow you to study effectively. For me, I found these traits in Kokikai Aikido, but, as the saying goes, “your mileage may vary.”

As one of the first martial arts instructors I ever met once said: “It is not the martial art that wins, it is the martial artist.” Never be willing to settle for less than the victory you want.

A Moment of Weather: Tuesday, 9/19/07

It’s about 6:45pm. Most of the kids from class have left for the evening; one or two remain as their parents step onto the mat, curled up in a chair with a book or a portable game system. The first adult class of the evening has just concluded warmups; the mat, as usual, is packed with students. The sky, already darker now that fall is upon us, is darker still: thick heavy rainclouds sit overhead, making the lights in the dojo seem all the brighter. Students have partnered up to begin studying tsuki kotegaeshi; the air is warm from the energy of training.

A sounds starts to catch everyone’s attention. It is quiet at first, a subtle drumming on the roof of the building. The clouds overhead have finally decided it was time to rain, and the gentle downpour echos throughout the dojo. Soon, the sound grows more and more intense; the rain has shifted from a simple downpour to hail. It is the sound of a stampede, or, as one student put it: a standing ovation. No longer a gentle noise, the hail and rain hitting the roof with power and insistence. It is impossible to speak, impossible to hear–the noise is deafening. So we do not try; instead, each student focuses on training, the usual sounds of the dojo–people landing on the mat, feet shuffling across the floor–almost literally drowned out, as the echoing rain and hail continues to make its statement. It is an oddly meditative time, quiet despite the noise. We are, for the moment, uninterested in learning, uninterested in teaching; we are only interested in training.

The rain continued on, until class had nearly ended. It was almost as if the rain had decided it needed its own time on the mat for a while. It was quite a moment, and it left everyone with a very positive feeling.

(Just had to share this experience while it was still fresh in my mind. I truly wish I had a means of recording the sound as the rain hit. It was awe-inspiring.)

The Pursuit

One of the more popular discussions that seems to come up on a pretty constant basis is the debate over the effectiveness of striking, grappling, or throwing, and whether or not those who study mixed martial arts have the right idea in thinking that one would be better prepared for a fight if they blended these different self-defense systems together. Sometimes, these debates are really interesting–I’d recommend looking at this post over at Mokuren Dojo for a good discussion on some of these issues. In fact, in that post was a quote that really got my attention. The author, Patrick Parker, writes:

Grappling instills a willingness to get down and dirty and closely involved with things that inspire primal terror (i.e. being immobilized and choked, being dominated and forced to submit, being in peril of broken joints, the possibility of grappling with a guy who might have a knife, having your every action make your situation worse, impending total anaerobic fatigue, etc…)

It is this willingness to engage the enemy even under conditions of terror that defines courage, and grappling instills this ethic better (in my opinion) than stand-up fighting styles because the student of stand-up fighting is allowed to hold out the illusion that it might just be possible to achieve a nice, clean, hands-down victory.

There is a lot in this statement that I agree with. Certainly when you have someone really coming after you, really getting their hands on you, and forcing you to face that fact that you could be in serious danger–well, you either find your courage or you tap out. I am also just as against the notion that, by studying a specific art, you can delude yourself into thinking that you can win a fight without even getting a scratch. This last mindset is, in my opinion, very risky–even dangerous. It leads you to think that getting hit means you’ve lost.

When I read this quote, the thought that sprung to my mind was not “Aha! Now I understand the attraction to the grappling arts!” Instead, it was: “Yes! This is what we study for in our aikido practice.” Not how to grapple, but how to use the techniques and strategies that define our movements when faced with someone with a real, determined attack. We ask ourselves the question: “How do we find this courage, this recognition that we must stand our ground–how do we find this powerful feeling and put it to use before our opponent has even has even started his or her attack?” It is, I think, quite difficult. We, as a species, simply aren’t used to being active and ready to go before a given threat is imminent. Aikido, then, is in part a study of how to retrain ourselves to be active and ready sooner than we are used to.

One of the challenges inherent in this study is that, unlike a grappling art or a striking art, in which you either find this feeling or get pinned/hit, in Aikido you can easily train your entire life without really experiencing this active state of being. Why? Because its very easy to train without any resistance. Watch the mat during a seminar or large event, and you’ll see that there are two types of people practicing: those who are simply going through the motions, and those who are really trying to test themselves, to see how well they really understand the concept or technique being studied. Some people are quite honest about the fact that they don’t train against real attacks. These are the people who are studying not to understand self-defense, but rather to focus on some other aspect of training, such as calmness or awareness. Other people, however, refuse to test themselves fully, and as a result often have a distorted sense of what they are really capable of doing. Unfortunately, it can be all too easy to find a compliant uke against whom any and all techniques work effortlessly for the simple reason that the uke allows it to be so. This can be a difficult situation: you cannot force people to expend the energy necessary to deal with or execute a determined attack; they have to decide for themselves that they want to pursue their studies at this level.

For those who do attempt to constantly push themselves, to see how well they can respond under even the greatest of pressures, the rewards are tremendous. To stand before someone who you know wants nothing more than to take you down; to stand there calmly, relaxed, and to be able to respond to that person’s attack by timing, rhythm, and correct positioning; to even stand before someone and watch their desire to come after you fade because they have just realized that you are more than ready to deal with them–this is a skill that I find very much worth understanding. Sensei often says: “Find your best feeling, then prove it.” I think this is at least in part what he’s talking about.

A Little Bit of Sadness

Back in January, when the dojo first moved into its new location, my daughter, who was nearly 4, was tremendously excited. She and her friend both really wanted to study aikido. In truth, my daughter wanted to study aikido because she knew it was something that I did, and she wanted to share that with me. Her friend was and is devoted to her, and I think he wanted to be on the mat simply because she was on the mat as well. So the two of them were very eager to train. However, because of they were so young, I didn’t feel comfortable with having them in a typical aikido class. So, instead, I created a Parent/Child class, in which younger kids could get on the mat with their parents and study aikido-related activities.

While the class was great fun, it didn’t grow. Eventually, my daughter’s friend had to stop coming to the class so he could watch his brother’s baseball games. The class then became just my daughter and I spending time on the mat. And, because I am her dad, it was very easy for us to forget about training and instead sit and read a book, or play a game, or just spend some time together. I suppose I could have kept her on the mat, but I knew that I was spending a lot of time away from her to keep the dojo running, and I wanted to make sure she had the time with me that she wanted and needed.

Fast forward now a few months. My daughter has grown in tremendously in how she is able to focus and pay attention. On a whim, several weeks ago, I invited her on the mat for our regular kids class (which generally has kids in the 5- to 10- year-old age range). I was impressed that she remembered the names of the techniques and exercises, that she could remain focused, and that she was really having fun. So, based on that experience, I told her that if she wanted to join the kids class, she could. She was ecstatic! And it made life a little easier for me, because I have two very competent assistant instructors who teach most of the kids classes, so the conflict of being both parent and instructor at the same time is minimized. On the surface, it seemed like everything was working out for the best: my daughter was having fun on the mat, my wife got an extra hour to herself, and I didn’t have to worry as much about being “Daddy-sensei.” (Note: I did NOT ask her to call me that, and I ask her not to do so repeatedly. She, however, thinks its immensely funny to call me that! Sigh.)

Yesterday, however, I watched the kids class as one of my students taught. In the middle of the pack was my daughter, doing ki exercises, warm-ups, and techniques along with everyone else, and having a good time. And I suddenly had the realization that the quiet hour we would spend in the Parent/Child class was at an end; that, while we would still have opportunities to play and be together and even study aikido together, something had changed. Aikido became something she did because she enjoyed it; not something she did because it let her spend time with me. I’m glad for this change, I am, but I also feel a little bit of sadness, because I know the years during which my daughter wants to spend time with me are all too few.

On the plus side, the dojo has grown to a point that several of my senior students have asked if they can lead class on occasion. I’m glad to provide them the opportunity, because it not only encourages them to deepen their own study of aikido, but gives my daughter and I a little more time to spend together. So I suppose, in the end, it all works out.

The Equation

To understand how a martial art works, all you really need to do is understand one simple equation:

x + y = v

That’s it. You can go home now (if you’re not there already).

Okay, so perhaps some explanation is in order. Let’s try this again:

x + y = v

Where:

x is the result of your own efforts,

y is the result of your opponent’s efforts, and

v is victory.

When I think about training, and what my goals are, and what I need to accomplish, it all comes down to this simple equation. But, for the sake of clarity, let me attempt to describe each of these components.

X and Y

X, in this equation, is intended to represent you. I mention above that X represents your efforts, but this is not exactly true. It simply represents who you are at the moment this equation is being resolved. Your state of mind, your physical condition, your commitment to the moment–all of these things are wrapped up in this symbol. It does not just represent your physical power, nor the number of years you have been training, nor the level of calmness you have achieved in your own mind. It is a combination of all these things, at a specific moment in time.

Y, as you can probably guess, represents your opponent. Everything I mention about what X represents for you also represents your opponent in Y. Again, it is not about how strong they are physically, or their experience, or their mental state. It is the total of all these elements and more. And again, to make it clear: it is not about how present these factors are in general; it is about how present these factors are at the specific moment.

+ (plus)

The plus sign here is also used deliberately. The result of a martial art encounter is not your own ability minus the ability of your opponent. This is not an issue of subtraction or dominance; at least, not in aikido. It is a matter of addition. Myself, plus my opponent, equal v. (I’ll get to v in just a moment.) In aikido, this is very important; you do not accomplish what you what by attempting to overcome someone else. You get what you want by combining (sometimes referred to as blending, although I haven’t really adopted that term as my own yet) with your opponent. This simple mathematical symbol can, in many ways, be a strong representation of how aikido differs from other fighting systems. In aikido, we look to how we can employ both our own abilities in combination with our opponent’s in order to achieve a desired result.

And what is that result?

V

V, in my mind, stands for victory. But clearly simply saying “victory” isn’t enough, because victory can come in many forms. Out on the street, victory can mean successfully defending yourself against an attack. Victory could also mean, however, being able to avoid that attack in the first place, without compromising yourself. It could also mean getting to the point where you can run away, or where you are able to protect someone else who needs it. In most cases I define victory as the best outcome possible for a given situation. (We can debate the definition later, if you like.)

(Update: Okay, maybe we won’t debate it later. Let’s debate it a bit now. Some folks have mentioned that they’d prefer to see the word “winning” over the word “victory.” I disagree. Winning, in my mind, implies that someone loses. This leads one to what we often refer to as a “fighting mind” mentality, which results in poor aikido at best. Victory, on the other hand, encompasses a much wider range of options, and leaves open the possibility that we can defeat our opponent without making them “the loser.” Consequently, I prefer to use the term victory.)

In the dojo, I have a specific idea in mind when I speak of victory; I mean technique. Often, then, I think of this equation more as:

x + y = t

Where t is the technique we are studying at the moment. Part of martial arts training is understanding how certain moves work, why they work, and how to apply them. Therefore, victory on mat results in the execution of a specific technique. This is why, during most practices, we “correct” not just ourselves, but our opponents. The idea is not to teach our opponents that resistance is bad (it is not, but that is another post). It is to ensure that we are able to understand the parameters in which a given technique applies. At the beginning levels, we correct both the nage and the uke (the x and the y) equally. As we progress, we encourage the nage to study how to adapt so that, in most cases, the result of an attack is the technique we are studying. But even this has limits; an uke who does not commit to an attack, for example, prevents the nage from really studying how a technique works. Likewise, an uke who anticipates a response when, in reality, no such anticipation is appropriate. (When we start having to deal with clairvoyance on a daily basis, all of our martial arts studies will need to change!) My point is this: in the real world, victory means preserving the wellbeing of yourself or someone else. On the mat, it means studying specific scenarios and techniques so that you can recognize and apply them when appropriate off the mat. There are those who do not make this distinction; that think that victory out on the street is the same as victory on the mat; I understand this mentality–I think it stems from the idea that you don’t want to delude yourself on the mat. But even the most combat-oriented mixed martial artist understands that drills and such are essential if you are to understand how a technique works and how it might apply in a real-world situation.

Maybe this equation, x + y = v, is so basic that it doesn’t seem worth discussion. But it seems as though we can easily get either too wrapped up in the physical movements of an art, or get so engrossed in the abstract concepts that underly the techniques, that we make our studies harder than necessary. Sensei always states that you should “be prepared to find out how easy it is.” Distilling your training down to a simple concept can, and often does, result in a clearer idea of how to practice effectively.

Know When to Walk Away

Not for the first time, I found myself visiting the web site, 24fightingchickens.com, as I find the author to have some really keen insights regarding martial arts training. Of course, most of his writings pertain to Karate, but in most cases you could substitute the martial art of your choice wherever you read “Karate” and odds are the basic message still applies.

Today, I came across this post, which discusses how to go about quitting a martial arts school. It’s a well-written article, and I highly recommend checking it out. But for the impatient, here’s a summary: If you feel, in your gut, that it is time for you to stop training, then it is time for you to stop training. Once you make that decision, the method of quitting is simple: just stop going to class. That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less.

Believe it or not, it was hard for me to write that, because I don’t like talking about quitting the dojo. Simply put: I don’t want people to quit. This is much less an issue of fiscal need than it is an issue about how much I love Kokikai Aikido. I have found my training to be so transformative, so challenging, and so much fun that I strive to help others feel the same way. Given the fact that our dojo has had both tremendous growth and a very high retention rate, and given that those who have left the dojo have done so with a positive impression of our dojo and, more importantly, of Kokikai Aikido, I feel comfortable saying that our dojo has been successful in helping people find real value in their training. It is a success built on the collective efforts of everyone–students and teachers alike–and it is a success I hope continues for a long, long time.

Much as I don’t want people to quit, however, I also know that life is what it is. Sometimes the art isn’t right, sometimes it’s the instructor, sometimes it’s just something… undefinable. There is nothing wrong with this! Joining a dojo is not joining some sort of ancient society based upon the tenets of feudal Japan. Your teacher is not your lord–they are your teacher. We’ve all had to drop a class or change directions once in awhile. A dojo, really, is no different. It is out of respect for this fact that our dojo refuses to use contracts, nor do we imply that joining the dojo is a yearly (or more) commitment. Just as you can join the dojo at any time, so you can quit at any time. My job is to ensure you get the highest quality instruction possible, in the most safe, enjoyable, and productive environment as possible. It is not my job to try to convince you to stay when, in your heart, you’ve already left. Of course I want you to stay, but it’s not my place to make you stay.

As the article I’ve linked to suggests, trying to explain your departure to your instructor rarely leads to a positive result; nor does having an instructor attempt to influence someone to stay when they clearly no longer want to be on the mat. Instructors are human, after all. Any announcement that you’re leaving might result in a very human reaction of hurt and disappointment. A good instructor does his or her best to rise above those reactions, or at least keep them under control. But that’s not guaranteed to happen. For example, I recall a story someone told me in which they wanted to leave the dojo in which they trained. They could not figure out a way to tell the instructor in person (which should have been a warning sign in and of itself) so they opted to write a letter explaining that their work schedule no longer permitted them to train and that they would be leaving at the end of the month. Apparently, when this student next saw the instructor, he was met with a cold shoulder and the statement: “What are you doing here? You quit!” The negative feeling was so potent that the student left mid-month, and with a very poor opinion of the dojo. In hindsight, this person told me, they would have been better off not saying anything at all, even though they certainly could have expected a more gracious response from their instructor.

Quitting versus Leaving

So far, I’ve been talking about quitting a dojo; but quitting is not always the most appropriate term. I generally classify someone’s departure as either quitting or leaving. Quitting, as we’ve established so far, denotes a situation in which you do not want to return to the dojo. Leaving, on the other hand, denotes a situation where you want to return, but you can’t. A person who can no longer train because of the demands of a new job hasn’t really quit; they’ve left. A person who has found themselves dealing with a major life change, such as school, marriage, or a baby, is not really quitting the dojo. And, just as people quit all the time, I’m comfortable in saying that most people leave instead. In fact, I can list the reasons why the students who no longer train at our dojo quite easily:

• A previously undiscovered injury–typically a joint injury, that existed prior to training
• A change in work schedule
• A decision to return to school
• A change in needs from a family member
• A move to another state

Hm. That’s it. We haven’t had a lot of people leave the dojo and, as you can see in this list, most of the departures had nothing to do with training and just about everything to do with Life in General. I bring this up because, while I don’t need to know why people quit, I do like to know when people leave. You have committed a chunk of your time–whether it be a month, a year, or a decade–to studying aikido with me. When you leave, I’d like to know, so I can wish you well. Just as you’d tell a friend or coworker. You have been a part of the dojo community, and you continue to remain a part of it for as long as you wish. Several times, I have seen students leave due to a move or a return to school. When the dojo knows about it ahead of time, it’s been gratifying to see the dojo come together to thank the person for their efforts and presence on the mat. The good feeling that is generated from such experiences is beyond description.

Any martial arts instructor wants students to stay and train for a long, long time. We love what we do, after all. But I also think it is good to remind ourselves that not everyone stays on the same path for the same length of time. Whether you choose to quit a dojo because it is no longer right for you, or whether you leave a dojo because your schedule no longer permits it, you should feel that your decision is respected and that you need not justify (nor advertise) your announcements to anyone.

Teaching Kids

Strange as it may sound to some, but a lot of martial arts instructors that I’ve met don’t like teaching kids classes. Usually, the reluctance to teach these classes stem from the idea that kids have a tendency to lose focus and get distracted; they have parents waiting in the wings either to (a) attempt to teach their child when you’re working with someone else, or (b) complain to you after class that your not giving their child as much attention as another; or, worse yet, kids just plain think differently from adults. Imagine that!

Probably one of the most frustrating aspects of teaching kids, however, comes from the fact that kids, by and large, train inconsistently. And it’s this issue, out of the multitudes of things one could write about regarding kids and martial arts, that has been on my mind lately.

Many people who read this blog are experienced martial artists; you folks already know that training in a martial art requires dedication and consistency. Correction: training in any activity requires dedication and consistency. Kids are not known to exhibit these traits. Even if they did, they are tied to the whims of their parents regarding what activities they can participate in and when. Given that there is so much for a child to learn and experience, it is no wonder that kids end up moving from activity to activity. Also, martial arts training is year-round; there’s no point in time where we say: “Well! Time to wrap up the Aikido season!” (Although I find the notion highly amusing!) Consequently, parents will pull their kids out of the dojo in order for them to participate in a seasonal sport, and then rejoin the dojo after said sports season has ended.

At first, this tendency to pop in and out of the dojo frustrated me greatly. A part of this frustration stemmed from the turmoil this fluctuation inflicted upon the dojo’s finances. Another part, however, stemmed from the fact that I was the one, most often, who had to explain why student A, who had been training solidly for 6 months, was now a higher rank than student B, who had stopped training in order to play another sport for a couple of months. I didn’t (and still don’t) like the feeling that Student B felt like they were being punished for something that was not really their fault.

Now, however, I have a different perspective. I understand now that kids have a lot more activities on their plate most people imagine (even those who have kids of their own). I consider it part of my job, then, to ensure that their experience with aikido is as productive and enjoyable as possible–regardless of how often they might disappear from the mat. Instead of getting irritated at parents, I now try to work with them, so we can work together to ensure that their child understands that just because they may not advance in rank very quickly (or at all), it doesn’t mean they aren’t learning and they aren’t improving.

Part of the reason I have shifted my perspective is because the dojo’s financial situation has stabilized quite a bit. But most importantly, I realize now that getting irritated doesn’t change a thing. Kids are kids. Parents are parents. Getting upset because it’s soccer season (or whatever) doesn’t do a thing other than alienate the parent and child in question. I would rather students leave, and feel that their short experience at the dojo was a positive one, than try to guilt people into staying, resulting in them feeling resentful over time. This doesn’t mean that I encourage inconsistency in training–I will always encourage students to train continuously, as that has the best benefits, but I no longer think that getting upset when students aren’t consistent does anything to help solve the problem.

Aikido requires confidence and a feeling of well-being to do well; to me, that means that I should try to foster those feelings, even in those whose participation in the dojo is less than what I’d like.