The Power of Calmness

Back when I played bass guitar, I had a problem. Every time the band I was in would play a gig, I ended up standing next to the drummer. This normally wouldn’t be a bad thing–communication between the bassist and the drummer can be essential during a show. This is especially true when your guitarist had a tendency to launch into 15-minute solos every third song or so.

The problem stemmed from the snare drum. Every time the drummer hit that thing, I’d wince–I was so close that it sound like a rifle shot every couple of beats. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t overcome this initial reaction. In the end, I finally gave up–I figured it was a physical reaction and, rather than try to eliminate it, I would just try to reduce its impact as much as possible.

My involuntary reaction to the snare drum also manifested when someone gave a solid "kiai!" at the dojo. No matter what I tried to do, I could not overcome that initial wince when someone started screaming in my general direction. Again, I finally realized there might be anything I could do about it except try to reduce my reaction as much as possible. I even asked my instructor at the time for advice. His response: "Kiai back!" (This worked, actually.) I started to assume that reacting to a kiai was normal, and there was little anyone could do to prevent themselves from reacting to it.

That all changed one day at a seminar I attended a few years ago. The seminar was taught by an aikido instructor who was also an avid fan of swordsmanship. As it happened, there was another student who had a strong background in swordsmanship. These two individuals could not have been more different. The instructor was tall, strong, imposing. The student was slim, quiet, unassuming. On a whim, between classes, the two of them decided to have a sparring match with a couple of shinai.

If these two people looked physically different, their stances magnified such differences a hundredfold. The instructor stood, his pose mountain-like, the shinai pointed at the chest of the student. And that student? He stood, almost casually, with his arm extended out to his side, holding the shinai single-handedly. If it weren’t for the fact that the end of his shinai was pointed directly at the chest of the instructor, you wouldn’t have thought he was sparring at all.

The sparring began quietly. After a moment’s pause, the instructor exploded into motion, and he tagged the student before there was time for anyone to react. A short time later, the student’s shinai snuck past the instructor’s, returning the strike. It became clear to those of us on the sidelines that we were watching two people who were very good at their respective styles.

Another pause in the match came, in which both instructor and student watched each other for openings. Time slowed to a crawl. It seemed as if the match had come to an impasse. Then, suddenly, the instructor gave the loudest kiai I had ever heard. It was loud enough that it reverberated off the concrete walls. It was loud enough the windows shook. It was loud enough that everyone in the audience took a half step backward. "This is it," I thought to myself. "The student’s done." As the shout died down, the instructor stared at the student, fully convinced that he had shaken him to the point that he could strike at will.

But to everyone’s surprise, the student still stood. Calmly, relaxed. His facial expression had not changed. It was as if nothing had happened at all. Instead, he said, very quietly: "That? That does not work on me." And TAG! He struck again, bypassing the instructor’s guard completely.

After that, it no longer mattered to me who won or lost the rest of the match. I had seen perhaps the most amazing display of calmness that I had ever seen. A new goal had been set for myself–to achieve that level of calmness for myself. The experience was similar to the first time someone really threw me in aikido; it made me realize that the power of calmness is really a game-changer, and cannot be underestimated.

Stepping Off the Mat in Angry White Pyjamas, all In Search of the Warrior Spirit

There are three books that I have been reading/re-reading lately. Each of them deserves a post on its own (one of them already has), but for now I thought I’d err on the side of brevity and talk briefly about each one.

The first is a book that I’ve written about before: Stepping Off the Mat, by Rick Berry Sensei. How often have you met an instructor who has impressed you not just with their technique, but with their attitude toward life? How often have you liked at that person and said: “If only this person would write a book!” In this case, Berry Sensei did write a book, and it is one I continue to return to repeatedly. For those of you who train in aikido, I cannot recommend enough the opportunity to see aikido training through Berry Sensei’s perspective. And for those of you who train in other arts, this book will have equal interest, because Berry Sensei’s training began with traditional Tae Kwon Do. (You should at least check out the pictures he includes in the book!) As I probably have mentioned before: this is not a book you sit down and read in one sitting. Rather, it is something that you read in small chunks, then set down to think about for a while. This book is a rare instance in which we, as students, get to go inside the mind of a true martial artist.

Another book that I recently finished is Angry White Pyjamas, by Robert Twigger. This book is the true story about Mr. Twigger’s time in Japan, and how endured the nearly year-long intensive training at the Yoshinkan Aikido dojo; the same course that Tokyo’s riot police also have to take. A fair note of warning, however. I would not read this book in an attempt to gain a better understanding of aikido. In fact, no where in the book did I get a sense that Mr. Twigger even enjoyed aikido as a martial art. Rather, his aikido training serves more as a backdrop against which we can follow him through a period of time where, for one reason or another, he felt the need to test himself. I’d even venture to guess that most of the book is about the injuries he sustained from practice, as opposed to the actual training itself. No matter what art you study, I recommend checking this book out, simply for the opportunity to question for yourself whether this sort of “testing” really answers any significant questions about your character or personality.

The last book I’ll mention is In Search of the Warrior Spirit, by Richard Strozzi-Heckler. Now this is an interesting book. The premise is straightforward: back in the 80s, Mr. Strozzi-Heckler was asked to participate in an experimental program designed to see how training in meditation, aikido, and other alternative movement/thinking systems could improve the Green Berets. I’ll be blunt: I rolled my eyes at a lot of what was written here. There is a great deal of talk about “blending,” and “opening up oneself emtionally to the attacker” for my taste. It’s not that I disagree with what is being said, I just wish it were said differently. But where this book really gets my interest is when he shares conversations with the Green Berets in the course. Listening to them as they start to understand that there is more to efficiency than brute force, that constant movement is not a substitute for calmness–this is interesting stuff, and not something one would normally find while reading about the Special Forces. I was particularly taken by one passage, in which a Green Beret says that he has yet to feel truly tested. Not yet fully tested? And this is from a Green Beret? It gives one pause to think. Well, it gave me pause to think, at any rate.

So this was my bookstack for the past several weeks. If you have read or end up reading any of these selections, I hope you’ll let me know your thoughts.

Strategy, Philosophy, and TV Shows

I think it’s safe to say that any modern-day student of martial arts has at watched at least one episode of Human Weapon on the History Channel. I freely admit that I TiVo the show regularly, and watch episodes while working out or on the bus commuting to and from work. While I find aspects of the show more amusing than anything (the equations that appear when they’re explaining how a particular move works crack me up–they might as well put “knee + chin = ow!), I do find myself very interested in the different techniques and strategies these different martial arts employ.

One of the things that I have noticed is how many of the movements are similar across all of these martial arts. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve seen a shoulder lock that is almost identical to how we study ikkyo, or a wrist pin that, for all intents and purposes is kotegaeshi. The similarities continue into the conceptual realm as well. For example, I remember watching the episode on Krav Maga, where the instructor discussed a concept he called “bursting.” The gist of his statements was that, rather than separating a block and a retaliating strike into two separate movements, they must be combined, so that you have an explosive and immediate response to an attack. While we don’t use the same terms in Kokikai, the idea of total movement, of combining the deflection of an attack with the movement that takes your attacker off balance, follows the same logic.

I have to admit when I began noticing all of these similarities I felt a little bit of satisfaction. How often have aikido students had to listen to other so-called martial artists berate or belittle our studies as being “ineffective?” Watching Human Weapon, I feel a certain sense of vindication in thinking that those who hold this opinion of aikido clearly are not paying attention. Even the ever-popular MMA crowd uses many of the same techniques found in aikido; it is abundantly clear that the techniques studied in an aikido dojo are effective, and devastatingly so, if for no other reason than the fact that these same techniques appear in so many other martial arts.

But given that there are so many physical similarities between martial arts, what is it that truly differentiates one from the other? I think the answer lies in the philosophy that underpins the art itself. Watching Human Weapon, the emphasis (whether intentional or created through clever editing) is always on causing damage to the other person. The focus is on the force of the strike, the stress on the arm lock, the power of the body slam. In some art forms, I certainly see why this is the case. Returning to the example of Krav Maga: here is a fighting style that assumes that you are literally on the battlefield, and often against an armed opponent. In such a situations, absolute dominance is essential–protection of the attacker is no longer a concern. But for the average person, such a response is rarely, if ever necessary. And, in fact, such a response can have unintended consequences. As one senior instructor of Kokikai has told me: “Imagine that, any time you’re in a fight, the cameras are rolling.” The implications are clear: we live in a very litigious society; having a kill-or-be-killed mentality is rarely the best solution.

So it is here that I start to understand why aikido is often referred to as “modern” self-defense. It’s innovation lies in the realization that the destruction of an opponent during a conflict is no longer the best option available. Instead, we focus on using our techniques and movements–the same movements that are echoed in other arts–not to destroy, but to reduce our attacker’s power to zero. This philosophy is what makes the art much more applicable to the modern age. Sadly, it is also this philosophy that forms the basis of many of the criticisms levied against aikido in general. The fact that we use terms like “gentleness” or “caring” or the dreaded mis-translation: “Aikido–the Way of Love and Harmony” rings false with many. And well it should! These concepts, misapplied, are what lead many schools of martial arts to look more like dance than actual self-defense, or to focus so much on the theoretical that any practical application is lost on all but the most discerning students. Yet if we throw away these overused terms and catchphrases, a very potent idea is revealed: Strength requires structure. Without structure, there is no strength. When I explain aikido to other martial artists in these terms, it is clear they have a better understanding of why we study as we do, and how effective aikido truly can be.

The human body only has but so many positions that it can move into. It’s no wonder, then, that many martial arts share similar techniques. The question, then, when it comes to studying a martial art of any sort, is whether the art fulfills these three requirements: (1)it teaches these techniques effectively, (2) it supports these techniques with a solid and understandable strategy, and (3) it has a philosophy that fits with your own outlook and lifestyle.

It is this last point that has recently come to the forefront of my attention. You can study any art you want–but if its fundamental philosophy does not match up with your own, you will always be hesitate to employ the art. As a result, your effectiveness with that art will always be substandard. In Kokikai, we study proven techniques with a philosophy that encourages us to focus on defeating our opponents through the use of balance and positioning. For some, this is not a philosophy that works for them, and there is nothing wrong with that in the least. But for many, for the people whose distaste for “fighting” is outmatched only by their distaste for being vulnerable to those who do fight, Kokikai really is one of the most potent martial arts available.