Emotions

When you step onto the mat, any mat, and begin your training in a martial art, what is the first thing on your mind? Perhaps it is to improve your level of physical fitness, or to instill within yourself a renewed capability for discipline. Certainly, these two objectives are the most common when embarking on a martial arts journey. Yet there is another aspect of training that we don’t really discuss too often, yet nonetheless is equally important: your emotional development.

When I began training, I was told that one should attempt to smooth out the emotional roller coaster ride that we, as human beings, are prone to experience. The idea was never to completely remove any sense of emotion from yourself; instead, it was to ensure that your emotional responses were moderated–dignified, if you will. At first I was uncomfortable with this idea. To be sure, the idea of not ever feeling intense anger or sadness was appealing, but the idea of never feeling intense happiness was less so. After a while though, I began to see the logic behind this goal. The more moderate your emotional response is to a given situation, the better you are able to respond to that situation. It is not that you stop feeling, it is that you stop losing control to those feelings.

The importance of this emotional stability has recently been demonstrated to me again this week. This week, a family that has grown very close to my own family moves to another state. The children in this family are extremely close to my daughter, and the mom and my wife are more sisters than friends. Although there was time to prepare for this event, still the experience of it has left our household in an intense emotional state. My wife, for example, has only in recent years really found true friends, as opposed to invidividuals who are around only when it is convenient. For my daughter, this is the first time that a friend of hers has moved away–and who can forget the painfulness of that experience?

I am not exempt from feeling sad that these good friends of ours will no longer be close by. But because of my martial training, I am comfortable with letting those emotional responses flow through me rather than control me. This puts me in a better position to lend support and comfort to my wife and daughter, who need it, without giving in to some macho sense of emotional suppression. As my daughter cried on my shoulder yesterday afternoon, I was able to be there for her without distancing myself from the situation. I was able to empathize with her situation, respect it and, hopefully, guide her a little bit towards dealing with the situation in a way that made her feel better.

Too often, there is a over-abundance of macho bravado that permeates the martial arts world. We mistakenly think that we need to be tough in order to be successful. But I think that this mindset is a misunderstanding of what most martial arts teach. Emotional stability through denial or suppression is temporary at best, and helps only yourself. Emotional stability through empathy is far more lasting, and not only puts you in a place to help yourself, but to help those around you as well.

Note: Do you visit this blog through www.aikithoughts.com? If so, please leave a comment to let me know. I’m currently debating whether the vanity URL is really worth it… thanks!

Stop Talking

I’m a verbal learner. That means that I often learn best when I have to explain something to someone else. One of the reasons why I think I do well as a technical writer (my day job) is because I am constantly paraphrasing what developers and other SMEs (subject matter experts) are telling me. By trying to repeat what they say, I understand things better. (Another reason: I’m completely unafraid to look like a complete idiot. This may also have something to do with aikido, but we’ll get to that another time.)

Given this learning pattern, it should come as no surprise that one of the best parts about teaching aikido is the explaining. I love getting up in front of others, talking through the technique, explaining what’s happening and why it works. I can tell (and have heard firsthand) that the dojo appreciates this, because it helps them figure out how to analyze techniques for themselves. The process of teaching then becomes a collective effort to take a self-defense movement and understand it not only from a physical perspective, but a mental one as well. This pattern of teaching and learning has worked well for me–more than one senior instructor has told me that my own aikido improved dramatically once I started teaching it.

Then, one day, I’m on the mat teaching tsuki kotegaeshi. For those unfamiliar with the technique, tsuki kotegaeshi involves your attacker coming at you with a solid punch. Not a jab, not a feint–a solid, I-am-going-to-take-you-down punch. The response is to step off the line, grip the wrist, and twist the wrist out and away from the attacker–that’s the kotegaeshi. It’s a basic technique–not because it is easy, but because it takes a long time to really understand and forms a foundation on which many other techniques are based.

During this class, we’re focusing on one of the common challenges of tsuki kotegaeshi. You see, there are frequently two interpretations of the technique:

1. Crank on the wrist hard. The attacker will fall down.
2. Catch the attackers timing. The attacker will fall down.

The first interpretation is the easiest to understand, and is often what newer students do when trying the technique. The problem is, sooner or later you’ll come across someone who has what I call Wrists of Rebar which, in addition to being a nice alliteration, is also an accurate description of how strong these people are. You could crank on their wrists all day long and they’re not going to budge. Worse, they’re probably going to turn and start pummelling you for trying. When you meet a member of the Wrists of Rebar, the second option for the techinque suddenly looks a whole lot more interesting. But catching the timing of this technique, especially if the attacker is fast, can be very difficult and definitely takes practice.

Continuing on: I’m in front of my students discussing how we can use timing to make tsuki kotegaeshi more effective. But it isn’t working–at least not well. My timing is off, and I’m not sure why. The students watching probably couldn’t see it, but my uke certainly could. Confused and a little frustrated, I close the demonstration and start the class on the technique. As everyone partners up, I take my uke aside.

“Let’s try this again,” I say.

My uke takes a step back, and comes in with a good, solid punch. Bam! He’s on the ground.

“Well, that worked better,” he says to me.

“Yeah, but I’m not sure why,” I answer. As he attacks again, I start explaining what I’m trying to do. As I explain, I feel the technique slipping away. This time, without an audience, my uke stops moving altogether.

“I’m not sure I understand,” I say aloud.

Now here’s where I point out that this uke is about 19. He’s been training for about 5 years, and he has no problem trying to take me down any chance he gets. I appreciate this. He’s also blunt and to the point. (At one seminar, he told the instructor teaching that his throw felt “stiff and robotic.” It might have been true, but you don’t just say things like that!) After we disengage, he looks at me.

“Maybe you shouldn’t talk when you do the technique,” he offers.

My eyes narrow. I study him carefully. Nope–he’s not being funny. He’s genuinely trying to help. I have him attack again, keep my mouth shut, and focus on the technique. Bam! He’s on the ground. He looks up at me, grinning.

“Good advice,” I say, smiling.

From then on, I’ve done my best to keep my explanations and my demonstrations separate.