The Power of the Thumb

One of my favorite movies in the “find on cable at 11:00pm” category is The Presidio. Why is this a favorite? Because there is a classic scene in which the two main characters, Lt. Col. Caldwell and Jay Austin (played by Sean Connery and Mark Harmon, respectively), are getting hassled by two guys in a bar. After a few minutes, Caldwell turns to one of the bullies and says:

Now, are you sure you want to have a fight? Because I’m only going to use my thumb.

The bully in question, of course, finds this hard to believe. So, in true Sean-Connery-coolness style, Caldwell proceeds to pummel the guy using, just his thumb.

It’s a great scene, and it came to mind the other day when we were in class working on several techinque fundamentals: tsuki kotegaeshi and katate-tori shihonage in particular. One of the points we discussed in class was how both techniques rely on just the thumb to make the them effective. For example, tsuki kotegaeshi, is a defense against a punch in which the basic idea is to step off the line of attack, turn, and–using your forearm, wrist, and hand–hook the attackers punch. One of the keys to making this technique effective is in how much focus, how much strength, is channelled through your thumb. Basically, the premise is simple: if you apply the right amount of pressure with your thumb, you’re far more likely to get the control you need to make the technique work. If your thumb is weak, then it’s likely your grip will break and your opponent can counter your movement.

The same principle holds true with shihonage. In this classic technique, the attacker is attempting to grab your wrist in order to keep you from attacking with it. As they grab, you counter hold with your opposite hand, swinging and turning your opponent, which leads to their complete loss of balance. Again, the focus on the thumb is essential. Without it, the counter hold is not only weak, it is ineffective in leading your opponent out of their center.

In way, these technique all come down to the thumb.

The ramifications of this are very interesting to think about. The muscles in the hand are supposively some of the hardest muscles to strengthen; however, once they are strengthened, they retain their strength far longer than other parts of your body, such as your arms. Think of the older martial arts instructors that you’ve met. I know that one of the things that always caught my attention was not only their sense of timing, but how strong they were. When I thought about, though, I realized that their strength did not come from their arms or chest, but came from their grip. Once they got a hold of you, it was over.

We spent the rest of class looking at other techniques, exploring how the thumb and the grip were essential in ensuring the technique worked effectively. It’s funny how something as simple as your thumb can level the playing field–no matter how much faster, stronger, or younger your opponent may be.

Lose Your Delusions

You’re walking down the street, on your way to the bus to go home. It’s been a busy day, the kind that has you firing on all cylinders, and even a seat on the bus and a bumpy ride through traffic is starting to sound pretty good. You’re in your own thoughts, mentally disengaging from the workday in order to focus on grabbing a bite to eat and getting some much needed sleep. The streets are pretty quiet, the sidewalks mostly empty. As you near the bus stop, something catches your eye. An individual is looking at you in a way that just barely sends of a few warning bells in the back of your mind. As you continue to walk, this individual starts moving towards you, and it becomes clear that something isn’t right; something is telling you that this individual is a threat, and you should be prepared.

The question that usually follows the preceding scenario is “What do you do?” But this time, I’d like to ask it in a slightly different way: “What CAN you do?” I’m not talking about creating a list of techniques, strategies, or movements that could get you into a more safe environment. I’m literally talking about what are you physically and mentally capable of?

As martial arts practitioners, we study a variety of techniques designed for self-defense. But knowing the movement in the dojo does not mean that you can actually do it. There are thousands of different techniques; you are not adept at all of them. Some of them you have just learned, you haven’t built the muscle memory you need to make the technique effective. Some of them require an understanding of strategy that you don’t have yet, or demand a certain level of strength or speed. Maybe some of them you just flat-out don’t like.

And this is all assuming you are in so-called “peak” condition. What about your current level of flexibility? Maybe you’re not very flexible–so several techniques aren’t viable options for that reason. Or maybe you’re recovering from an injury. Let’s say you tripped going up the stairs and now your ankle is sore. What impact does this have on the techniques available to you? Or perhaps today you really over did it at the office; you’re so mentally wiped out that the fact you noticed a potential threat is a minor miracle. Who knows–maybe it’s not even a threat at all. Maybe your fatigue is playing tricks on your perception.

I bring all this up because one of the most essential components of martial arts training is understanding what you’re capable of at any given moment. The time spent on the mat is time spent not just improving your skills, but on comparing what you think you’re able to do against what you actually can. I refer to this often as “losing your delusions,” because you have to almost forcefully break through your perceived state of mind and body in order to see what your actual state is.

Breaking the delusions isn’t easy, however. As a beginners, we know that we have much to learn; still, many of us carry some sort of image that, when it actually came down to it, a combination of adrenaline and willpower will save us from a bad situation. When we realize that this isn’t true, that we’re far more vulnerable than we think, it’s a frightening level of awareness. I remember a friend of mine who tried to study aikido. For a few weeks, she showed up to class. Then, afterwards, she quit. As she was my friend, I had the chance to ask her why she stopped training. Her response: “There’s so much I can’t do!” What she meant was that her capabilities on the mat did not match the image she had of herself in her mind.

Losing your delusions doesn’t get any easier as you move up the ranks, either. Senior students, and even many instructors, run the risk of letting their pride get in the way. They’ve put in so much time, poured in so much effort, that to see a vulnerability in themselves is has a bitterness to it that they’d rather avoid. I know this from firsthand experience–there have been times on the mat where I can’t help but think: “Well, I can’t throw this person because their attack is all wrong,” or something similar. All I can say is I do my best to recognize these times for what they are–moments of frustation and ego, nothing more–but not let them impact my overall training.

The fact is that one of the best benefits of martial training is the ability to have an accurate sense of what you CAN do. Once you have this information, you can really begin to see what areas of your training need work and know what you can ask of yourself in a given situation. Part of winning any battle, after all, stems from knowing your resources. With this information, you become better able to not only defend yourself, but improve your overall state of being.

Who are we fighting, again?

When I got to the dojo the other night, kids class was in full swing. About 10 kids were on the mat, studying katate-kosa-tori kokyunage, otherwise known as an across-the-body wrist grab with a timing throw. I watched, as I often do, with a bit of sadness. Since I started working at Microsoft, my schedule doesn’t let me get on the mat in time for kids classes very often. I miss it–their energy, their enthusiasm, their smiles, all are very rewarding.

Whenever I enter the dojo during kids class, I take a moment to say hello to some of the parents. This time, one of the parents of one of the newer students came up to me.

“Have you heard about how they’re teaching ultimate fighting to kids?” she asked.

In fact, I had just come across this article about this growing trend. “Yes, I have,” I answered.

“Does it bother you? I mean, that UFC stuff is brutal!”

I thought for a minute. “If you mean do I worry about them learning mixed-martial arts fighting,” I began, “I would have to say no. I honestly don’t see how MMA-style training could be much different from wrestling or football. The only problem I do have is that they don’t answer the question: who are they training to deal with?”

“At our dojo, the kids study techniques that work no matter how big or small their attacker is. Sure, this may mean that we teach only a subset of the total number of available techniques, but I see no reason to teach a child tsuki kotegaeshi (a wrist-based jointlock that is in response to a punch) when, in fact, there is no way they’re going to pull off that techinque against a larger attacker. To be sure, there’s value in studying techniques from a conceptual or principle standpoint, but for the most part, I want to know that the kids are studying movements and strategies that they can apply today, in physical and non-physical situations, regardless as to whether their opponent is a class mate, someone’s older sibling, or a stranger.”

“I see pictures and videos of kids doing MMA take-downs and armbars. And I’m impressed at their ability to focus and apply technique–it’s something that I’d like to see our kids do more of during class. But as I see these pictures and videos, I can’t help but wonder: how would that work against someone three times their size? Can a six-year-old put an adult into an armbar? Somehow, I don’t think so. But I do know that a six-year-old can turn tenkan (a pivot with a step) and take someone off balance. I know this, because when we do our presentations at the end of class, each child has to throw a senior student. Often, those students are adults, and they don’t give the throw away for free.”

I could see that the parent (as well as several others who had been listening) agreed with me, so the conversation ended there. But I thought I’d take a few more moments here to think through the issue. As adults, we know who our opponents are: other adults. We train and study techniques so that we know how to protect ourselves from other adults. But what about kids? Who are we training them to deal with?

I remember clearly a young woman who came up the ranks at the same time as I did, many years ago. This woman started training as a kid, and as she got older moved into the adult classes. She confided to a few of us after class one day that she was really frustrated. “All the techniques I learned as a kid don’t work on adults,” she said. And it was probably true. The techniques she was learning were watered-down versions designed to be easier to do and safer to study. I felt bad for her, because she felt like she had to start over. Worse yet, she was studying techniques that really weren’t going to work should she need them to.

When the dojo started offering kids classes, I made a promise to myself that I would do my best to focus on techniques that were safe for the kids to practice, but also effective. After all, I reasoned, there are over 250 thousand possible techniques. Surely some of those fit into that category? Over the past year, we’ve built up a curriculum of techniques that focus on simple movements and turns that fit these requirements. The result? We have kids studying techniques that work, and they won’t have to relearn them as they get older.

This curriculum was validated the other day when another parent relayed the following story. Apparently she and her family were having dinner with two other families. The subject of self-defense came up, and this parent mentioned that her two older daughters (9 and 12) were studying aikido. One of the parents asked the mom if she thought her older daughter was able to defend herself. Her response: “I don’t know. Maybe.” Her daughter overheard this, and took offense. (”Good for her,” I thought.) So one of the other parents tried to come up behind her and grab her in a classic ushiro kubishime kokyunage. In a heartbeat, he was on the ground, looking stunned. The other dad, who had been watching, wanted to try this out for himself. Same result–in a flash, he was on the ground.

(It should be noted that this student’s father, who often tries to test out what they learn on the mat, figured how things were going to go and wisely stayed out of it.)

Needless to say, the mom was impressed, the daughter felt vindicated, and I felt pleased that our curriculum was doing what it was supposed to do.

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.

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.

You always suck at aikido

It’s close to midnight, and I am sitting with one of the senior students of Kokikai Aikido. We’ve been talking about all sorts of aspects of aikido training and the evolution of technique over time. As we continue to talk, I mention that one of the things I have a hard time with is that there always seems to be another level of proficiency; that a technique I could have sworn I had down one week is not working nearly so well the next. He looks at me, and responds: "You know why that is? It’s because you always suck at aikido."

The words are a jolt. You always suck at aikido? This is NOT what I signed on for. You start a martial art to become an expert at it, don’t you? To be told that you will never be good at it seems…disheartening at best.

The explanation that I was given, however, made sense. The art of aikido is one of constant refinement. In Kokikai Aikido especially, we are taught to continually analyze our techniques and strategies. As we refine our movements, we internally raise the bar of what we expect out of ourselves. Essentially, once we understand how to move better, faster, and more efficiently, we won’t accept anything on the mat that falls short of our new level. The problem, of course, is that it takes time and practice to make this new level the norm of your practice. So it is not uncommon for you to struggle with a technique–it’s not that you can’t do it, it’s that you can’t do it at which you want to do it.

This cycle has been borne out many times in my own training. For example, when I first learned tsuki kotegaeshi (a response to a punch in which you rotate your opponent’s wrist out and away from them, resulting in their loss of balance), I was instructed to keep my opponent’s wrist low, and the rotation of that wrist as tight as possible. This resulted in a relatively effective technique, but it had two drawbacks: first, it really cranked on your opponent’s wrist; second, opponent’s with thick wrists were very hard to throw without injuring them. Over time, I learned that a more efficient way to do the technique was to keep your opponent’s arm close to their body and then extend it behind them. This modification stretched the uke out more, resulting in an increase in loss of balance and a decrease in the amount of torque on the wrist. An excellent and effective refinement, but it took a long time before I could make it work reliably. Yet, because I had spent so long studying the old way of applying the technique, I knew I could always fall back to it and make the old way work. But that wasn’t good enough. I wanted to do the technique in the newer, more efficient way. Over time, the new way eventually supplanted the old way, as I got better at understanding how to apply. And what happened next? The technique became more refined again–and the process started anew.

And this is what was meant by saying you always suck at aikido–you are always striving to hit the next level, and each time you improve, there’s yet another layer of refinement to implement. It certainly doesn’t meant that the techniques don’t work–it just means that we are never satisfied with our current capabilities. I have trained long enough that I know how to throw someone (in most cases–I won’t claim to be perfect), but that doesn’t mean that I’m satisfied with the level at which I execute the technique. Perhaps this is part of the attraction of aikido–it is an art in which you are in a continual state of refinement, yet it incorporates this cycle of improvement without sacrificing the effectiveness of its techniques.

On Striking

Back when I first started learning aikido, I had a problem with the notion that, at first, the attacks and throws were staged. Someone throws a punch; you turn and apply kotegaeshi. Someone grabs your wrist; your enter and execute shihonage. I understood that these were just drills, that they were meant to train our muscle memory so that, in the heat of battle, we’d intuitively recognize when we could apply a specific technique. Still, while I logically understood what we were doing, there was a part of me that struggled. What if my attacker resisted at this point? Or this other point? What if they didn’t turn like they’re supposed to?

One of the answers I was given was very simple: hit them. I was initially appalled–didn’t I start this art in order to avoid hitting my opponent in the first place? Wasn’t one of the basic attractions of a martial art like aikido is that you don’t have to hit? The answer that came back to me on this question was: which is kinder? Your fist, or gravity? I accepted this question and the answer it implied: the power of my fist was negotiable, the power of someone meeting concrete or asphalt at a high rate of speed was not. So I acknowledged the notion that, under certain circumstances, if the attacker resisted illogically–that is, if they resisted the technique at a point where they were not in a position to either escape or counter attack–then a swift strike was not only appropriate, it was potentially a kinder way to end the conflict.

Recently, however, I was watching a few folks who study striking arts, when I noticed something: hitting someone takes work. It is not easy on the arms or the hands. In fact, just as we’re often told that a poorly executed shomenuchi strike with a sword might bounce off an opponent’s armor, I could easily see that a poorly executed strike could, quite possibly, have zero impact on your opponont. Hardly a desired outcome! And there’s an additional issue too: I wonder how many people skate by on their aikido technique, thinking to themselves “Well, if it doesn’t work, I can always clock’em?” This mindset leads to poor technique and laziness at best.

As many who study a striking art might attest, hitting someone correctly requires training, just as taking someone off balance requires training. Boxers do not work out with speed bags because it looks cool. It is training. Karateka do not spend their time punching makiwara because it makes a pleasing sound. It is training. Any art that relies on a punch or strike trains to make that strike as deadly and as efficient as possible. In aikido, however, we do not spend as much time learning how to strike. This is understandable: our focus is on a different aspect of the conflict. (This is not to say we do not study how to hit; we just don’t study it at the same level as other arts do.) Yet we must be honest with ourselves: if we do not know how to hit, we cannot allow ourselves the luxury of saying: “Well, if my opponent attacks poorly or resists, I’ll simply hit them.” To do so not only allows one to slack off on correct technique, but provides a dangerous false aura of security.

Of course, hitting in aikido is not always incorrect or out of place. One of the amazing things about aikido is that the initial movement to take someone off balance quite often puts yourself in a spot where a strike can be absolutely devastating. I know of many people, myself included, who have stopped in the middle of a technique, realizing suddenly just how vulnerable our opponent has become. It speaks to the mindset of the aikidoka why we often strive not to take advantage of this vulnerability, that we prefer to the control of the throw over the control of the punch when an opponent is unable to defend themselves. But each of us must choose: if you wish to have a strike be an option, however rarely used, then you must put in the time to learn how to strike correctly and well. If you choose not to strike, then you must ensure that your timing is perfect and that your technique is sure–you can have no illusion of a safety net should you fail to take your opponent’s balance. I do not think it is necessary to judge which path is better; but it is important to realize that the road in-between, where you consider a strike a viable tool but do not seek to study how to use it, that road is a road that can lead to diaster.