Testing

Next week we are having kyu tests at the dojo, and it's incredible to see how enthusiastic all the students are. It's difficult to convey how impressed I am as I sit here writing this blog and I hear them preparing in the next room. As this dojo slowly grows I can't help worrying about how many students I have, how I will pay the bills, and how will I pass on this great thing that I have learned. Sometimes it brings me down, I feel sorry for myself with worry, and I think that I'm not doing a very good job. But as I sit here and listen to them train, I hear their happy voices, I hear them trying to understand these techniques and it feels as if something must be right. I still worry about the bills, I still worry about how to grow the dojo, but it's these moments where I can't help feeling like we are on the right track. Time will certainly tell, but for right now I'm pretty happy in my ignorance of the future. 

Super Hero

I have a student, and she's like a super hero. 

I watch how she grows, I watch how she learns

and I then I grow, and then I learn. 

I have a student who's like a super hero

If I asked her to leap a tall building, I think she could do it. 

I watch her train and I watch her learn. 

I have a student, and I have a teacher. 

I didn't know a teacher learned from a student. 

But I have a student that's a super hero, 

And I learn something new every day. 

A Fine Line

The analogy I thought of the other day was that the etiquette in the dojo should feel like a very firm hug. Sometimes it can feel lax, like no one is really thinking about it, and this, as far as the analogy goes, feels like one of those halfway hugs. The kind where the person sticks their rear-end as far away as possible, and just barely puts their arms around you lacking the warmth and the comfort that's inherent in a hug.

Then there are other dojos where the etiquette feels more like a choke hold. Certainly people are thinking about the etiquette, but the etiquette becomes a kind of affectation that can be oppressive. This is like a hug that feels as if someone is trying to prove something, show how strong they are, and you feel your ribs creak during the process. Maybe this is too intimate for me and makes the hug feel either aggressive or creepy; not what I imagine the nature of a hug to be. 

Neither of these kinds of hugs convey what a hug wants to convey. A true feeling of warmth, of caring and of kindness without being overly intimate.  The etiquette at the dojo should feel firm, full and complete giving students comfort and security, without becoming self-serving, abusive or invasive. The etiquette at the dojo should surround the students, fill every nook and cranny of the dojo without ever becoming overbearing, just like a good hug. 

 

Becoming Clean

I was thinking last night how many things students hope to get out of Aikido. It seems as if those people who come into a dojo with all kinds of expectations are the first ones to quit. I imagine that the more expectations one has the more likely it is that they will be disappointed. They become disappointed because they don't know how to achieve their goals and their goals are often unrealistic for the kind of person that they are. What I mean is that if my goal is to out play Kobe Bryant in a game of one-on-one, although an admirable goal, I need to first asses what kind of basketball player I am. Considering I'm short, never played basketball on a team, and I have bad knees I'd imagine my chances of reaching this goal are limited. That doesn't mean that it isn't a good goal, is just means that I should be aware of reality.  The point of this writing is to help people understand what it is they should expect from their Aikido training so their expectations can match with reality. 

What strikes me as odd are the kinds of expectations people have of Aikido and of martial arts in general.  What I tend to hear most from new students, the ones who come in with lots of expectations, is that they want to lose forty or fifty pounds, or they want to become "one with the universe." I imagine Aikido could help on the path to either of these lofty goals, but what would appear obvious is that Aikido alone will not do.  The goals are fantastic, losing weight through physical exercise is a great thing, but then reality needs to come in. We know that physical exercise along with a healthy diet help in weight loss but if you're taking in 4000 calories a day and burning off 200 through exercise, weight loss is impossible.  The point is that an accurate assessment of one's reality is vital.  

The analogy I thought of last night was that the dojo is like a cleansing bath. If approached diligently and with constant effort, Aikido and the Aikido dojo can serve as a means to scrub clean students from the muck and mire associated with daily life. Zazen, Insight Meditation and other forms of buddhist meditation I see the same way and all of these pursuit tend toward the same goal. So when a new student comes to me and says that they want to lose forty pounds or they want to feel the spirituality inherent in Aikido I think that they are in the right place. But what I find interesting is that these students, almost exclusively those with impossibly high expectations often do little to help affect a change. It would appear that showing up at the dojo, paying the small amount a dojo charges for its fees, and putting on a clean white gi is enough. Of course, this couldn't be further from the truth. 

So to get back to the cleansing bath metaphor, these students come in for a class and because of the years spent immersed in the world they are covered with this muck and mire that cannot be washed off in one quick rinse as it were. Imagine rolling around in oil and dirt, and sticky syrups and trash and then, for an instant, letting water fall on your face. The years of misuse of the body can't be changed, cannot be washed clean with one superficial rinse. So the new student goes home and says to himself that this Aikido stuff doesn't work, this teacher can't teach. They see they are still covered in the slime of humanity and walk away from Aikido. Or maybe they stay for a little while, and after a few months of training their skin just starts to show underneath the infinite layers of sludge that have collected, and the first thing they do with this clean feeling is jump right back into the cesspool from which they came.  And they look at their bodies and say to themselves that this Aikido stuff doesn't work, this teacher can't teach, I'm still covered in slime. 

The perception seems to be that Aikido, that meditation and that teachers are somehow magical and that it is they, it is this combination of elements that will scrub students clean of their lives. Of course this is a silly thing to think. No teacher I have ever had was magical. They were amazing and inspirational and infinitely talented but this was through their diligent effort toward a goal and not in some gift. What I learned from my teachers is that this constant effort, this clear view of a path and a dedication toward that path is what will help make us feel clean and new and alive. 

This is not magic. Hard work is not magic, but somehow this has become the perception. We tend to look at healing in this country, spiritual or physical, as a process by which we have no involvement. We have become pill takers, and the very idea of a pill removes us from the illness. Of course I am in no way undermining modern science or the great advancements we've made in pharmacology, I might just take an ibuprofin later, but this pill takes away my connection with the pain. The pain is mine, caused by me and relating exclusively to me. When I take a pill it becomes someone else's problem. If I'm still in pain I can say to myself this ibuprofin stuff doesn't work. When perhaps what would be better for me in a larger context is to try and understand my pain, where does it come from, what am I doing to cause myself pain; this is what I mean by being involved in an illness. 

To avoid this kind of separate existence where there is my life that I live, and then there is me we try to connect these two things through our training. That my life, my goals, my fear and my pain are about me and only me is connecting these parts is part of our struggle. If I hope to find peace with these things then the answer must lie within me, and this is what teachers try to help us see. They try to help a student find the answer for themselves; this is not magic. The answer, at least my answer is through this process of Aikido and meditation. Through this effort the dojo scrubs people clean of the stresses of life, of the slime of pain and helps them to feel clean and free. One rinse won't do. Paying dues and buying a gi won't do. If one hopes to gain the infinite benefits of their training they must immerse themselves fully into it. They must scrub their bodies, get covered with soap, soak in hot water and let the dirt of life slowly drift away. Once clean then we maintain this feeling by regular training and not by then immersing ourselves in the very thing that made us feel dirty in the first place. 

Of course I am talking about spiritual cleanliness and not physical but it is no different. If we fill our heads with negativity for years and years and then spend one hour trying to be at peace this will not work. Sitting quietly for ten minutes will do little to restore the spirit's natural health. This would appear obvious to me, it would appear obvious that if we hope to become clean then we must dedicate ourselves in some way. It's remarkable how many people are unwilling to do this or therefore unable to accomplish their goals. 

 

When I say dedicated training I want to be clear that this is not the kind of hyper masculine version of dedication that we see on TV. This isn't the kind of dedication that makes us servile and weak, but that instead empowers us beyond imagining. I don't ask my students to become monks, I ask them to let Aikido principles become the central theme of their lives, but not their lives per se. It isn't the kind of cultish dedication that demands everything from you, but a dedication in purpose and intent.  We can live a life that looks on the outside like a regular, "modern" life, but that doesn't mean that our spirits need to become weak and filthy. We pursue family, career, friendships and passions but we do it with a clarity of purpose, with an understanding of self and a sense of peace and belonging that we get through our diligent efforts. This is not magic, this is not fantasy but the results of effort. 

So when students come to me and say that they want to lose weight or they want to becoming spiritually whole I sometimes worry for them. I worry that with this expectation comes a kind of separation that will keep them from achieving anything. They have a goal but seem to lack an understanding of how to achieve that goal, and when I tell them they are unsatisfied. They don't want to hear that through diligent training they can find some peace, that by directing their lives toward exercise and healthy eating they can lose weight. They want me to wave my magic wand and make them all better. I of course don't have this power, and even if I did I wouldn't use it. When they quit I can't help feeling some resentment toward them. I look at the scars I have that represent the hours of training and I resent how little some people are willing to put in. They want everything but are unwilling to go through anything. They want the loftiest possible goals, but can't seem to take the first step toward it and then blame Aikido, blame me for not getting them where they want to be. 

So I sit on my couch thinking how great it would be to beat Kobe in a game of basketball and I don't do anything but sit and dream. Maybe one day I go to a basketball school, take a class, see how terrible I am at basketball and then quit. I blame the coaches, I blame the entire sport for my failing having never accomplishing anything, never getting anywhere, just reinforcing the destructive habits that limit my thinking and limit my life. My advice to students is that if you want to play basketball go and play basketball, don't worry too much about any goals beyond that. If someday you play Kobe then good luck to you, but in the mean time dedicate yourself to the path; play everyday. 

Weapons

Last night we trained bokken for weapons class. It was a big class for us and nearly everyone on the mat was a beginner. What was so interesting is to see how many different ways people have of doing the exact same thing. Although I only taught it one way, each person had a different interpretation of what they saw. This led me to think about my own teaching and my own journey as a student.  

I taught the most basic cut last night and as I looked around the room it was amazing to see how differently each person did the technique. With body art it's more difficult to see, each nuance or idiosyncrasy isn't as pronounced, but with weapon's work, especially bokken, all these little body anomalies start to appear.  You ask someone to stand up straight, and eight people will stand up straight eight different ways. Then you ask them to hold this somewhat strange looking object, and swing it in a very prescribed way and you get as many different versions of it as you have people on the mat. Certainly this isn't a criticism, just an observation. 

What we try to teach in weapons is that each part of a strike should be completely natural. What that means is that the body should move in a way that allows the weapon to move as it is intended without any interference. The more human qualities that are added into the movement the less that weapon is able to function as it was intended. So in a way it's like stripping away all the things that a person brings onto the mat and allowing the weapon to entirely take over. But at first the body leads and the weapon follows, and later the weapon leads and the body follows. 

As I stood on the mat looking out at my students I wanted to laugh and tell them how funny they looked. Certainly not in a mean way, but I wish they could see themselves through my eyes. Even though I try to show them in the clearest way that I can, they will never see what I see and I will never see what they see. If I could see my self through their eyes I'd be a much improved teacher, and if they could see themselves through mine they would be improved students. But all we can do is look at what we are doing and then see what the outcome is. They do suburi and look at my reaction; that's how a student improves. I look at my students, and they reflect what I'm doing; this is how a teacher learns.   

So everyone on the mat was standing in some funny posture, some way their body was taking over and not letting the weapon move, and I realized that my teaching is probably just like that. I'm not sure I can articulate just what I mean, but my teaching is probably like bad posture, too much muscle and improper angles. Through practice their cuts improve, and through practice my teaching improves. I'd imagine if you asked eight different teachers to stand up straight you'd get eight different interpretations of what that meant.  But through practice, just like in bokken, I think that we try and eliminate, or at least minimize our own concepts of what's right and wrong and try to find out what's natural. 

At first the student tries to force the bokken to do what he or she wants it to do, and I see my teaching just like that. I try and impose my will on my students; I tell them do it just like this, or just like that. But the weapon cuts with less efficiency the harder a student tries to swing it, and I'd imagine the harder a teacher tries to force his students to learn the less able they will become. But with no body the sword doesn't move, and with no teacher the student doesn't learn. So like the weapon's student learns to let the weapon cut, I think the teacher needs to learn how to let the student learn. Each person is like a new weapon, in a way, and in order for it to work properly or work efficiently it must be moved the right way. This is how I see my job and the job of a teacher in general. I need to see how a student learns and then I can teach them. The students lead the teacher in this way and not the other way around.  

Level of Training

It's difficult to know how important it is to maintain a standard level of practice at the dojo. When I was training it was hugely important to me to maintain a high level of training both in terms of numbers of hours per week, as well as the kind of training I was doing on the mat. There were certainly those nights where I chose a partner that I knew I wouldn't have to work to hard with, but in general I sought out those people who I knew would challenge me and push me. 

So now I have my own school and I wonder how much of this personal expectation I can have for my students. When I was coming up there were one, two, maybe three people who had the same level of commitment to their practice as I did, and I came from a huge school. Now I own this very small dojo north of Boston and I wonder if it's feasible or rational to think that my students will be able to train in the same way as I did.   

My students train hard, there is no doubt about this, but they train in a different way. They train as you would a hobby or a sport; something you do to pass the time. They train two days a week, maybe three days and to them this is enough. But my personal expectation is so much higher that I struggle to find a good and healthy balance for all of us.  I do have some students who are doing phenomenal work and I'm deeply impressed with their level of commitment to the dojo and to their training, but most people aren't like this and I worry that I squeeze out too many students because my expectations are so high. 

Of course, I want to have high expectations because this is what makes a good dojo and good Aikido. If we are all just playing at it then there will be nothing left. But this balance between having high expectations in order to improve the overall quality of Aikido, while at the same time realizing that people are busy, have full lives and families and jobs is difficult at times to find. Half of me wants to just let people live their lives and give whatever it is they can give, and half of me thinks that if they're not training then they should go do something else. I don't want to have a room full of people chit chatting and pretending to study a martial art, and I don't want to have two people on the mat because no one else can match my standard.  Two very strong students, or twenty weak ones? Ten kind of strong ones, and ten pretty weak ones? Does it work like this. Is it really a sliding scale once you let the standard drop? 

What I find is that I try to do both. I try to let people live their lives but also let them know as clearly as possible that there is a standard. But what I'm learning is that this isn't so easy for me.   I crash down on people who aren't matching the standard, and at times they quit. Maybe as I get better at this I'll find a way to maintain my students while maintaining a high standard. But as of now I tend to push people out of the dojo, figuratively speaking, who either can't or are unwilling to maintain my standard and this keeps my dojo quite small. Small but strong; hopefully this is the right way. 

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