Talking Stick = Aikido

http://youtu.be/HUxi-Zc45tA

Frank Doran Sensei

(Posting this late -- accidentally left it in "draft" state since I wrote it a couple of months ago.)

I was blessed to be able to attend all four days of the Frank Doran Sensei seminar at Aikido of Northern Virginia in Arlington, VA.  I'll be chewing on what I experienced for a long time.  For now though, here are a few comments.  I'll talk about what I took away overall, some things I remember technically (from my notes), and finally I'll share a little about how the seminar has affected me personally.  I don't know how organized this will be, so bear with me.

This is the third or fourth time I've trained with Doran Sensei.  The first was at the opening of one of the first California Aikido Association dojos.  I think it might have been in San Jose -- possibly San Franciso -- I don't remember.  All three primary CAA heads taught a session (Doran, Hendricks, Nadeau).  I remember that what stood out on that day was Hendricks Sensei's weapons, Nadeau Sensei's eccentricities, and Doran Sensei's teaching ability.   I attended Doran Sensei's seminar in Arlington a few years ago as well.  I think I trained with him one other time, at Nadeau Sensei's dojo.

This seminar reaffirmed my impression of Doran Sensei as a very accomplished teacher. He repeatedly stressed minute details.  He probably got hands-on with everyone in the dojo during his "rounds." He drilled "slow is good, slower is better."   He taught from the mundane to the metaphysical.  He consistently stressed control of the centerline, and made clear distinctions between the two essential ways to get out of harm's way (tenkan and irimi).  He led a gentle, consistent class that had me focusing, sweating, and feeling the burn, while showing a very warm sense of humor and keeping things very relaxed and friendly.

At Roanoke Budo Kai (which I'll call RBK or simply "the Kai" for short), we have spoken recently about the "bulls-eye."  Doran Sensei seemed to turn that around.  I don't know if he explicitly did this on Friday when the rest of the Kai attended or not (it all runs together), but definitely on Saturday he explicitly said we were going to "build a technique from the ground up."

He had a room of 60 people, most of them black belts, a dozen or so san-dan and up, practicing switching hanmi in place:  Right hanmi, feet together (very important), change in place to left hanmi.    Then, from kose-dori, he added a strong extension from the offered hand (at Uke's opposite shoulder -- as Tonya mentioned). Harder than it looks, as the angle is critical.  Then with the opposite hand, a sword-like tsuki to Uke's ribs.

First, I'm feeling physically great.  Yeah, my legs are a little sore -- big deal.   But emotionally, I'm drained.   I think the moments of clarity

The Eye

There have been times in my life when I've felt a real mastery of something.  This isn't one of them.

Consider sports.   When I played soccer as an undergraduate in college, I played sweeper.   I had the respect of all my opponents.  I played both ends of the field, yet never got out of position.  I was never a great offensive player individually, but racked up many "assists."  I was incomplete command of the defense, and formed the solid foundation to give our offense the freedom it needed to be creative. I played the game with a confidence that bordered on arrogance.   Were it not for an ill-timed injury, I would almost certainly have gone "pro" for at least a year or two.

Later, as a graduate student, I was heavily into Taekwon-do, spending 3-4 hours a day in the "combat room" at the gym.  I was quite good, progressed rapidly to a high rank, and won several tournaments in my short time during those two years.   When I entered a match, I felt invincible, and often was.

In my early twenties, I discovered ultimate frisbee.  I quickly developed exceptional skill as a "handler" (someone known to throw the disc extremely well).   I remember the day one of our veteran players told me that I had developed what he called "The Eye."   

The Eye is when you can see everything.  The whole field, every detail of your opponent, every opportunity. Time slows down.  You not only can make the play, but you have time to choose between several options at any given time.  You have time to do extra stuff like taunt your opponent, or add a little flair to the game.  You make miraculous plays look easy.

After 13 years at Aikido, I still don't have "The Eye."   My personal nemesis (well, there are many, actually) is Jiyu-Waza (or Randori).  No matter what I tell myself before we start, it always seems to leave me about 5-10 seconds later.   I figure I need to be able to maintain it for at least 15-30 seconds to be really in command.

I think my test date is 20 weeks away.  That's about 60 training sessions if I make them all, or about 120 hours.    I haven't got a chance.

Magic

Something a little whimsical tonight, to keep me from watching something worthless on TV instead...

I read Sci-Fi/Fantasy for fun. I especially like stories about different kinds of magic. I've often fantasized about writing a novel of my own.  

Today, whilst hiking (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CluQU3Gum7U), I was thinking about Aikido and I was struck with an inspiration for a "twist" on magic that is related to the principles of Aikido.  I stopped on the trail, pulled out my phone, and typed a note.

Here's a possible clip from the story -- it's the magician explaining his art to a student.

"My magic doesn't affect things. It affects the spaces between things; the relationships that things have with one another.  This makes my magic difficult to detect, and difficult to defend against. Difficult to detect because the in-betweens are seldom noticed, let alone suspected. Difficult to defend against because one cannot easily enchant something that doesn't exist until other things combine, and that disappears when they part.  My spells are also difficult to learn and to cast, for all the same reasons.  I live between things; between lives; between worlds. I live off line; beside; behind. You see five fingers on a hand; I see four spaces between them.  You see a fist; I see something small and uninteresting, or nothing at all. You see combatants and conflict; I see a bond that can be manipulated.  You see objects; I see empty space."  

Blowing Off Class

In the years I've been training, I've trained very intensely at times, and very sparsely at times.  From several hours a day, to once a month, or even less.  I can honestly say that I've never crossed the line in my mind where I'd "given up" on Aikido, but there were times when, with life and family and work and just plain attitude, it was hard to get to the Dojo and I effectively took some short "sabbaticals."  Despite knowing that I almost always felt better after training than before it, it still wasn't always easy to make myself get on the mat.   It's part of the training.

We talk about being fully present on the mat (and off).  Awareness and focus are a big part of why we do what we do.  However, if you've got a lot on your mind, or life has you scrambling to keep up, sometimes it's darned near impossible to be fully present, even for that hour or two on the mat.  You could argue that you shouldn't get on the mat at all on days like that -- either because your training would suffer, or that you could even injure yourself or someone else.  Quite so.

However, there's also something to be said for "going through the motions" sometimes, even if you're not at 100%.   Safety is a consideration, of course.  But you shouldn't let an "all or nothing" attitude keep you from being on the mat, either.   Nobody is at their top form all of the time.  I think that part of the training is to learn to forgive yourself, notice your state of mind, and train on.   It's a balancing act.

Here's something you may not have considered.   While training more frequently is almost always a better option than training less, it is, in fact, possible to learn things during sparse times that cannot be learned as easily when you're training frequently and regularly.   It's important to take advantage of those times -- they will happen.  

For instance, if you only come to the Dojo once a month or so, you're likely to always be rusty.  Fine.  You can let that get you down, or you can treat your rustiness as a form of "beginner's mind" and come to every session with an "empty cup."   In a way, training less often makes it easier to treat every training session as brand new, and you focus on the very basics.  I've even noticed that when I train sparsely, the subsequent "sloppiness" in my technique can also have a positive element of "fluidity" if I let it.   Hammond Sensei once remarked to me in class that I was "looking good," even though he didn't realize I hadn't been to class in weeks.  I was just feeling loose. So, even as we're striving for fluidity and precision simultaneously, you can at least use your circumstances to play with one or the other.

Infrequent training can also shine a spotlight on changes in your fellow Aikidoka more easily.   It's like not seeing your young niece or nephew for half a year or so.  When you do see them, you remark "my, how you've grown!" For example, I've mentioned to Evil Todd before that there was a point in his training when I noticed that, while he's always been really, really strong, he had, to my eyes "suddenly" learned to turn!  

Noticing these kinds of step-changes in your mat-mates can be discouraging if you let your ego get involved and start comparing yourself with others around you too much, but it can also be enlightening.  If you tell your friends that you're seeing improvements in them, at the very least you can act as a motivator for them!  We all need "atta-boys" (or girls) from time to time.

Finally, a note about injuries...   I, personally, find it very difficult to justify coming to class if I'm not physically able to train near top form, because I tend to train a little beyond my capabilities at times like that, and I make things worse.   As one teacher once told me: "the #1 objective is to be able to train the next day."  Also, I usually hate to just watch.

However, a minor injury can be a good teacher.  A weak knee can help you watch your footwork more closely.  Bumps and bruises will tend to round out your Ukeme (quickly!).  A sore back can remind you slow down and pay extra attention to your balance.  Sore arms can remind you to not use your arms so much!

So.  Here's what I tell myself about "blowing off class."

Don't let yourself get into the habit of blowing off class for no good reason.  It's a very easy habit to get into, and a slippery slope.  But on the other hand, don't let a missed class now and then interrupt your overall training, either.  It's a marathon, not a sprint.  Stay present in the bigger moment, just as you do in the immediate one.

BTW, when you see me tap myself on the shoulder before bowing in, that's my little "atta boy" to myself for just getting there.   :-)

Take Sensei

I stumbled across this video tonight.  I think I might have shared it before -- or at least pieces of it.  This one is almost an hour long.

http://youtu.be/yftCmz7bBcs

There's a lot of great stuff, but I've always been mesmerized by watching Take Sensei's randori.  So I started taking notes near the end...

36:36: The whole section on "Black Belt Test" is pretty near and dear to my heart right now.

38:00: "15 seconds"

38:48: Unbelievably smooth Jiyu Waza like demonstration.

40:20: Randori

45:55: Randori made easy

In that last one, I struggled to hear what he was saying when he was talking about the three guys grabbing him.  I listened over and over again.  Paraphrasing, I think he simply said "if they grab me, I try not to let them get me on the inside -- I keep that for myself."

Fall For Me

Here's another cartoon strip from an old training journal.  This one is about two of the key members of the Dojo -- Daisy and Travis.  I still see Daisy on the "instructors" site at the Dojo, but I don't see Travis.

Daisy was "My Uke" for my 2nd Kyu test.  The tradition at this Dojo was that you would choose an Uke to help you train for your test.  Someone a rank or two above you.   They would take falls for you during the test, for at least part of the time.