Shodan reflections on the questions: “Where am I? Who am I? What am I doing?”

Congratulations to Dan Reid who passed his shodan test over the weekend of December 2-4, 2016; the Northwest Regional Seminar held at Multnomah Aikikai. Part of the requirements for his test included a written essay. This essay is published with his permission below.

Shodan Essay

The warm June air inside the university gym was thick with sweat, so the announcement that Chiba Sensei’s weapons class would be held outside was a welcome treat. We were in the thick of 2007 Summer Camp, and we all filed eagerly into the fresh air with bokken in hand. After a vigorous session of suburi and kirigaeshi among the broadleaf trees, we sat in seiza on the cool grass and Chiba Sensei gave a lecture. During his talk he said that whenever he trains in any form, he asks himself three simple questions that have stayed with me ever since:
“Where am I? Who am I? What am I doing?”


These questions may seem innocuous on the surface, but when I begin to parse their
implications they reveal hidden depths of meaning. The effort to internalize them and keep them at the forefront of my mind has been a core element of my Aikido and Zazen practice for nearly a decade.

The first question is the most straightforward and accessible, but the answer to “Where am I?” is not a street address or set of coordinates. Instead, the answer presents itself when I open all my senses completely to my surroundings. I try to widen and soften my field of vision in all directions, open my ears to small and distant sounds, smell and taste the air around me, feel the light breeze drying the damp spots in my gi, feel the smooth oak of my bokken, feel gravity pulling my body downward and pressing my feet into the earth. The sensation of gravity, which is actually a relativistic distortion of space- time, opens the door to perceiving existence in all four spatial dimensions of “where.”

The second question, “Who am I?”, seems to be the most deceptive of the three to Westerners. The answer is not my name; it can perhaps be best understood through other questions. How do I see myself when I’m not looking in a mirror? What does my inner voice sound like? What do I feel like inside my skin? Eventually, I begin to understand that this is not actually separate from the first question. This realization feels similar to the Hindu maxim “that art thou,” which reminds us that the outer universe we perceive is not different from our inner universe. The spatial boundary of my skin is a convenient external reference for my individual identity, but it is permeable and temporary. There is a constant exchange across the boundary of air, food, water, waste, sweat, light, thought, and speech. Continuous streams of cosmic rays and neutrinos from the far corners of our galaxy zip through my body without slowing down or noticing that I’m here. After my consciousness dissipates in death, my body will likewise disperse into the local ecosystem. Ultimately, “I” am a finite occurrence in time; understanding the second question effectively extends the first into the temporal dimension.

Finally, “What am I doing?” can be considered an intersection of the first two questions. When I do something, the “who” of the second question projects agency to affect or alter the “where” of the first. This “doing” includes but is not limited to what we perceive as direct action; it is uke’s committed strike, but it is also nage’s receiving and blending with the energy of that strike. The interaction between partners in Aikido training reveals the fuzziness of the boundary between self and other. When uke and nage both fully commit to a technique, we become like a binary star system, each orbiting a geometric point in space between us that is our common center of gravity. In the martial tension of each encounter, the center of the technique can move anywhere within or

between our bodies depending on our ma’ai, momentum, balance and weight distribution, points of contact, and intentions. When we can perceive the center’s movement, the possibilities for reversals, kaeshiwaza, and freestyle practice begin to present themselves, until the distinction between nage and uke is simply one of convenience.

Of course, I am by no means a master of any sort, and a visceral understanding of these ideas is difficult to maintain in my daily life and practice. Indeed, they often elude me altogether. However, these three simple questions have been enormously valuable to me as I remember and return to them again and again. I will always be grateful to Chiba Sensei for giving us this gift in that lecture on the grass. 

Daniel Reid, November 2016


Dan Reid has contributed an article to Dojo News previously.  Enjoy his September article "The River of Aikido":
http://multnomahaikikai.blogspot.com/2016/09/the-river-of-aikido-by-dan-reid.html

Two new Shodans! Northwest Regional Seminar December 2-4, 2016

Congratulations to Dan Reid and Greg Corbin. They passed their shodan test over the weekend of Dec 2-4, 2016 on the occasion of the Northwest Regional Seminar. More than ten Birankai North America certified instructors were in attendance.

Greg left, Dan right; testing for shodan Dec 3, 2016

Part of their requirements included writing an essay.
Here below is Greg Corbin's essay. The next post will feature Dan Reid's essay.

Greg Corbin, December 2016:

Shodan

My daughter asked me – why Aikido?  I explained it like this.  I was first exposed to a martial art (Taekwondo) at an early age, around 6 years old, taking lessons with my father.  I liked it but as with so many things at that age it didn’t stick.  Still, the seed had been planted and I kept coming back to martial arts, formally and informally.  

Toward the end of high school and the first years of college I starting training in Taekwondo regularly and was close to taking my black belt test when school and the rest of my life became too much of a distraction.  I loved the training, and was disappointed not to continue and reach black belt, but my priorities were elsewhere at the time.  

Fast forward a few years and I found myself living alone in Boulder, Colorado.   Looking for something to fill my time, keep in shape, and meet new folks, I gravitated to martial arts again.  This time Shotokan Karate.  I was instantly addicted and knew right away that Karate was an even better fit for me than had been Taekwondo.  I don’t have the impossibly long legs the most successful Taekwondo practitioners all seem to have, I always struggled with the high and flying kicks, and the direct, seemingly simple approach of Karate just made sense to me.  Plus, the style mirrored my personality.  I loved it.  Couldn’t get enough.  Went to the dojo every chance I could and even travelled to the home dojo in Denver for special trainings.  I progressed quickly, but less than a year after I started I was on the move again.

It was more than a few years before I made it back to martial arts.  A couple years floating, a couple years in graduate school, a couple more passing through LA, then law school, a new job, a son, another new job, a daughter, pushing to make partner at my law firm, the years stacked up.  But the seed had been planted.  And as it happened, a good friend and law school classmate had his shodan in Aikido.  He had trained in Japan, but I didn’t know enough, and was too focused on school and being newly married, to learn much about his path.  What I do remember is that one evening during our first year of school he and I went to check out a local Aikido dojo.  He and I had been playing around with basic Aikido techniques at the gym and he seemed interested in getting back to formal training.  So I went along.  I remember visiting Multnomah Aikikai and talking with Suzane Van Amburgh Sensei, and yearning to train.  I just wasn’t in a place to add another obsession to my life.  

A decade passed, my kids were older, I had made partner, my wife’s veterinary clinic was on solid ground, and every day I drove home past Multnomah Aikikai.  I had been doing so for years, but one day, and I have no clue why, I decided it was time to start training again.  That was eight years ago.

So, I told my daughter, I never got my black belt.  When you do, will you be done, she asked?  Now that’s a good question.  Yes, and no.  I will have achieved a goal that’s been stuck in my mind since at least high school.  So I’ll be done with that.  But will I be done with Aikido?  No.  Here is how I explained it to my daughter.

It’s like your soccer.  You know the basics.  You can pass, dribble, trap, shoot, and play different positions.  You are starting to have a feel for the field and anticipate plays.  And now that you have those skills, you can see how much more you have to learn, and that you can be even better.  Learning the basics has opened your eyes to a deeper level of play, and you know that if you keep training you will improve and understand the game in ways you can’t even imagine now.  It’s the same for me with Aikido.

I know many of the techniques, and I’m even reasonably competent with some of them.  I know the things to watch for when Sensei is demonstrating (foot work first!), and I see connections I couldn’t have imagined when I started.  I can’t do everything, and I only do a few things well, but it’s different than when I first started.  Yes, I still need to practice katate dori ikkyo, and all the others, but it isn’t just choreography.  I know I need to use my hips more and my arms less.  I need to relax, and breath.  I need to think about the angles, and I need to be aware of where uke’s foot is.  I need to make a center to center connection, and not lose it.  I need to be light, and heavy, at the right times.  I need to look up.  I need to move, get low, and stay there.  And I know all of that leads to something more complex, more subtle, and more satisfying, and I know I’m just starting to glimpse it.

But is that enough?  It’s hard, I get bruised and sore, I’ve been hurt, and I may never need to use these techniques to defend myself.  Is getting better at a physical skill worth all that?  Maybe.  I do like being good at something, and I love the idea that the more I practice the better I will become.  It feels like the ability to improve is infinite.  It isn’t boring, and it’s nice to move after a full day at the office.  The physicality is exhilarating.  But it’s more than that.

I’m better because of Aikido.  I’m a better husband, father, lawyer, friend, and person.  I work on staying centered.  I try not to let the circumstances around me take my balance.  I recover more quickly.  I let go more easily.  I breath more often.  I used to get stress headaches all the time, but haven’t had one in years.  I think about my connection to others, and I think about how to respond to the energy (positive and negative) sent my way by them.  I try not to react out of emotion, especially anger or a desire to win.  I value community and service to others, and I do my best to accept and respect differences.  I try to be aware of my surroundings.  

I didn’t learn all of these things from Aikido, but the practice brings them to the front of my mind.  I find parallels between on and off the mat all the time, and I think about how to apply the five pillars in my daily life.  I have a long way to go, both in and outside the dojo, but without training I won’t improve as quickly.  

So, why is because I want to be better.  I want to keep exploring, I want to be better at my art, I want to be a better person, and I know Aikido is the way for me to do that.  It isn’t about rank, though the recognition will feel good and put a very old goal to bed.  It’s the path I’m on that I want to continue.

Greg Corbin

Sandan as a Weapon

Sandan as a Weapon
by Sean Sheedy, 3rd dan, Multnomah Aikikai

In his letter to the dojo after our most recent set of dan promotions, Fleshler Sensei referred to the metaphor of the student as a sword:  at shodan a block of metal; at nidan a sharpened piece of steel; and at sandan a polished, integrated weapon.  As a new sandan, what does it mean to “be a weapon”?

A dictionary definition is perhaps a place to start.  The Oxford English Dictionary defines “weapon” as:

1. A thing designed or used for inflicting bodily harm or physical damage.
2. A means of gaining an advantage or defending oneself in a conflict or contest.

As an aikidoka seeking to reduce conflict rather than increase it, the first meaning seems problematic.  Although aikido is certainly capable of resulting in bodily harm to an uke unprepared for absorbing and dissipating the power of the techniques, inflicting bodily harm or damage is not a goal of our art.  The second meaning appears more promising, as defending oneself in a conflict by diffusing that conflict is a goal.  One thread that is common to both meanings, however, is that of intent:  in both definitions a weapon is a means of projecting one's intent into a situation of conflict.

In this sense a weapon is a specific form of tool.  Just as a chisel can be used to project one's intent onto a piece of wood, thereby transforming that wood, a weapon can be used to project one's intent into a conflict, thereby transforming that conflict.  The type of transformation actually achieved depends on both the intent of the wielder of the tool and his skill level.  A piece of wood can be transformed into a beautiful carving with proper intent and skill with a chisel.  Conversely, a different intent or the lack of sufficient skill to produce a carving can result in wood chunks only suitable for firewood.  Similarly, a conflict can be transformed into peace with both the intent of diffusing the conflict and skill with a weapon.  Lacking peaceful intent or sufficient skill can result in more conflict and damage.

One consequence of this observation is that a weapon, like a chisel, has no intrinsic morality.  Rather, the morality is derived from the intent of the tool wielder being transmitted through the otherwise inert tool.  Seneca the Younger relayed a similar observation some 2000 years ago:

Quemadmodum gladius neminem occidit: occidentis telum est.
A sword by itself does not slay; it is merely the weapon used by the slayer.

Though necessary, proper or moral intent is not sufficient to successfully project one's will to transform.  Skill acquired through study and regular practice is also required or the result can be indistinguishable from that of bad intent.  This requirement for a constant refining and honing applies to the tool itself as well as the user of the tool.  Chisels and swords must be actually handled to develop the skill of their use, but doing so causes them to nick and dull, and eventually requires them to be sharpened.  Even when sitting unused, chisels and swords must be cleaned and oiled or they may rust and not be ready when required.  Similarly, even if not engaged in their art the artisan and warrior must maintain their basic physical and mental conditioning or risk not being ready to apply their tools when required.  The tool and the tool user are thus inseparably intertwined:  both must continue to develop together in an endless cycle or forfeit the ability to successfully transform their surroundings.

This fundamental inseparability between tool and tool-user is what it means as a martial artist to “be a weapon”.  If I as an aikidoka am a weapon, I am both the intentional agent and the tool to achieve a transformation from conflict to non-conflict.  If I am a weapon, I must consciously and consistently develop my skills, renew my sharpness, and avoid deterioration due to inattention; failure to do so risks producing firewood instead of a carving.

Nonviolence is a powerful and just weapon which cuts without wounding and ennobles the man who wields it.  It is a sword that heals. 
 -- Martin Luther King, Jr.

On the occasion of new dan grades - A Fleshler, 6-dan, Shihan, Birankai North America

On the Occasion of New Dan Grades
May 9, 2014

A Fleshler, 6-dan, Shihan, Birankai North America
Technical Director, Multnomah Aikikai
Portland, Oregon

It has been some years since we’ve had new shodan in our dojo. There is so much expectation and emotion associated with these promotions. They certainly are a marker of some kind in each student’s life, and in the life of the dojo. But what kind of marker?

Very often a new shodan (or nidan, or sandan) feels a mixture of pride and shame: “It’s over, I did it, but I am also completely exposed in my ignorance and incompetence.” In my view, this is completely appropriate. This is a realistic expression of one’s humility, and appreciation of the unending character of the road ahead. One should get used to not knowing, no matter how much you train. This is shoshin, beginner’s mind, the foundation of carrying oneself as a warrior.

You may have heard the metaphor of the student as a sword: at shodan, a block of metal, forged for resilience and strength; at nidan, a sharp sword, with a clear edge for cutting; at sandan, a polished, integrated weapon. The process continues for the rest of life, for the rest of training, of course.

Another metaphor: at first, the training reaches only the skin; then the muscles; then the bone; then the marrow; then a slender line of energy through the center of the bones. Again, a suggestion of a very long process, one which cannot be hurried.

Both metaphors speak to deepening integration and increasing naturalness of movement, of interaction, of perception. However, this is literally a superficial understanding, because it separates the body from the mind and spirit. What is required is the penetration of the art into one’s character, personality, and approach to life in all its challenge and complexity. Think of the Five Pillars expressed by Chiba Sensei: Centered, Whole, Open, Connected, Lively. Do you think he is talking only about the technical practice we study in our classes? Do you think you can continue to strengthen these Five Pillars in the dojo without challenging yourself to grow outside the dojo?

The end stage as described by O’Sensei is something called “Take Musu Aiki”. For now, let’s just say this means a completely natural, spontaneous, and appropriate manifestation of the art, with no imposition of will and ego, with no detachment and escaping from the reality which presents itself — so much so that the violence of a confrontation dissipates without any effort, and without any winning or losing.

O Sensei also spoke of “Standing on the Rainbow Bridge”. Simply put, your insides are connected to your outsides; the source of your being is completely connected to your manifestation. (This is a piece of a his very elaborate spirituality, but we can extract this jewel for our purpose here.)

In the face of such a vision, in the face of such a challenging road, humility is a completely appropriate emotion. There is an old Zen expression: “Before Enlightenment: Chop Wood, Carry Water; After Enlightenment: Chop Wood, Carry Water.”  Let’s begin again.

Gassho,
==AF

New format for testing and rank promotion deemed sucessful

They say necessity is the mother of invention. As our dojo approached the time for students to test, it became clear that a single night testing format was not going to serve the membership.

We had people, ripe for promotion, who were practicing with injuries.  The teachers and teacher candidates who needed to observe testing had divergent work schedules. We were scarce on available ukes. We had potential rank promotions ranging from 5th kyu to yudansha. One night just wasn't going to work.

I've seen other martial arts schools implement a testing period of several days. Candidates are observed over a period of time and promotions may or may not come out at the end of the period. I haven't seen that format employed in aikido dojos. Of course as teachers we watch students over time and the testing night is a culmination of a longer period of test preparation. You can't "cram" for an aikido test! However, I've always seen aikido dojo testing conducted in one session; usually in the course of one evening.

At our dojo I proposed we hold a multiple evening, all-dojo evaluation and testing event. Teachers and teacher candidates discussed schedule and we agreed upon three consecutive nights. Students preparing for tests agreed to clear their schedules and come all three nights. Middle and younger ranks came to the days that they could.

Over the three nights, a large percentage of the Birankai curriculum was called. A mix of standing, sitting and hanmi handachi techniques were covered each night as well as weapons forms. Candidates had a chance to serve as both uke and nage. If a fundamental form was performed weakly on one night, there was a chance to do better in the next night.  When one candidate surpassed expectations, I had the chance to raise the bar on the following night and give him a chance to perform at a level above the rank he was testing for.

As the three nights came to conclusion we clearly had come through the fire together as a group. Tension had dropped, shoulders had melted and we announced 6 new promotions.* Individuals not testing for specific rank were offered a challenge  and invitation to prepare for the next testing opportunity. Teachers and teaching candidates had the opportunity to evaluate where we are as a dojo and what material the members need to study in regular weekly classes.

Listening to students after the event, it was clear that this format was a good experiment. One member mentioned it felt like the end of summer camp; no tension left. Just continuous movement, washed in sweat, revolving around and within ones center.

photo provided by Terese Scollard

*Promoted April 3, 2014

Sandan: Sean Sheedy, Jon Paul Oliva

Shodan: Kevin Greenwood, Sanders Anderson

Nikyu: James Murray

Gokyu: Troy Wilson




Article written by by Suzane Van Amburgh

Contact us: dojo@multnomahaikikai.com

Aikido Multnomah Aikikai  |  503-246-8120

6415 SW Macadam Ave, Portland OR 97239