how aikido changed my life, by s. lum

November 28, 2021

There’s a magic to beginnings. They’re like Christmas before you unwrap the presents. Fueled by imagination and swollen with hope, beginnings are reality in its gaseous form. Nothing is settled. Anything is possible. Who knows what's to come? How things will turn out? But then you get to the messy middle act, and life comes crashing back down to Earth. Now traits like tenacity, commitment, and force of will come into play. None of which are my strong suit. But beginnings? I’m good there. Beginnings are my jam. Which takes us to February 12, 2015. An alert pops up on my phone: First day of Aikido. At 11:18 AM, I bolt out of my office to hop on the R train and take a short walk through Gowanus. I arrive at the dojo 19 minutes later. I pause before going in to read the handwritten sign in jet black ink taped to the bright, red door: You can change the world—by being here, right now. Then class starts. I’m a hot, sweaty mess. I trip over myself. I stumble. I fall. By the end of the hour, my legs are jello. I’m hunched over, hands to my knees, sucking down frostbit air, hoping I haven’t done any permanent damage. And I’m hooked. My dad once told me, “I have no doubt you can accomplish anything you put your mind to. But I do worry if you can stick with anything long enough to finish.” Thanks, Dad. But he was right. The problem with beginnings is you can only swim there for so long before you have to come up for air. Eventually it's time to unwrap the presents, and that’s when reality solidifies. Now you’re stuck dealing with what’s really there. And just like that, the fantasies fade and your limitations take center stage. I know this point all too well. In fact, I’ve come to recognize it as a very distinct physical sensation. It feels a lot like falling out of love. One day, you're consumed by passion. The next, you feel nothing. Just a deadness in your gut and a vacuum in your spirit. For awhile the passion might flicker off and on like a dying lightbulb. But the harder you try to grasp it, the emptier you feel, until all that’s left is an aftertaste of self-doubt. It’s like The Wizard of Oz in reverse. Instead of going from black-and-white to color, all the hue bleeds out of your world. Fortunately, as something of an expert in the art of starting over, I've developed a foolproof countermeasure to deal with this feeling: Quit. After all, we live in a world of greener grass and fresh starts. Our entire economy is powered by the idea of newer, easier, and better. Feeling blue? Is life getting hard? Just turn tail and run. The world of the perpetual beginner is always open for enrollment. But Aikido was different from other things. Most disciplines are linear at the start. You get a clear, defined path making progress tangible and motivation easy. It’s easy to feel good about yourself. Of course, any activity worth its salt will get messy. But in general, you can ride the gratification train for a good long while before you get there. Usually, it takes me months or even years before I see my fundamental badness. Not so with Aikido. Even by the second class, I felt like I was flooring a car straight into a two ton wall. Right away, I was in the deep end of the pool. Which isn’t to say there weren’t moments. There were times when I saw a glimmer of light. When the sun seemed to glow a little brighter. When I walked out of the dojo with a bounce to my step and my lips curled up to the sky. But mostly, I lived in a thick haze of uncertainty. I rarely knew if I was doing anything right. I rarely even knew what right was. It was all questions and very few answers. Aikido is all about taking falls, throwing, and being thrown. If you look it up, most people will describe it as a martial art that uses the opponent’s force against them. And while that may be true, it misses the truth. Sure, there are forms. There's something of a system. But because it is all based on physics, it means every encounter demands a slightly different response. It's a target moving on a million planes at once where even the smallest of changes matters. If someone attacks you faster, things are different. If they push with more force, things are different. If they weigh more, stand closer—even if they tense their shoulders—things are different. Aikido is quicksand. It’s too varied to lock down, so sensitivity, connection, and awareness are everything. In principle, that doesn’t sound too hard. Until you’re being thrown by 190 pounds of sweaty mass, and you have to figure it all out in real time. Then it feels impossible. As a consequence, Aikido feels like a circle more than a line. You spend hundreds of hours practicing the same forms over and over just for a sliver of insight. It’s all about seeing more in the same, as you fight and claw to shed the personal baggage and preconceptions blinding you from being present. It's an endless trust fall of self-betterment with a very abstract notion of progress. In fact, for a long time, when friends ask me what I learned, all I could think to do was drop to the ground and show that I didn’t injure myself. Look! No hands! I’m sure it looked like fizzle more than sizzle, but in truth it was a gift. Stripped of the romance, I never had to deal with falling out of love. In Aikido there was no self-induced high built on cheap validation, and that meant there was no crash afterwards. It was just a slow, steady crawl from the start. I never felt empty. I never felt hollow. It’s true that I sometimes wondered just what I got out of it. But, mostly, it was just part of my life, giving structure to my days: Walk to Gowanus. Spend an hour purging myself of fear, doubt, and anxiety. Walk home, sweat-soaked and aching. Wash, rinse, and repeat. Day after day. Month after month. Year after year. Then, came the answer. One day, I was working on a haiku for a poetry class. Haiku is a very visual form of poetry. It’s all observation and nuance. If your haiku isn’t any good, you aren't looking hard enough. It’s a little like Aikido in that sense—you have to see with fresh eyes. This particular assignment was to take a walk, observe carefully, and write a poem. But I was running late, and I didn’t have time to take a walk. So, instead, I just started picturing all of my trips to and from the dojo. When I thought about my early walks, I noticed everything was blank. My only memories were timestamps. When I left. When I got home. Not much else. I was like a tourist in my own life shuttling from stop to stop, head buried, ignoring everything around me. But over the years, things changed. I realized my memories became more and more vivid. I can see the shapes of clouds and colors in the sky. I notice landscapes draped in shadow and light. Cars honk. Birds chirp. I smell the thick, Brooklyn air. The world came alive. And it wasn't just the walks. It was everything. The training helped me burn through the fears and insecurity fogging my brain. All that time I wasn’t just learning to let go of myself when I was on the mat. I was learning to let go everywhere. And when you do, you feel more of everything. My world had gone from stale and muted tones to living, breathing technicolor. And as for the Aikido itself? Well, that’s a work in progress. On occasion, I feel like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, stuck in an endless loop. Progress is still hard-earned. There are still more questions than answers. But most of the time, I love what’s there. I like steering into the circle. I like pushing through the challenge. And I see possibilities in limitations. Unlike fantasy, the nice thing about letting reality cool down and solidify is you can dig into it and shape it. But maybe the biggest difference is I’ve lost the taste for new starts. When I began, I already believed you can change the world by being here, right now. What I didn’t see is that everything is always new all the time. You don’t need to chase it. It’s there waiting for you if you look inside. That’s the real magic. Just by choosing to be here now, your world changes.

aikido in the 21st century by james yaegashi

March 15, 2021

The holistic rigor of aikido stands out in contemporary society where we are accustomed to having so many options available at the tips of our fingers (or even at the command of our voice). Technology of the 21st century allows us to easily and immediately connect to information, people, and places. Ironically, this very technology also has served to further fracture individuals and society. Our attention is easily dominated by the small screen of our smartphones or television, making us oblivious to our surroundings. Telecommuting has exacerbated the lack of physical activity in the daily lives of many. Disinformation on the internet and social media has driven deep wedges between people. TikTok, Twitter, and Facebook do not encourage us to contemplate. On-demand food delivery, television programming, and car services can make us feel that things revolve around us and our personal preferences. When we look at the major problems the world faces in the 21st century—climate crisis, racism/tribalism, income inequality, etc.—it becomes evident these are symptoms of a fractured humanity. Divided in our person, torn in our relationships, conflicted in our communities, and divorced from nature. A distinguishing characteristic of aikido is the practice of deepening connection. The term, aiki, consists of two kanji: 合 (ai), which is to blend/join/meet and 気 (ki), which is energy/intent/life force/the universal element that binds all things. Every element of our practice leads us to a connection with something. Connection as the uke to the tori/nage, connection with one’s interiority and physicality, connection of the body to the weapon, connection of student to teacher, connection to community and, ultimately, connection to all things. This practice to connect requires rigorous and difficult work on the body, mind, and spirit. Our physical practice is at once exhausting and dangerous. We risk severe injury if we are not fully present in the moment. By purposely putting ourselves in such danger and learning to blend, we are also training our minds to let go—physical relaxation and ease come from inner calm and release (one might say it’s an embrace of our mortality, in a sense). As we train in the techniques of aikido, we also tend to our spirit through meditation and sitting and reinforce the unity of our being, both internally and externally. Through these practices we work to bring our whole being to be present in and responsive to everything as it is. Unlike judo, karate, MMA, jujitsu, or any other fighting sport, we do not compete. We only practice. We practice over and over and over again, journeying on a path that is a repetitive cycle of deepening. As a practitioner of aikido, the rigorous work of deepening connection equips me to be more present in the world, as it is, and to respond appropriately without fear or prejudice. The practice requires that I direct a strict gaze inward, that I observe and listen to others, that I accept events as they are and take decisive action as appropriate. This is why, for me, the relevance of aikido in the 21st Century is unquestionable, just like the heavens above, the earth below, and the sword at the center.

el mono loco by gala mañas

March 2, 2021

(English translation below, by the author)

Al reflexionar sobre mi práctica, me vienen tres palabras a la mente; apertura, contracción, y frío. Pienso en lo que Sensei nos ha dicho una y otra vez, y en lo que nos ha demostrado sin palabras: que el Aikido nos enseña a abrirnos, a no contraernos al enfrentarnos a circunstancias aparentemente difíciles. Este año trajo consigo el hecho, en apariencia desfavorable, de entrenar al aire libre. Así que al volver a Nueva York después de un periodo de aislamiento en el campo, apenas fui a clase. Pero Sensei, Kate, y otros alumnos del dojo estaban ahí a diario. Bajaron las temperaturas, empezó a arrimarse el invierno, y Sensei seguía ahí fuera entrenando. El ver cómo transformó su enseñanza y transportó su práctica fuera del aula me afectó profundamente. No podría explicar ni calificar cómo he cambiado durante estos últimos meses— pero he podido aprender lo que realmente significa la apertura, y he percibido con claridad ese espíritu feroz que le da la bienvenida a cualquier adversidad. Mi tía aprendió de su maestro un apodo para la inquietud de la mente humana; “el mono loco.” Aunque lo hace con humor, en realidad lo dice completamente en serio. Yo misma estaba impresionada con el gran trabajo de mi mono loco, con su rún rún rún constante, y en especial con sus teorías y razones dando explicación a porqué no asistir a clase. Contemplaba cuidadosamente cualquier factor que pudiera dificultar mi práctica, muy atenta a todas mis resistencias emocionales y mentales. Por ejemplo, ¿llovía? ¿estaba el cielo muy oscuro? ¿me sentía deprimida, o ansiosa? No llegaba a considerar seriamente que estos mismos hechos pudieran ser una parte esencial del entrenamiento. Sin embargo, me di cuenta que cuanto más asistía a las clases, cuanto peor el tiempo, más ganas tenía de estar en el parque con Sensei y con el resto de mis compañeros. Sería difícil distinguir el momento preciso en el que di ese giro, en el que pude mandar callar a mi mono. Fue gracias al ejemplo de otras personas, y por eso les estoy infinitamente agradecida. Vi asombrada cómo se derrumbaban mis razones y mis cuentos, mis detallados análisis sobre lo que era capaz o no de hacer. Ahora, cuando el tiempo se pone verdaderamente frío, tengo la sensación de que la oportunidad es mucho mejor; puedo regalarle a mi ser algo bello, algo incluso más hondo a través de mi práctica. Así paso que el otro dia, al final del calentamiento, mientras nos estirabamos abrí los ojos; vi un cielo negro, la nieve caer, y senti la suavidad de los copos sobre mi cara. Me sentí enormemente agradecida de vivir aquel momento tan sencillo y tan pleno, de recibir ese regalo en la quietud. Después de quince años sin hacer ejercicio, había dado por entendido que simplemente soy una persona a la que no le gusta moverse. Hasta que no empecé a hacer Aikido, no comprendí que mi cuerpo aspiraba a muchísimo más que a ejercitarse. Anhelaba transformación. Cuando empecé en el dojo, me sentía insuficiente e intimidada sobre el tatami. Permitía que se entreponieran todo tipo obstáculos. Estaba dispuesta a subestimarme a mi misma, a mi capacidad de sobrepasar la incomodidad, el dolor, y el cansancio. Esta práctica no solo ha conseguido que supere eso, si no que me ha devuelto mi propio cuerpo, y una alegría física que solo llegué a sentir de niña en mis clases de baile. Me ha demostrado que soy capaz de mucho más de lo que pienso; todos los días veo que tengo la oportunidad de una mayor apertura, de una mayor capacidad. Sin duda esto se ha visto reflejado en muchos otros aspectos de mi vida, a veces de manera bastante literal, y otras veces de una manera mucho más sutil y hermosa. Hace una semana, soñé que estaba en una enorme playa tropical. El sol pegaba, el mar era de un azul puro y límpido. Pero algo en mi interior sabía con absoluta certeza que ese agua estaba muy, muy fría, y aun así quería lanzarse. Así lo hice sin pensarlo dos veces, y no solo pude nadar sumergida en ese agua congelada— pude respirar en ella. Fue un sueño muy corto, pero al recordarlo esa mañana lo reconocí indudablemente como un sueño de Aikido. When I reflect on my practice, I think of three words mainly; openness, contraction, and cold. I think about what Sensei has repeatedly told us, and demonstrated to us without words: that Aikido teaches us to open, not to contract, in the face of perceived adversity. This year brought the perceived adversity of training outdoors. So, when I came back to New York City after a period of isolation upstate, I hardly went to class. But Sensei, Kate, and other students from the dojo were there every day. As the temperatures lowered and winter descended, Sensei was still outside, training. I can’t fully explain or qualify how exactly I changed over these past months— but seeing the way Sensei transformed his teaching and took his practice outside moved me deeply. It has taught me the true meaning of openness, and helped me see clearly that fierce spirit which embraces difficulty. My aunt calls the mind el mono loco, “the crazy monkey” — a term she learned from her teacher. She says it playfully, but she’s really not joking. I was really impressed with the imperious work of my crazy monkey, of her incessant and indistinct chatter when it came to, among other things, why I shouldn’t go to class on a particular day. I gave a lot of attention to my mental and emotional resistances, and I used to generously weigh in factors that I considered might make training more difficult. Was it very dark? Was it raining? Was I anxious, depressed? I hadn’t seriously considered that these conditions could be an integral part of training. But the more I went to class, and the worse the cold got, the more I wanted to be at the park with Sensei and the other students. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment things tipped in this direction, or when it became easier to tell my monkey to be quiet. I can say that I was led by example and I am so thankful for that. It’s been a humbling, kind of bewildering experience to see my prejudices, my reasons, my stories about what I can and can’t do crumble before me. Now, when the weather conditions are more extreme, I feel like I’m being presented with an even greater opportunity to give my being something rich and beautiful through my practice. Just the other day during our warm up, stretching our heads up I decided to open my eyes, and I saw a black sky and dozens of soft, gentle flakes of snow falling on my face— I was so filled with gratitude to experience a moment as simple and whole as the one I was in. I never wanted to exercise, and didn’t for about fifteen years— I thought that meant I was a person who just didn’t like to move. I didn’t know until I started Aikido that my body wanted so much more than to exercise. It wanted to grow and to transform meaningfully. When I joined the dojo I felt constantly inadequate, small, and afraid to move on the mat. I let so much get in the way of just even walking out the door. I was so ready to underestimate myself and my ability to surpass discomfort, pain, tiredness. This practice has returned me my body, and a joy I only experienced similarly as a child when I used to dance. It has also single-handedly shown me that I am so much more capable than I think I am, and that I have the opportunity of becoming more capable and more open every day. This has undeniably bled into many other aspects of my life, sometimes clearly and literally, and at other times in more subtle, wonderful ways. About a week ago, I had a dream that I was on a tropical beach; the ocean was very blue and the sun was blindingly bright and warm. But something inside of me knew with complete certainty that the water was very, very cold, and yet I wanted so badly to jump in. And so I did without hesitation, and not only could I swim with ease submerged in that freezing water— I could even breathe. It was a short, vivid dream, but when I recalled it in the morning I recognized it as nothing other than a dream of Aikido.