Being Prepared

Zayd Abdulla 2-12-1963 Hagukumi Dojo Essay for shodan exam June 2005

Being prepared When I was preparing for my 5th kyu exam several years ago, not realising I already received that grade from an involvement with Aikido several years before at a different dojo, my Sensei told me that I should prepare for 4th kyu. 'But I would already be quite happy with a 5th kyu', was my immediate reply. His answer was strict: 'Well you shouldn't be!' To my answer that I was a slow learner, he replied that it was time for me to stop making a prison of my thoughts. It has taken me some time to realise the full extent of his remark. During the exam in question I 'missed' a sotokaitennage and stood there dumbstruck and horrified, which resulted in a 5th kyu after all. I would have loved to have blamed my Sensei for provoking me to do more than I thought I was prepared for in the first place, but I sensed this attitude was incompatible with what we were being taught on the tatami. During Aikido practice since, I have also regularly heard teachers tell me 'Don't think, just do!' It was very difficult to grasp how this was possible, since I was convinced that I had to see what was being done, preferably down to the very last detail, before I could attempt to copy it. Maybe afterwards I could stop thinking. This thought in itself was yet another brick in my prison wall, though I was not aware of it at the time. I could only just about grasp the notion of not making thoughts imprison me, but this notion was still only a label for a problem. I did not want to fall into the trap of mistaking the label for the solution, and to have no thoughts at all and just perform a technique as instructed was beyond me. Occasionally, Bacas Sensei tells us 'You must kill your enemy!' He does this to make us more aware of certain aspects of a technique or posture and of course we know he isn't instructing us to literally go out there and start killing people, though I am always curious to know how a casual first-time visitor would interpret this part of his instruction (and if he would ever return). He is joking, but only half or probably even less. Even though we are training and are not in any real danger of being killed by our partners on the tatami - at least not deliberately - the essence of his command is that real attacks and real-life confrontations lie at the basis of all Aikido practice, which is something we tend to forget during the relatively safe and certainly harmonious practice on the tatami. Bacas Sensei's words also have the unintended but welcome effect of seeing the enemy within oneself, in one's obstructive thoughts. The killing in this sense is not a reckless and radical obliteration of thoughts, but an ever-increasing awareness of what is stopping us in our movements, both on the tatami and elsewhere. I have been fortunate to have been allowed to have my trial examination before handing in my essay, so I can expand a little more on this stopping. Although I passed the examination, there were a few moments where the movement stopped. I remember these moments well, as though I were an onlooker of my own performance. Why? Because I was 'thinking thoughts'. Afterwards, I was given compliments by a few people who had seen my gradual progression during the exam from standstill to slightly more movement, but in a real-life situation I would have been the perfect example of what Bacas Sensei means when he says, 'Movement stops!' and you are 'Finished!'. I was also given compliments for two or three things I did but of which I have no recollection at all, such as carrying out a technique which wasn't asked but which happened to be the more convenient thing to do at one stage. I did not block out the memory of the things that went well

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deliberately and I also cannot doubt they were talking about me since I was the only one doing the exam. Most likely I would have put up that barrier, too, if I had been given the chance. The truth of the matter is that there simply was no 'I' around to observe what my body was doing when the mind stopped thinking. During Aikido practice, there is a subtle game some of us sometimes play. It involves practising a technique seriously as instructed by the teacher while at the same time teasing the tori, ever so subtly, by resisting the last part of his or her control. A sudden rigidity in the arm, for instance, or the use of muscle power when the tori least expects it can catch the tori off balance. It is a friendly way of revealing the tori's mistakes and is a way of checking whether the tori is mindful of the technique from beginning to end. When this is done to me, I am literally pushed off my balance because my starting position is often incorrect. Usually this equivalent of a pin-prick or tickle is acknowledged by the tori with an appreciative smile or even laughter and results in more concentration and energy. What makes this game play especially interesting is that no word needs to be uttered and yet there is full communication taking place, on top of the more familiar wordless communication between tori and uke. There is not only harmony between tori and uke as we are always being taught and experiencing, there is also an added harmony between seriousness and playfulness. But occasionally the tori himself becomes more rigid as if the use of sheer strength as a solution is what was on the uke's mind. Suddenly, the tori's reaction is completely disproportionate to what triggered it and the resulting miscommunication - of which the tori, in general, is not aware - is where the notion of subtle playfulness suddenly disappears and the uke 'resists resisting', realising the tori is not receptive to playfulness at this stage and the normal training mode is continued. As a general rule, the more advanced Aikidoists are more receptive. Although I often initiate this teasing of the tori, my own receptiveness was put to the test about a year ago during the practising of the first half of a technique (although any aspect of a technique can be complete in itself, depending on our focus). Both the 'incompleteness' of the technique and the fact that the uke and I had never teased each other previously caught me off my balance. Or so I thought. He tried to redirect my final stance with outstretched arms into the beginning of shihonage, but ended up on the tatami himself after realising he was the uke of my own shihonage. His pleasant surprise was mine, too! For the first time in my Aikido experience, I had experienced a glimpse of what my teachers meant by 'Don't think!' I had always been worried that I wouldn't know what to do in a real-life situation and this was near enough to real life for me because I wasn't prepared. Now I was instead trying to figure out who had carried out that shihonage. It certainly wasn't 'me', the me with worries and preconceived ideas. And yet, despite having experienced 'ego-less Aikido' - a strange notion, since there definitely was no 'I' with a recollection of the shihonage - I put up another barrier: 'Ah, so this is what it will be like if I continue practising Aikido until I reach old age.' I failed to fathom that the glimpse, right then, right there, was not a reward or had any meaning other than what it was. It was not something in the distant future, only to be reserved for those who have trained hard for at least twenty years. It could already be savoured. I felt I was 'getting somewhere', as though the loss of conscious self was a target and not realising yet I was already precisely where I had to be. All I had to do was let go of preconceived thoughts. A few months ago, when I was first asked to take over a lesson because a teacher was ill, my immediate reaction was 'No, I'm not ready! I haven't prepared anything!' This reaction of mine did not feel right and yet I stuck to it because it felt safe. It did not take long for me to realise I had been hiding, the same way I used to hide from the Sensei's judgment by skipping his lessons and only following the beginners' lessons. The lazy mind prefers to stay where everything is familiar and comfortable, especially in a non-competitive environment such as Aikido. In true Aikido fashion - or so the lazy mind believes - even the slightest suggestion of outside pressure to do more is side-stepped, similar to how in Aikido we learn to step out of

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the line of attack. The lazy mind is also very selective and hears what it wants to hear. For instance, when Fujita Sensei tells Bacas Sensei, 'Peter, you must go down' this is immediately seen as a justification for hiding in the wings: 'If the Sensei's Sensei tells him to do that, why, then all I have to do to set a good example is not to let any outside pressure affect me.' This approach prevails in the period leading up to examinations, especially when teachers themselves put the grading system into perspective by saying that grades are not important. Besides, since the continuity of one's training schedule is hardly ever affected by the grade you receive, you can pick up where you left off before your exams. And yet, there is a serious risk of remaining in limbo if the lazy mind does not free itself from this vicious circle, unable to discern non-competition from non-activity. After all, it was the same mind that brought you into the dojo in the first place as opposed to any other martial art or 'sport'. The Sensei sees right through this tendency to stay in the wings and remain an observer. He cannot cut the knot for you, but he does see that we sometimes hold back from who we are. It was only after the Sensei noticed my hiding in the beginners' lessons that I decided to change my schedule around. The lazy mind had been exposed. Shortly after having rejected the San's request to take over his lesson, I sent him an email saying I felt awkward about my earlier reply and that next time I would have to react differently. His reply was that the knowledge to teach was already there, we just had to find a way to let it manifest itself. For now, the lesson I had declined to take over was taken over by another San who did not want the continuity of the lessons to be interrupted. I was prepared to interrupt the continuity of a lesson but not prepared to take up the responsibility myself. This was me? The teacher's remark about 'manifestation' was echoed a few weeks later, in April, when Bueno Sensei from Brazil visited the Hagukumi Dojo. During a guest training he gave, he briefly interrupted the training and told us 'Don't do Aikido! Just let it manifest itself.' To show what he meant by 'doing' he then imitated a very flamboyant and macho style, the style Bacas Sensei refers to as 'demonstration Aikido', which is impressive to watch if you are an outsider but not what Aikido is about if you don't want to end up 'finished'. We all know this and yet it seems to be tempting to sometimes exaggerate our movements. Bueno Sensei was indirectly showing us the perfect technique was already there somewhere, including if this meant not using the technique you had just been shown to practise if this happened to be inconvenient. Just let it go. All we had to do was discover the perfection, and this could not be done by 'doing' Aikido. It did not matter that in our attempts to reach perfection our techniques looked a bit sloppy now and then, is what he also seemed to convey. After all, we weren't demonstrating anything. By the time I was asked the next time to take over a lesson, I was fully prepared. This was only a few weeks after the first request. How is it then possible that such a radical change can take place in such a short time? And what, then, does 'being prepared' really mean? Who is this person deciding and judging whether he is prepared or not? Is that me, too? Apart from Aikido techniques in the narrow sense, there were three things that kept me occupied during my very first lesson: keeping an eye on the clock, making sure I kept my fellow Aikidoists entertained, and keeping the mat in order so that no large gaps would hamper the training. Because these things were an unexpected experience for me, I afterwards saw how very different my earlier understanding of teaching had been. Of course I had prepared for the lesson by thinking a few days in advance which techniques could be used. By familiarising myself with my own visualisations, I felt quite relaxed about my first lesson. I wasn't prepared for those other aspects though, and yet they posed no serious problem at all. They were simply dealt with as they arose. Not being prepared and therefore not being able to know whether I would be in control, was not the obstacle I probably would have made of them had I known about them in advance. After only one lesson, teaching turned out to be radically different from my preconceived ideas. What is more important: it didn't matter! The

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best preparation was being unprepared. It was not just about sharing and teaching Aikido techniques; in a wider sense it was about steering others, even if it only meant for an hour or less; even if it only meant from one point in time to another, in the same way you would give directions to someone who approached you in the street. You do what you can do given what you know; the notion of 'being prepared' is not at all relevant. We bring our physical bodies to the dojo each time we practise, but what do we do with our minds? I see it during children's lessons, the tendency of a few to keep looking at the clock, as if its hands contain some magic quality. I remember when I used to go to swimming lessons as a child I had that same tendency. Oblivious of which direction the hands of the clock even went because I was too young, I nevertheless knew that my release from swimming was related to that big thing high on the wall. I see the same tendency in some adults. I still see the tendency in myself. But what do we do before and after these points in time? Does the steering start and stop? Is it only relevant on the tatami or if it is labelled 'Aikido'? Does one 'become' a teacher whenever it is convenient? Is the Sensei only a Sensei on the tatami? The answer to all these questions, of course, should be a ki-ai like 'No!' that would shake the dojo. The question the San had put to me could have been rephrased as 'Are you ready to steer others?' Then, perhaps, the answer would have been closer to 'me' and further away from 'I am not prepared'. The San's request to take over his lesson clearly had triggered a stock response I had stored for my own convenience. There may be many reasons why one is not able to teach when asked to do so, but not being prepared is not one of them. It was the fear of being judged, of having to demonstrate my skills and of being responsible for a lesson that caused my initial reaction. But the fear itself is already a judgment and reveals that a normal lesson, one in which you follow the instructions of a teacher as a pupil, was subconsciously seen as a way of hiding from this judgment. Even during one of my recent lessons as a teacher, I noticed that I was hiding from my Sensei's judgment by being content that the pupils were carrying out what I had shown them when he hadn't approached the tatami yet. It gave me a false sense of comfort, for the Sensei could see through their movements what I had instructed them. I could not hide even if I wanted to. When I was pleasantly surprised by my own naiveté and told my Sensei how he could see my mistakes by looking at others, he told me it was not a matter of 'mistakes'; he was not judging me the same way I was judging myself. This incident brings me to a recent awareness during aikido practice: if one's aikido is an expression of one's inner self (quiet, energetic, relaxed, tense etcetera), and it is also true that this manifestation can be copied by others and certainly seen by the Sensei, it appears to be obvious that non-Aikido manifestations are also likely to be affected by one's attitude. Of course it is not impossible to restrict the 'visible' or 'outer' Aikido techniques one has learnt to the dojo or even only the tatami, but the longer one practises the more natural it feels for the underlying harmony to encompass all aspects of life. This also has nothing to do with 'mistakes', 'right' or 'wrong'; it is merely a certain kind of natural, harmonious rhythm you gradually become aware of and over which you do not necessarily have any control. You don't need the control, there is nothing to control. Furthermore, the effect works both ways: Aikido practice influences other aspects of life, other aspects influence Aikido. In the long run, when you have succeeded in getting rid of many the obstacles your ego places before you, 'being prepared' is not about having sufficient skills or techniques available. And you realise you do not decide for yourself whether you are ready. The mere request of a San or a Sensei to do so is already the judgment that you are ready. The lazy mind has no say in this. The question of one's willingness to teach can then finally be rephrased as 'Are you prepared to be yourself?' Being a teacher is like the torifune exercises ('rowing the boat'): we are all in the boat, rowing to the other side. We may never reach the other side. It is not important. What is important is to be in that boat and simply to row, row, row.

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