It's All About You, But It's Not All About You

I've always been uncomfortable with money, especially asking for it. I come from a hard-working immigrant family and there wasn't a lot of extra income when I was young. And asking other people for money? Forget it. Every time the band fundraiser came around, I would go to the two neighbors who I knew would buy a tin of cookies without fail. The prizes for the student who raised the most never motivated me. In this area of my life, I had no problem coming in last place.

So when I heard the word "fundraiser" at the dojo, I thought, "ok, I'll do my part, I'll buy a ticket, I'll help clean, and that's that." After coming back from summer camp last year, which was paid for by a dojo scholarship, Sensei pointed at me and said, "You. You'll be good at raising money. You're going to help with the fundraiser." I wanted to tell him, "No, no, I think you might have it wrong. See, I'm terrified of asking people for money. It makes my stomach churn." Instead, I replied, "Uh, ok, yes, sure."

To maintain distance between myself and the discomfort of asking for money, I focused on logistics. If you're keeping your head down and working, no one can really find fault with you, right? It's a good way to hide. But surprise! I chose to train in a martial art that's about the opposite of hiding. “Present yourself!” Post-fundraiser, during the follow up, I messed up and some things fell through the cracks. When we discussed it as a team with Sensei, I wanted to say, "It's not my fault. I really hate money. Also, I don't know what I'm doing, and no one told me what to do." Thinking about it later, I realized that I didn't just have an issue with money. I also hesitated in stepping up, taking responsibility, asking for help, or even being ok about making decisions. It was hard to say "Yes, the buck stops with me on this. So if it's messed up, it's me. And if you need to know what else needs to be done, that's me too."

I decided this year would be different. If I saw what needed to be done, then I would step up and do it or ensure it was done by providing guidance or a helping hand. I wasn't going to look around the room and wait and see who else would do it. Shockingly, I was also excited about raising the money. What changed? I'm not quite sure. Maybe it was just an accumulation of seminars, hours, injuries, and off-the-mat experiences, but it was clear to me that the dojo was central in me seeing myself differently, and in making better choices for myself. The fundraiser was no longer only about asking people for money. If I thought about the dojo like a well from which I drew water, then I wanted to help replenish that well for myself and for others. And how long was I going to keep hiding behind my fear of money? If I was serious about Aikido, then it was time to present myself to my fear and do it. I felt this shift in attitude palpably when I accompanied Sensei to Athens in September. My sempai, Andrés, hadn't arrived yet, and even though there was a former uchideshi there, I was the only student from Brooklyn. Stepping onto the mat straight from the airport in a surreal haze of jetlag and sleep deprivation, I thought, "Shit. It's me. There's no one else."

At the same that the fundraiser pushed me to see that “it's ME, I'm IT,” I also saw that it wasn't all me. It wasn't about me keeping my head down and trying to do everything. First, that's impossible. Second, that's hiding and will mess things up. And third, it's unfair to the large, strong community of people who are pouring themselves into the dojo in so many ways. In lifting my head up to present myself, I also got to see all the beautiful things that others were doing. Festival quality films got made, posters were designed, donations were made from around the country and the world, spaces were organized, quiches were baked, prizes were donated. Everyone was presenting themselves, and it was humbling. I guess this is the weird paradox that Aikido points to: be focused, see the target, be present, present yourself, but also see everything, also step off the line, also absorb. It is all about you, but it's not all about you.

-A. Shridhar

A Memorial to My Father

 Dominic J. Savoca (on right), Paris, France, August 30th, 1944

A memorial to the recently deceased is a highly personal thing, and not something I would ordinarily post on the internet.  But my father, who passed away last Tuesday, will always be inextricably linked to this dojo and therefore I feel it is appropriate to write of his life and of his passing in the context of this dojo forum.  Brooklyn Aikikai would not exist without my father and I don’t mean that merely in the obvious way – in that he brought me into this world.  It is much more than that.

For the many of you who have not met my father, he was born in 1924 in New Jersey, to parents who emigrated from Sicily.  He grew up in the Depression and lost his own father at a young age, which impressed upon him the need to work hard early on.  At age 18 he was drafted into the army for World War II.  He fought in the 28^th Infantry Division which was known as “The Bloody Bucket” and fought in the Battle of the Bulge—one of the fiercest battles in the European campaign.  He considered himself lucky to have survived.  After WWII he attended New York University and Columbia University, and thereafter was associated with Transamerica Life Insurance Company for 58 years.

It is an understatement to say Brooklyn Aikikai would have been different had I had a different father. I learned the necessity of discipline, hard work and persistence from my father, and also my mother.  Although I could not understand the urgency with which my father educated me in the early years, I now feel blessed to have been the focus of such a drive.  It took me many years to understand that he was truly from a different generation—the WWII generation—whereas my friends’ fathers were the “baby boomers.” This distinction alone had my sisters and me growing up in a different direction than our peers.

This direction led directly to me being impressed with the traditional Japanese culture—one of hard work and trying to deeply penetrate one thing.  Giving your all to a discipline, come what may.  My father put me into Judo at age 12, and from there I found Aikido and have continued to stick with it to this day.

Who was my father, truly?  A solider, a husband, a father, a businessman…and yet all of these fall short of how I would describe him.  As one of my sisters recently said, he was a force.  He didn’t believe in giving up, or falling short.  He did his best through many impossible conditions and demanded we do the same in our lives.  One time, when he had to have the only surgery in his life (a quadruple bypass) I told him I loved him as the gurney was pushed into the surgery room.  He looked at me directly and simply said, “Don’t waste your life.”  I knew he meant to give all that I had to each moment, and I was amazed that he could say this at that time.  Such was the man he was. 

He was also a deeply devout Catholic and his devotion inspired me.  He had a tremendous faith – and I knew it had been tested.  He told all of his children that faith was essential, and this is something I feel must truly be brought into our practice of Aikido. 

Most important for me, however, is that I saw that my father struggled with himself.  It took me a long time to see this, and I often judged him harshly when younger.  But I know that he searched himself, and tried to better himself however he could.  Many people were inspired by him and knew him to be the gentleman he truly was.  As I get older, I can see a bit more objectively who my father really was, and it astonishes me it took so long.

In closing, I would like to deeply thank my father for giving me all that he could.  Our dojo is what it is due to his influence, my mother’s, and of course to all ancestors before them.  Perhaps it takes the death of a parent to become truly grateful. 

God bless you, Dad.

Robert Savoca

Brooklyn, New York

September 2, 2014

Shugyo by I. Tirado-Flores

I’ve been working 36 hrs straight on this case, my body long past fatigue. I would drink coffee, but that would only serve to agitate an already foggy mind, besides the uneasy queasiness reminds me that my body is slowly shutting down, as I still the tremors in my hands. A defenseless little boy needs me to bring him justice, to show him that the world has compassion. He no longer has a voice, but maybe I can speak for him. As my mind wanders off, I take a deep breath and bring my attention back to my center. I have trained for this for fifteen years, this is my Shugyo.

In my early days of aikido, Shugyo was the daily hours spent at the dojo training and the long hours spent working out afterwards. I remember practicing rolls and breakfalls on the concrete sidewalk in order to test my ukemi. Attacking hard, throwing hard, and expecting the same in return as we chipped away the imperfections of our technique and spirit. Looking back, those were good days; I miss the camaraderie, the familiar aching of my body, the arrogance of knowing I was working harder than anybody else on the mat.

After a time the Shugyo became Musha Shugyo as I began my pilgrimages to the various schools of aikido. “Look not to learn a hundred variations of a technique” my sensei admonished, “look for the underlying essence of a technique in the variations.”  So I traveled, traveled to Japan, to other States, and to the various schools this city has to offer. I did my best not to default back to past teachings, but rather tried to decipher the ideas and techniques of others in a quest for deeper understanding. The years of Musha Shugyo made me more humble, as I fumble to learn new a method of executing a technique I had performed thousands of times in the past. My ego slowly stripped away as I sought the assistance of lower ranking students as I explored the mysteries of aikido.

So here I am, in an interview room ready to do battle with a perpetrator of a heinous crime. This is not a battle of brawn, but of mind. I calmly deflect her displays of anger. I seek out the tsuki (opening) in her deceptions. Her opposition is hopeless as she fights against the void, and I slowly lead her towards the truth which she cannot admit to herself. And when the time is right I extend my ki and watch her crumble before me. My job is done; hopefully I have done my art proud.

Later that night, after a few hours of sleep I kneel on the mat, as tears begin to well up in my eyes. I take a deep breath, find my center, and the outside world slowly dissolves away. During practice I marvel at the next generation of aikidoka, seeing the passion ablaze in their eyes as they pursue this art with youthful abandon as I once did. Their intensity pushing my body to its physical threshold, forcing me to draw more heavily from my understanding of aikido in order to keep pace with the tidal relationship of uke and nage. At the end my body is both spent and yet invigorated; my mind enters a state of sublime repose.

As I put on my suit, I reflect on the work I have accomplished both on and off the mat. My only wish is that my fellow aikidoka will be able to manifest this art in the outside world with the same passion and dedication that they have shown here. I put on my hat, walk out the door and smile as the nighttime air resonates with the memory of thousands of such nights, and the promise of thousands more nights to come.

- Isaias Tirado-Flores

Training at the Farm by D. Hall

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On Pain - by Z. Ludescher

Pain comes in many forms.  There is of course physical pain, which comes in the form of sore muscles, stomach aches, and stiff joints. But emotional pain is common as well: sadness that accompanies loss; fear that shows up when facing a dark, unknown path; or guilt that rears its head when we accidentally harm the ones we love.

To separate the two seems a bit misleading, as “emotional” pain is often felt in our very physical bodies.  Any teenager who’s been dumped can attest to the very real pain felt in their chest.  While watching a horror flick, muscles tighten as the killer closes in on the protagonist.  And every over-worked, stressed and anxious New Yorker I know has felt their blood pressure rise as deadlines have closed in.

Yesterday, Sensei mentioned that pain is unavoidable.  Continuing that thought, I believe that not only is pain unavoidable, but that we can also find value in pain.

To begin with, pain can be a useful learning tool.  Pain can let us know when to move, to get out of the way.  There are times when I’m practicing Aikido that I don’t move, that I try to use brute strength to accomplish a goal.  When I’ve done that with a more senior student, I’ve ended up with screaming pain in my wrists, or hands, or stomach.  And so I’ve learned to move, to study the techniques more closely, and to become more sensitive to what is happening around me and to me.

Pain can also be a valuable aid in overcoming obstacles.  At one point in our evolutionary history, the surge of adrenaline that accompanied fear may have meant the difference between outrunning a predator and becoming a meal.  As the over-worked office worker’s deadline approaches and stress levels increase, the body releases cortisol, which serves to divert energy from low-priority systems (like immune response) to higher-priority systems (like brain function).  The re-routing of energy may give that worker the boost he needs to finish his proposal and spare him the wrath of his boss.  (He may not be spared the wrath of a sedentary, high-stress lifestyle, however.)

For much of my life, like many people, I have worked to avoid pain and maximize pleasure.   There’s a certain, irrefutable logic in this.  Given the choice of a banquet or a torture chamber, humans seem built to prefer the former.  However, over the last few months I’ve begun to re-evaluate my opinion.

I came to Aikido at a time in my life when my short term pursuit of pleasure over pain was starting to catch up with me.  I’d just turned 30 and I realized that I was considerably healthier at 20 than at 30, and that if I continued the trend I would be even worse off at 40 and less healthier still at 50.  Not the trajectory I wanted.  For the past decade, I’ve been slowly watching t.v. more and exercising less. Reaching for the frozen burrito over making a healthy lunch out of fresh ingredients.  Buying bread more instead of making it.  Reaching for substances that are pleasing to my senses instead of getting a good night’s rest.  And though I was not an overweight, depressed sloth, I was noticing that I was certainly moodier, I was slowly putting on weight, and I had less energy for the things I wanted to do in life.  Over time, small choices add up.

And so I began training Aikido.

I made a commitment to myself that I would be healthier at 40 than I was at 20.  Which meant I had to face the pain.  The pain of making time in my schedule.  The pain of say no to staying in and watching netflix and instead getting out the door and to the dojo.  The pain in my wrists, my hands, and my legs that accompanies a martial dialogue with someone far more capable than myself.  The pain of not knowing, of being unsure of myself when everyone around me seems to know what to do, how to do it, and why.

Some of my friends look at me strangely and ask why I’m doing this.  Why would anyone choose to get beat up day after day?  It’s not like I face a lot of violent threats in my day to day, so martial arts seems superfluous to my lifestyle.  What they are asking is why would I go through the pain.

To me, the answer is becoming more and more obvious.  In just a few short months I have become stronger, more limber, and my energy levels are skyrocketing.  The layer of fat that was slowly building up around my belly started shrinking.  That sluggish, low-energy feeling that was becoming more and more common is dissipating.  I’m happier.  I feel more prepared to face the world, the challenges of my day to day...even if they are just finishing an edit or vacuuming my apartment.  In facing the pain, I have learned, and I have gained.

There are times when it is harder to face the pain.  When getting out the door to the dojo means I will have to work harder when I get home.  When I’m sore and tired and the last thing in the world I want to do is get tossed around by someone almost 10 years my junior like I’m a toy.  However, on those days when I’ve resisted coming and still packed my gi into my bag, I walk out of dojo feeling more alive than ever.

And so lately, I’ve been coming around to the idea of embracing pain, or at the very least facing it head on.  Because I’m realizing a few things about pain.  For one, pain is often ephemeral.  The discomfort of saying no to the comfort of a book on my couch in favor of training is minimal and forgotten quickly.  The aches and pains in my muscles subside in a week or so.  And though they are more often than not replaced by other pains (why does the top of my foot hurt?), those too will fade. But more importantly, I’m learning that I can often gain more when I push through.  The pleasure I feel having more energy, breathing deeper, and being able to run for longer with my dogs far outweighs the pain I experienced getting here.  The embarrassment of not knowing how it is that someone 10 years my senior could so thoroughly destroy me on the mat is trumped by the satisfaction of learning something new.  And I look to the future with more hope and optimism, knowing that the pain I push through today makes me stronger, healthier, and more resilient.