Brooklyn Aikikai

Fudo-Myo-O Sculpture

2012-01-12T20:50:00.001-05:00

Dojo 10th Anniversary sculpture of Fudo-Myo-O, installed in the Tendokan's kitchen, after Misogi Harai and dharani chanting.

The sculpture was generously created and donated by Mr. Eric Soroker, artist and aikido practitioner in Bucks County, PA. A deep thank you to Eric from all of us at Brooklyn Aikikai!

A Reading for the Year of the Dragon

2012-01-06T12:39:00.002-05:00

The Buddha said, "Ananda, what else can you and the sangha expect from me? I have taught the Dharma fully and deeply. Do you think I have concealed anything from the bhikkhus? Ananda, the teaching is the true refuge. Live according to the teaching. Every person should be a lamp unto himself. Ananda, the Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha are present in everyone. The capacity for enlightenment is the Buddha, the teaching is the Dharma, the community of support is the Sangha. No one can take away the Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha within you. Though heaven and earth may crumble, the Three Gems will remain intact within every person. They are the true refuge. When a bhikkhu dwells in mindfulness and contemplates his body, feelings, mind, and objects of mind, he is like an island unto himself. He possesses the truest refuge of all. No person, not even a great Master, can ever be a more stable refuge than your own island of mindfulness, the Three Gems within you."

— "Old Path White Clouds," Thich Nhat Hanh

Aikido in Saskatchewan, Canada, December 2011

2011-12-15T22:21:00.002-05:00

Seminar with M. Flynn Shihan and P. Goatman Shidoin, November 19, 2011

2011-11-22T09:24:00.002-05:00

M. Kanai's Almond and Butternut Squash Tart, October 2011.

2011-11-13T00:51:00.000-05:00

Aikido and Everyday Life

2011-09-21T19:30:00.001-04:00

by Ea Murphy

In the south, where I grew up, there was an understated mythology perpetrated about New York City. People talked about this foreign metropolis in hushed whispers of disdain or longing. It loomed larger than life, and was reputed to be meaner, faster, scarier, and louder than anything a southern girl could handle.

I don’t know why these rumors existed. Since I’ve been in Brooklyn, I’ve found nothing but kindness in the caress of iriminage and stillness in the mornings of zazen. Brooklyn is also incredibly clean – people zokin the floors many times a day. Of course, I haven’t really yet left the dojo. Within the walls of Brooklyn Aikikai, there is a vast world to explore and discover.

In the weeks I’ve been here, I feel myself being kneaded, shaped, and molded into something different. I am used to working hard – that is nothing new. I have been a student; I have trained in aikido. The thread that weaves this all together, though, when living in the dojo, brings new meaning to all these pursuits. From the morning offerings to the kami, to the ringing of the han in the evening, there is a motivation other than my own interests. And, in and of an instant, I suddenly disappear and simply trust the rhythm of the dojo.

Recently, I have been struggling with how to make aikido work in my everyday life. I have jostled, prodded, pushed, and wedged the pieces of family, career, recreation, finances to make room for aikido. I have refused to budge or give up any part of my training. I drive miles and miles and squeeze minutes out of hours and days to satisfy this insatiable thirst.

During class, sensei scolded us, “You can’t expect to just come on the mat and do aikido”. You have to take care of your body, your life…you have to be attentive throughout your day. Oh…it hit me like a kokyunage…aikido and everyday life. I thought I had heard that before. But, in a flash, I actually felt it. There is no separation on and off the mat. Living in the dojo, this is the constant practice, reinforced by a weariness and exhaustion that puts the ego to sleep. Going home, this is the glowing ember I must carefully tend and feed.

I am incredibly grateful to the fire that burns in Brooklyn Aikikai, and the incredible community of people who give so much of themselves to keep it bright and hot. It is touching and inspiring to witness it for a moment. Who knew that in the mythical New York City I had heard about growing up, I would find such kindness, open-heartedness, and connection. Gassho.

Hurricane Irene, August 28, 2011

2011-08-28T11:45:00.010-04:00

We were well-prepared and the dojo sustained no damage whatsoever.

Thanks to all who helped us!

On Commitment - Sandan Essay by Terri Rzeznik

2011-06-30T07:41:00.000-04:00

When co-workers discover that I train in Aikido the first thing they ask is “are you a black belt?” Or another common response is, “wow that’s amazing, can you beat up a bunch of guys if they attacked you all at once?” As many times as I have heard these questions, I always have the same thoughts, “What do they think I am, part of some covert special ops unit?” Or that I was just cast in the sequel to “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon?” Even though it would be fantastic to fly over rooftops, unfortunately I did not learn this as part of my training. This made me think about the misconceptions that people, including myself, have of what it means to be a committed martial artist.

I believe people often have a skewed view of what this kind of commitment actually means. They may imagine that I live in a small room, sleeping on a hard wood floor, eating nothing but hot gruel for my meals. And of course let us not forget the intense training under the strict tutelage of some omnipotent sensei as well. Even though this may sound like some uchideshi programs, some people think this is what it means to be a committed martial artist in any dojo, anywhere.

Throughout the years of my training I have seen many people pass through the door of Brooklyn Aikikai. Till this day I can never figure out who will stay or who will leave. There have been people who have trained intensely at the dojo for many years and then one day quit, never to be heard from again. And then there are people who only come once or twice a week, but have been there since the beginning of the dojo. So who is to say which one is committed? So now I find myself more confused than ever; how should I define being a committed martial artist? Would I even consider myself one?

The more I think about this question, the clearer the similarities between my study of theatre arts and aikido become. When I first started training in aikido I was a professional actor. I felt passionately about theatre and still do. Even though I have been studying theatre arts for over 20 years, there still remains a fire, a hunger to learn more, to refine my craft and explore other related areas as well. Every art form, whether it is dance, music, painting, or of course, martial arts, is learned by doing. If one wants to become proficient in their art form they must practice for endless hours. One must possess a desire to keep going even when feeling frustrated, defeated, even when people tell you that you have no natural ability. I have experienced this intensely, especially with aikido.

My relationship with aikido has not been an easy one. It has been an arduous journey from the beginning. It took me many months to learn to roll and sometimes I still stumble with basic footwork. There are times when I do not want to go to the dojo, I feel tired or I am in bad mood. I constantly struggle with my own resistance. Sometimes I leave the dojo feeling as if I do not know anything about aikido. But of course there is a balance, within the struggle there also exists a deep joy, times when I feel exhilarated, present and alive. Regardless of what I am feeling there still remains the passion, the desire to explore deeper into this practice. I believe this is what it means to be a committed artist of any kind. To be able to ride the ups and downs of your practice and to sometimes take a step back in order to move two steps forward.

2011 Kids' Summer Camp, Session I

2011-06-29T01:58:00.003-04:00

On June 6 - 10th we held our first Kids' Aikido Camp of Summer 2011. Fourteen students (aged 7 - 10) came to the dojo for a full day of Aikido and Japanese cultural activities. Most of the children had never done any martial arts before so we started off with lots of stretching and conditioning exercises as well as learning how to fall safely. Over the course of the week the students learned several Aikido techniques and lots of games (animal dodge ball, shikko freeze tag, etc). Justin Coletti came one afternoon to share his knowledge of shodo with the children and they all got to try their hand at painting kanji and pictures with ink on rice paper. We took field trips to the Japanese Garden at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden and the Brooklyn Museum. A highlight of the week was our trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to see the Japanese Arms and Armor exhibit and their impressive collection of samurai swords!

The next week of camp is set for July 18 - 22nd.

Going Back to First Grade

2011-05-04T11:23:00.003-04:00

The steaming tea was poured and we bowed. He took a sip. But as the water touched my own lips, I had to pull back. It was too hot! The first thought that flew into my head was How could he have drunk that? It simply wasn't possible that it was an acceptable temperature for him. In that moment there was no "opinion", no "you take the high road, and I'll take the low road," no "different strokes for different folks." To my mind (and my mouth) in that moment, I was right and he was wrong.

Now, I am a person who prides herself on being able to see things from another's perspective. I teach first grade and I work all day long to get six-year-olds to have some consideration for each other and to stop acting like the entire world exists for their benefit. I want them to be able to take care of each other and in order to do that they have to try to put themselves in another's shoes and realize that other people have different thoughts, feelings, needs, and abilities than they do.

Maybe I need to go back to first grade myself, because I keep catching myself in these moments. Not that I think these kinds of thoughts more frequently –– just that I notice them more; how automatic they are. Do we really believe that other people are different from ourselves? Or are we all pretty much under the same illusion that I am the center of the universe... the only one who is really real. That those other people out there would all do and believe exactly as I do if only they could see clearly! Of course I want to believe that I am an empathetic, open-minded person. And I would venture to say that most of the time I come across that way. But what I am interested in, and what the practice here at the dojo reveals to me again and again, is that shadow inside - that person who believes that she is the only one who can really be "right."

Helping a child in the kids' class or an adult beginner I catch that voice in my head. Don't get me wrong - I truly appreciate everyone that I work with and I am well aware that I learn a great deal in each encounter. I love feeling the way a body can suddenly change as something drops and that maybe I even helped that person to discover something! But I catch that voice sometimes: How can they not get this? Why did they do that? Because that's not the way I would do it… at least not today. But I have many memories of my own days as a beginner (soon the dojo and I will each celebrate our 10th anniversary) and being mystified when Sensei told me "you're leaving your center behind" or "stop resisting" or "don't put your face where my fist is!" and I had not a clue what I was supposed to do instead. But slowly, slowly, slowly my body has come to understand these things better. Sometimes the realization came suddenly, but more often it changed without me even knowing it. Now, even though I still sometimes leave my center behind or resist or put my face where it shouldn't be - at least I know enough to understand what's happening. It comes with time.

So I remember the feelings of frustration and confusion and despair - thinking that Aikido would never be anything other than a painful and clumsy affair. I see them sometimes on the faces of people I work with. We are all trying so hard! And I know that it just takes time. Time and diligent practice. And that allows me to catch that voice in my head, quiet it, and push forward with my partner toward a new understanding for both of us.

So I am learning every day how to look at things anew. I'm faced again and again with my own inner shadow. It's a gift that Aikido gives me, this working with a partner all the time. In the differences between two people there can be friction. I am pulled out of my comfort zone. My partner (knowingly or not) is holding up the mirror - patiently, steadfastly - in which I might see myself. Turning to look directly into it makes this practice all the more difficult and rich.

--Kate Savoca

Seminar with Juba Nour Sensei

2011-04-21T13:06:00.006-04:00

Juba Nour Shihan traveled from Mexico to teach at our dojo on Saturday April 16, 2011. The four afternoon classes were full of high energy and intense training. Teachers and students from several east coast dojos joined us including George Lyons Sensei, Patti Lyons Sensei, Liese Klein Sensei, Yuho Carl Baldini Sensei, and Eric Karalius Sensei. Thank you to everyone for coming!

Brooklyn Aikikai's Spring 2011 Fundraiser

2011-04-12T09:18:00.003-04:00

On Saturday, May 21^st, the dojo community will get together, along with friends and family, for our annual spring fundraiser. The event—a lively, fun-filled evening of food, drinks and music—will be hosted by Halyards, a friendly neighborhood pub that recently opened next door to the dojo.

Proceeds from this year's Spring Fundraiser will go directly to the dojo's scholarship fund, which supports the training of young people in our programs––in some cases through full scholarships––and subsidizes adult members’ attendance at aikido seminars. As anyone familiar with Aikido knows, the benefits of practice extend far beyond the dojo’s walls, allowing the diligent student to approach life in a calm and centered way. Especially for young people at the beginning of their life’s journey, these benefits are incalculable. For this reason, Brooklyn Aikikai is dedicated to supporting our young students in every way possible.

The evening promises to be a fun one in this fantastic venue with good friends, music, and delicious hors d'oeuvres and drinks. Guests will also have the opportunity to support the dojo by purchasing raffle tickets.

We would love to see you at Halyards on May 21st, but if you cannot attend, please consider making a donation or purchasing raffle tickets.

Date: Saturday, May 21, 2011.

Time: 5:00 pm - 8:00 pm

Location: Halyards, 3rd Ave/6th St. in Gowanus, Brooklyn (next door to the dojo)

Admission tickets: $20 each (includes 1 complimentary drink & hors d'oeuvres)

Raffle tickets: $3 for 1; $10 for 4

Raffle prizes to be determined. In the past, we have had restaurant coupons, spa treatments, clothing and other exciting offers.

To purchase admission and/or raffle tickets, please click here:

http://brooklynaikikai.com/dojoinformation/events/SpringEvent2011.html

Nardu Debrah Sensei Seminar––Saturday, February 5

2011-04-04T10:42:00.005-04:00

Lessons learned in kids' class

2011-03-06T10:08:00.003-05:00

by Eli Bacher-Chong, age 13

I remember I first heard about Aikido when Brooklyn Aikikai gave a demonstration at my elementary school. Aikido was explained to us as "taking the energy of the attacker and using it against themselves."

After practicing it for about four years, I have learned much about it and maybe even life. I have learned that you can be physically powerful not by fighting or conquering your energy or the energy of others, but working in harmony with it and using it to your advantage. In a manner of speaking, if you cannot divert a stream to your crops, plant your crops by the stream.

I have also learned that there are times that you must push back when life pushes you around. Though I am still coming to terms with this truth, I believe that it was inspired by Aikido, and that it will greatly improve my life.

I was reminded of this lesson when I moved from the kids' class and entered the adult class in 2010. If the techniques became difficult or rough, I had to figure it out as well as I could, or toughen up and learn to face it.

Before I learned Aikido, I was fearful of the world and sometimes didn't like it because I could not control it; Aikido has taught me how to plow right through life and to work in harmony with it instead of needing to conquer it.

"musubi," or "connection"--a seminar with Horii Shihan

2011-02-01T14:51:00.004-05:00

Our Tendokan Dojo welcomed Etsuji Horii Shihan from Kobe, Japan for a two-day seminar over the weekend August 21-22. In addition to the seminar, Horii Shihan taught our regular classes on Friday and Monday as well.

One thing Horii Shihan repeated both in the seminar and in the classes was “musubi”—the idea of connection with one’s partner. Staying “connected” with my partner has been difficult for me both in uke and tori. Although I know the whole body must move from the center in accordance to the flow of the technique, I often feel as if there’s some blockage right around where my hand meets my partner, making the area from my hand to my shoulder rather rigid.

For whatever reason, hearing the word in Japanese gave me a new image about staying connected with my partner during a technique. Musubi can be translated as “tying” (as in an obi, or a rope), and is also used for the idea of “union” (it is the first character in the characters for “wedding,” which ties into the idea of “blending” that Sensei often mentions). Whereas my image (due to my insufficient understanding of the concept) of staying connected with my partner was a stiff, stick-meets-stick type of a picture, I now have an image that it is more dynamic and flexible, like a rope, and this has given me a kind of breakthrough in how I stay connected both in uke and tori.

This was a concrete reminder that many points of entry exist for absorbing and understanding Aikido. It may be a word, a physical movement, a spatial orientation, or yet, something else. I hope my training will deepen so I can become ever more open to those points of entry into a revelation/discovery.

––James Yaegashi

New Years, 2011

2011-01-14T12:39:00.006-05:00

On New Year's Eve Day we held our annual winter dojo cleaning and 28 members and friends came to help! We took up the mats, emptied the closets, and scrubbed the dojo from top to bottom. Thank you to everyone who gave so much of their time and energy on that day.

Later that evening, twenty people gathered to train and celebrate the end of 2010 at Brooklyn Aikikai. We started at 10 pm with misogi chanting followed by a half hour of zazen (sitting meditation). At 11:30 pm Savoca Sensei led a vigorous class that took us into 2011. The dojo kansho (large bell) was rung from the rooftop 108 times to mark the end of the old year and the beginning of the new. After the class we broke out the sake and made toasts to honor our teachers past and present, the community of the dojo, and all who could not be with us.

It was probably about 1:30 am by the time we sat down to our formal dinner. Three appetizers (including foie gras pate), homemade pasta with pesto sauce, salad, and the main entree: wild boar accompanied by chard and parmesan. Dessert was homemade gelato - espresso or lemon, and a tarte tatin. It was a real feast! Thank you to all of the chefs - especially Mike Mikos who spent days (really) preparing a significant share of the dishes!

In between courses there was entertainment: we had impromptu skits, several impersonations, and a live band down on the mat before dessert!! After the meal had been cleaned up it was time to bring out the microphones and the projector for the (now) traditional KARAOKE! The details of that shall be known only to those who were there... you'll have to come next year to find out how many great (or at least enthusiastic) singers we have in the dojo.

Cormac Savoca joined the party at about 5:30 am and things were still going strong. The last people to leave didn't go until about 6:45 am (that's more than an hour later than the year before... I'm a bit nervous about what will happen for 2012!).

It was a fantastic night of strong training, terrific food, and great fun. Thank you to everyone for making it so great. Special thanks to Matt Desmond, Liese Klein Sensei, and Rodger Park Sensei for joining us!

Below are just a few of the many wonderful photos Sean MacNintch took of the evening's festivities. Note the clock in the final picture, which reads 6:30 am! View the rest here:

http://macnintch.com/ba_newyears/

Winter Testing

2011-01-10T15:08:00.005-05:00

On Friday, 12/17/2010, the dojo came together for winter testing. Thirteen candidates tested for the ranks of 5th through 3rd Kyu, and Scott Friedman, Yuho Baldini's student, tested for Shodan. It was a rigorous, spirited, event, beginning with a 6 pm, all-dojo warmup and mini-practice that was basically standing-room-only (introducing an extra level of challenge to our ukemi: rolling into a dense crowd of limbs!). The testing ended close to 9pm. Highlights included jyodori, randori, and a surprise choke attack. The tension ran high at times, as Sensei exhorted testers to stay connected and show a higher level of ki. But in the end, everybody passed, and Noah Landes was promoted to 2nd kyu. The dojo celebrated afterwards with a delicious potluck dinner and drinks. All in all, it was an extraordinary evening--one that demonstrated the spirit of friendship, hard work, and commitment that makes Brooklyn Aikikai a unique space in the lives of its members.

Rikimi

2010-12-09T10:18:00.006-05:00

by James Yaegashi

I wish I had something insightful to say about my training in aikido. The truth is, I don’t. I practice simply because I made a commitment to learn. In the process, I’m finding that training is informing my life beyond the walls of the dojo. So, here follows my attempt to articulate one of the ways a beginner’s life is affected by training in aikido.

I am made aware of a multitude of things in practice. One such realization is that I have a tendency toward rikimi (forcing or tensing). For example, in kokyunage (or in any other technique, for that matter), I often find myself pulling or pushing using my arm or shoulder strength, rather than moving my center through irimi, tenkan or kaiten and receiving and redirecting the energy coming from my partner. I see in my mind what I need to do, but I am far from being able to execute it — which, of course, is why one practices, repeating over and over in hopes of eventually executing the technique as Sensei demonstrates, and making it a part of one’s being.

During practice at the dojo, I am focused on the specific details of a given technique that I am working on — how far do I need to step in to absorb my partner's energy at my center rather than pulling him/her to me? Did I step in too far? What is the positional relationship between my line and my partner's line when I do tenkan? Am I staying connected (or, "sticky," as Sensei says) with my partner? Why has "sticky" become "pushing" or “pulling”? How do I correct that? When taking ushiro ukemi, at what point does balance transform into being thrown? As if working through these details on the tatami isn’t enough of a challenge, I must simultaneously be mindful not to fall into rikimi.

Interestingly, these very specific points I work on in the dojo act as a sort of stimulant to my mind — they pique my curiosity outside the dojo about how I relate to other people. How do I meet the energy of my whining 4-year old and redirect it, rather than merely insisting that she stop? Where does my metaphoric center need to be vis-à-vis my wife's in order to harmonize when we are both exhausted from a day's work and have to put the kids in the shower and ready them for bed? What is my spiritual ukemi when a meter maid has just written me a ticket for double-parking while I dropped my son off at school? And as an overarching question, at what instances in life does rikimi seem to be my way of responding, rather than receiving and harmonizing?

The more I train at the dojo, the more I become aware of my deficient attention to all the details of technique. As a beginner, that is to be expected — or, rather, it is exactly where I should be. One might even say this, “naturally,” will lead to rikimi. But, I hope continued practice will eventually bring me out from rikimi to shizentai (natural being), where meeting and harmonizing becomes a part of my being, both in and outside the dojo.

What Is The Purpose of Practice?

2010-11-10T23:21:00.016-05:00

by Ryugan

What is the meaning of our practice? Why are we here and what is possible for us here? And how may we approach this practice?

The training paths of Aikido (with weapons), Iaido, Zen and Misogi all point toward a deeper unity of self. It could be said that as we are now, we are incomplete but have the possibility to move toward completion. Whether one views this as a Fall from being united with the Higher, living in delusion regarding the self, or unable to see Reality correctly, is not too important. What is essential is to uncover our path towards who we really are. For this, in relation to what we are practicing here, there are three threads woven together, inseparable, and at the same time unique. These threads are the three aspects of our practice.

The first thread is that of self study, which propels one to join the dojo in the first place. How do we understand our bodies in this martial context, in this movement with others — giving, receiving, harmonizing with force(s)? Do we understand our emotions? Specifically, how they attempt to take us away from the present moment, or contrarily, how they can add to us being more present? And finally, how can our minds soften — the inner dialogue being dropped — the mind instead grasping angles, possibilities? With regard to these questions, we have the potential to see how we are on the mat and to see what is lacking as well. This can inspire us to stay after class working on movements, thinking about why each technique works or does not work efficiently. It can inspire us to question how we are in the midst of our day. The understanding of not being a certain way on the mat, or outside of the dojo, is a kind of food for our further study.

At one point we see that the tendency to be overly concerned with ourselves in practice is limiting. The second thread, therefore, is practicing with others — essentially what is done in each and every class. However, do we really notice our partner’s body and what is going on with them during the encounter — her or his limitations physically, emotionally and mentally? Do we see how either our force given is being harmonized with (or not); do we see how the force they are giving us is received (or not)? How do we see ourselves in relation to our partner? Do we even take her/him into account, or are we just practicing for ourselves? Even though we are both sweating, exerting ourselves, does our partner really even exist for us? This practice extends beyond the mat, when working together in samu, and interacting with others in our daily life. We have a tendency to think that working with others is naturally easy, and often do not take into account the different natures of personalities and egos. All this is material for each person to work with — grinding, like two stones against one another, to produce some energy that could help transform each person.

The third thread is that of working for the larger community, helping to preserve the practice and spread the teaching. At this level each person seeks to perpetuate the Way (the Tao, or Do). In this stage, one sees that the practice cannot be maintained only with the efforts of a few individuals. One has a sense of gratitude for what one has received and helps to give back to her/his teacher(s) and community. This practice is sometimes called karmic yoga — essentially one is doing something without receiving benefit for oneself. This may take the practical forms of: helping to support seminars and visiting teachers wherein a new level of practice is being brought, doing work for the dojo that ensures our community lasts and helps to attract new practitioners to support the Way, and making donations that help to spur students in additional training.

Each thread is woven together: the need for one to go further in one’s development leads one to a teacher, which leads one to practice with others, thereby resulting in a community following a Do (a Way) that must be cared for and protected. Each thread could be likened to the Buddhist model of Buddha, Sangha, and Dharma. The thread of self study is the Buddha, who strove to penetrate the truth and dispel his illusions. The second thread of working with others is the Sangha, the sacred community which must be preserved and cared for and is made up of fellow seekers on the Way. The last thread is Dharma, or the Tao, Do, Way. The Way is preserved by establishing a place for it, both internally and externally. If guarded and followed it will flourish.

These three threads form one. Intertwined, they are all necessary to form the strength for one rope. Without practice in each area, something is fundamentally missing in our training. Of course, each area overlaps and interpenetrates the other: it is not simply a logical progression from one level or thread to the next. And yet, it is usual that we begin seeking something just for ourselves, and then if we train long enough we begin to see the necessity of giving back to the community and beyond. Training one, three or even seven years is not enough — it is really only a beginning. As the famous maxim goes in Japan: after thirty years of training, train thirty more. What is disheartening is that most people do not stay with the art long enough to see the necessity and importance of working with others, and working to preserve the wonderful arts passed down to us.

• • • • •

A friend related to me two types of monasteries on Mt. Athos, in Greece: the first, where everything is given, dictated, and followed precisely; the second, where there is a bare schedule, and freedom is given for each individual to pursue what may help him transform himself at a precise moment. My ideal for the dojo is the latter model, which presents a certain problem. Each person must have a certain inner level so as not to need to be told what is necessary. The monastery/dojo in the latter model runs well precisely because the inhabitants do not need to be spurred. It’s a concept that works only when each person demands the very best from themselves. At this point the teacher is really only a brother on the path, albeit one who has been on the path longer, but still a brother. In this ideal, all three threads are present: an urgency for self study and development, concern and interest in others, and an understanding of the need to preserve a form which may hold the essence of awakening. It is my sincere hope the dojo can move toward this…

Brooklyn Aikikai's Gala 10-24-2010

2010-10-25T22:04:00.002-04:00

Boyet Sensei meets his match, age 3

2010-09-23T21:39:00.017-04:00

E. Horii Shihan Seminar

2010-09-11T09:45:00.004-04:00

Just Roll

2010-09-11T07:43:00.007-04:00

by Anne T.

Seems like it would be simple, doesn’t it? You start on your knees – you can’t possibly get any closer to the ground unless you were lying flat on your face – and then, slowly at first, you slide your arm to the side and the back, butt lifts in the air, legs kick over, and then, Whoosh! You roll. Not exactly death-defying. Yet somehow, kneeling in this position, contemplating the gray horizon of the mat in front of me, I would see my life flash before my eyes. What part of my life that would be, I’m really not sure… Sometimes it seemed like all blurs and shapes from infancy, when someone might have dropped me on my head and never owned up to it, thereby instilling in me forever a fear of going upside down. Or maybe it happened later, at the playground, on the monkey bars. Or perhaps it was even in my adulthood, and the fear of going upside down was more of a metaphor for early adulthood angst – We held hands for the last time, and as I watched him walk out the door, I felt as if my entire world was turning upside down….

Whatever the reason, I just couldn’t do it. Couldn’t get my head to turn under, my arm to support my weight, my legs to kick over. Just. Couldn’t. Do. It. And why did everybody keep insisting that I try? Couldn’t I just stick with the back falls for now until I could work it out with my therapist what terrible thing had befallen me who knows how many years ago that was turning a shoulder roll into the mental equivalent of jumping off a building with a bunch of plastic bags taped to my arms for wings?

At the same time, somewhere deep in the blue caves of my brain (don’t ask me why they’re blue), a voice resonated, passing on the not-very-helpful wisdom of, Just Roll. Other equally non-helpful advice went along the lines of – Stop Thinking So Much, What Are You Afraid Of, and my favorite of all, echoed by Sensei one day in so many words, The Only Thing To Fear Is Fear Itself.

Yeah, I know. They were all right. And one day after many days of kneeling on the mat and feeling as if I was experiencing something close to Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, I just let myself tune into that voice from the blue, and I closed my eyes and held my breath (not recommended, by the way, but you have to start somewhere) and I rolled. I rolled and then I looked over to the other side of the mat, where I had just been kneeling, and realized that I was still in one piece and that I hadn’t snapped my collarbone or dislocated my shoulder or fallen into a horrifying flashback of monkey bars or tearful goodbyes . Que milagro. So I rolled again. And again. And slowly I progressed from a kneeling position to a standing one, and then to be able to be thrown as Uke without putting my other arm down as a crutch.

Now, if you’ve read this far, you have probably realized that this is not the world’s most exciting or inspirational story. Girl Can’t Roll, Girl Can Roll will not make next summer’s blockbuster hits, no matter how many intense flashback scenes can be dredged up from those deep blue caves. Although, it might not make a bad Zen poem:

Mind says can’t do it.
Mind says can do it.
No thinking, no fear.
Just roll.

Ok, so that was terrible.

Anyway, the point of this blog was not to write bad Zen poetry but to somehow explain why learning to roll over my shoulder was probably the single most empowering thing I have done in the past decade – and to give this statement some credit, throughout most of my twenties I have been traveling on my own around the world, getting lost in rainforests at night and dodging bullets at sketchy third-world nightclubs (tiny bit of exaggeration here). But for someone who thinks as much as I do and who tries to find meaning in absolutely everything (I swear, I can find meaning in a wad of gum stuck on the bottom of my shoe), just for once in my life to roll instead of thinking all of the reasons for not rolling, for waiting to roll, for writing up a pro and con list about the virtues and dangers of rolling, this was huge. I just rolled. And I was fine. And I didn’t think about it.

Since that first successful roll a couple of months ago, I’ve found that I can apply this Just Roll concept to other areas of my life. Finishing my novel, for example (though I’m not quite there yet – but I will be! Just Write, says the voice). Putting an end to unhealthy relationships. Or even just shutting all those other voices up that tell me all the reasons why I’m not good enough to do this or be that. Just Roll, it says. It’ll be fine.

I don’t really know what blogging protocol is, especially for an Aikido blog, but I have the feeling that I should be offering some words of wisdom or inspiration, and I’m not quite sure that the above comments really fit the bill. So I’ll say this. You know that inner voice? No, I’m not talking about the one that berates you for drinking too much last night or eating that entire box of cookies, or even the one that likes to discuss how incredibly (and I mean really incredibly) good-looking and talented you are, and how someday there will be a movie made about your incredibleness. I’m talking about that very calm, level voice that says simple things like, It’s okay, or I’m here. I think that if you listen to this voice more, and the other voices less, whether or not you have a problem rolling or with any other aspect of Aikido, things will just sort themselves out. Just close your eyes, picture those deep blue caves (or orange, or green) of your mind, and imagine yourself in twenty years time – a wiser, happier version of your current self. She (or he) will be there, and even if all she has to say is Just Roll, just knowing that she is there at all, looking out for you, you might just learn what I’ve recently come to learn, that there is only one voice that really needs listening to.

Tamura Sensei - a Remembrance

2010-09-09T00:23:00.008-04:00

by John Brinsley

Tamura Nobuyoshi sensei died July 10 at the age of 77. He entered Hombu dojo as an uchideshi in 1953 and move to France in 1964, spending the rest of his life teaching aikido there and throughout Europe, the U.S., and elsewhere. He was a giant in the post-Osensei world of aikido and anyone who came into contact with him could not fail to be impressed with his technique, timing and kokyu, which was overwhelming.

I was not his student, and cannot claim much of a relationship with him, but he came to Hombu frequently in the dozen or so years I have trained here, and would like to recount a couple of memories. My first encounter with Tamura sensei was in 1996, during an International Aikido Federation seminar outside of Tokyo. At least a couple hundred people lined up in seiza before his class started, many of them from Europe and the U.S., and I was in the front row. One of the young Hombu instructors came up to me and asked me to translate for his class and, in something of a panic, I said (in Japanese) 'But I don't speak French.'

'No, Japanese to English,' the instructor said, with some exasperation.

'Oh, right, okay.'

An American friend sitting next me turned his head and said, 'I don't speak French?'

'Shut up,' was my witty reply.

Tamura sensei bowed in and began one of his long warm-ups, which included, among other things, using fingers and thumbs to massage various parts of the body, explaining how it improved circulation elsewhere. I was in front facing the crowd, with Tamura sensei behind me, doing my best to keep up with his explanations. I think we were sitting down at some point, and he explained something that I thought involved the stomach. `No, the liver,' Sensei said behind me in perfectly understandable English. So much for my interpretation skills.

The other memory I have sort of blends together. Tamura sensei would often attend Doshu's morning class, sometimes dropping in midway through and wandering around the class practicing with various people. `Practice' usually meant his grasping your wrist and inviting you to throw him, which was completely impossible. He was perhaps 5 foot 4 and weighed maybe 130 pounds. Moving him was futile; his kokyu and position was such that no matter what you did, nothing worked. There's a video somewhere from the New York Aikikai's 30th anniversary with Shibata sensei trying to move Tamura sensei - nope. After struggling for a while, he'd take pity on you and then start throwing you around, and that was fantastic. He was so fast, and his technique so precise, that you could learn a lot as long as you kept up. People would do their best to attract his attention so they could take ukemi for him.

He sometimes forgot his keiko gi and hakama and would wear a brand-new gi and Miyamoto sensei or Osawa sensei's hakama. He came into one of Miyamoto sensei's classes once and took it over so completely that Miyamoto sensei gave up and asked Tamura sensei to teach. Which he did, finishing with a few minutes of throwing around Miyamoto sensei, whose ukemi was impeccable as always. Watching that is a memory I will always treasure.

Miyamoto sensei made it a point to ask Tamura sensei to dinner on Friday nights with some of us after class. He would talk about Osensei and taking ukemi for him, never lecturing while we plied him with questions. Sometimes his wife Rumiko would accompany him, and share her perspective of Hombu in the 1950's.

My last contact with Tamura sensei was through Mrs. Tamura. She came to Hombu sometime last year - apparently to visit relatives, without her husband. I practiced with her in Kobayashi sensei's class, who hovered around her. At some point, Osawa sensei poked his head in, saw me practicing with Mrs. Tamura, and nodded his head, smiling. I understood: he wanted to make sure she was being taken care of. After class, I asked her how Sensei was, and she said fine, if getting a bit old. I asked her to pass along my respects; I am sorry I didn't get one more chance to take ukemi for this amazing martial artist.

May he rest in peace.

Kaiten Nage

2010-08-19T14:19:00.002-04:00

photograph by Sean MacNintch

Maintaining Balance

2010-05-09T16:33:00.001-04:00

by David Laufer

I was not looking for a long-term commitment when I first came to the dojo over three years ago. I also was not looking for a community of which to become a member. I’m a believer in Groucho’s dictum: “I’d never want to belong to a club that would have me as a member.” Not being a “joiner”, most of my athletic pursuits run to the individual, not team: tennis, skiing, hiking . . . Really, I was just looking for something I could do together with my son, then twelve. The dojo was nearby and practice seemed like fun and good exercise.

My son stopped after about nine months, but I stayed on. And, as with any deep(ening) commitment, I have found that the relationship is fraught with tensions. Maybe that is ironic for the “Way of Harmony”. But, more likely it is the whole point. There has been the tension between wanting to improve and avoiding the grasping that comes with trying to excel. After all, this was not something else at which I needed to drive myself. I have plenty of that already. I wanted to practice for the enjoyment of it, not to become a master at it. And according to one social critic, “mastery” takes at least 10,000 hours to achieve. At my rough average of 100 hours a year, I felt mastery was pretty much out of the question. I think that is why I avoided testing for so long: I do not want to be motivated by moving up the kyus. But, I eventually came to realize that by not testing I was inhibiting my own understanding of the language (literally and figuratively) that I was trying to learn.

There is the tension created by trying to break down old patterns (of body and mind) by substituting new patterns. How do I know that the new one is any better, or will be any less obstructed? Is the path to liberation really to be found by fixating on this nage, that ukemi, perfecting the 8-step kata or doing 1000 suburi? It’s all so choreographed that it seems easy to just become the next obsession, taking up all my time and focus just to “get it right” on the mat. So, I try to adhere to Sensei’s repeated admonishments: get out of your brain, into your body; find your center; breathe; and remain connected. I try to relax and just go with what turns up.

There is also the tension inherent in trying to bring a thousands-of-years-old Eastern philosophy to the West (and the Gowanus, in particular). I worry that, like an organ-transplant, or a skin graft, it will be rejected because it does not come from the same body, have the same roots. Growing up a New York Jew, I will never be a Japanese-Zen Buddhist, or a Tibetan Buddhist. I constantly feel the press of so many dojo practices and events, and the resulting tension of “how much of this is for me?” For now, aikido, zazen and weapons suffice. I need to take what I need, whatever that may be, and make it my own, whatever that may become. After all, that is what the Japanese and the Tibetans did over thousands of years as Buddhism migrated out of India. What will Gowanus Buddhism be?

So, where does that leave me? Constantly trying to find and adjust the point of balance, the personal equilibrium among all these tensions. So, I suppose that is the Way of Harmony. When I look at the essence of the practice as: be aware of my energy and those around me, remain connected, find and maintain my center, breathe, and relax (and don’t take “old man” ukemi!). And when I realize that the practice is not confined to the mats – well then, I might just be able to do 10,000 hours after all.

Fresh Blood

2010-04-09T10:28:00.001-04:00

by Monica Rose

I got blood on my gi the second class I took at Brooklyn Aikikai. Bruises on my shoulders came next. I was proud of these and showed them off to my friends. I was finally doing Aikido. I was excited. I felt the same charge as in any new relationship, and I was in the honeymoon stage. Aikido was all I talked about. I was impressed by how challenging it was, and I could not stop thinking about it. What I love the most about Aikido is that it woke me up.

I was in a dark place last autumn, spending weekends in Staten Island with a friend in the ICU, who was not waking up and not waking up, week after week after week, for two and a half months. What started as a brain hemorrhage, led to pneumonia, stroke and cerebral infection. When a calamity goes on for that long, it becomes impossible (or insane) to maintain the heightened intensity that accompanies panic. The crisis had become the norm, and I became numb. I needed to be shaken.

I remember the first class, kneeling in seiza in my stiff white gi, wondering what it would be like, hoping I was up for it. It was more rigorous than I had anticipated, but I welcomed the insistence towards being aware of what is happening in the immediate moment. I appreciated this encouraging way of being pushed and pushed and pushed, because there is no time to think. I learned quickly that, with Aikido, there is only — get back up and try again. And at Brooklyn Aikikai, there is also camaraderie, meaningful pats on the back, and incredible support. There’s a lovely openness around the presence of children. There’s respect and equal treatment towards women. There’s humor. There is kindness. And there is absolute relentlessness.

The second class had me panting with such exhaustion, I literally could not see straight. I did not know my right from my left. At the end of class, when we were told to lie down on our backs at the end of the mat and move ourselves to the other end via some strange choreography that I was unable to comprehend, I felt like some kind of inebriated inchworm slithering my way blindly while everybody watched. Then, there were those first forearm drags. Though they were excruciating and sweat came out of my eyes, I thought I was good at them . . . until the next time. And then it was — what do you mean I can’t use my toes? But I was not to be outdone. I hung a chin-up bar in my kitchen doorway. I’m getting stronger every day.

In the meantime, my friend finally woke up and was moved into a rehabilitation center. Life goes on and I keep coming back to the dojo. The initial rush of excitement has begun to wear off. I’ve stopped showing off my bruises because I realize they are from rolling incorrectly. Sometimes, I’m nervous to come to class, and often the techniques intimidate me. I still love Aikido and continue to think about it all the time, though my approach is shifting from obsession to something more grounded.

I remember the class when the honeymoon ended. I was feeling a little bit more vulnerable that day, was pushed that much too hard, and left in tears. Nothing too dramatic, just the knowing that this is the real deal. This is about commitment and perseverance. There is no easy way through or around learning techniques and finding where my center is. The only way is to keep coming back and trying my hardest; falling wrong, getting back up and trying to understand how to fall right.

The second time I got blood on my gi, it was somebody else’s blood. That’s how it goes, right? We’re all in this together. I’m very thankful to Sensei and the people at Brooklyn Aikikai, who make this dojo the special community it is, where we can all be driven to our limits and help one another discover that we can go beyond these limits.

Croissants

2010-03-30T12:04:00.004-04:00

Spencer made chocolate croissants at the dojo a few weeks ago. The process extended over the course of three days but they were well worth the wait!

No Turning Back

2010-02-24T19:10:00.003-05:00

by Terri Rzeznik

Initially when asked to write something for the dojo blog, my immediate response was that of resistance. In truth, that has been my feeling ever since. For months, I racked my brain trying to come up with some exciting topic that would inspire my fellow aikidoka. But, unfortunately, I was not successful. I did not come to this training because I dreamed about being Bruce Lee or because I was struggling with some deep existentialist question. I had been through enough bad acting classes that the thought of any practice that required self-reflection made my head explode. The reason I came to this practice was simply because a good friend recommended it to me.

I had recently moved back from Los Angeles where I was pursuing a career as an actor. That experience left me feeling jaded, cynical and with no sense of direction. I clearly remember the day when my friend Jeff said, “Hey, you should check out aikido.”

He had been practicing for about 8 months and told me that it had changed his life. Really, I thought, changed your life? I was skeptical. What was this aikido of which he spoke? I’d never heard of it, but I figured I would watch a class anyway. Of course, this simple action would put me on a path that, in fact, did change my life. But, I digress. What could I write about that would be interesting to read? Then, two weeks ago, Sensei called me into his office. “Oh no,” I thought, “he is going to ask me about the blog.”

I sat down on the floor and he told me he had the inspiration for my article. He handed me a piece of paper and on it was written, “'From a certain point onward there is no longer any turning back. That is the point that must be reached.' - Kafka.” As I sat there looking at the piece of paper, I began to think about my years of training. Before our beautiful dojo was built, we used to practice out of the Albee School of Dance on Carroll Street. We would tape together some gymnastic mats and place a picture of O Sensei on a small table, transforming a children’s dance studio into a serious place to train. Anyone who watched a class there knew this to be true. It did not matter that there were posters of ballet slippers on the walls; when you walked into the space, you could sense that something was different. There were many mornings when it would just be Sensei and me for practice. I cannot tell you how many times I wished the subway kami would swallow up the G train so I would not have to go. And even though I was full of anxiety, I would arrive at the dance studio, put on my gi, and get ready for class.

The more I trained, the more I realized aikido was not about getting something. Sure, I could feel my body getting stronger, but this training was about letting go. It was about letting go of my fears, letting go of that voice that said, “I can’t do it”, letting go of my perceived limitations not just in the dojo but in all aspects of my life. There are times I still struggle with this, when I think I cannot do one more bunny hop and yet there is something that pushes me to continue. What is this desire to keep going? Of course, the answer to this question is different for everyone, but for me it is about breaking those old patterns that keep my life stagnated. There were times that I became so frustrated and angry that I wanted to quit aikido altogether, but now I cannot think of a life without this practice.

Reaching that point of no return did not come as some huge revelation. There were many moments I would consider milestones in my training: my first aikido summer camp, my shodan test, rohatsu, and of course, shogaku. These were intense experiences that solidified my commitment to this training. But, reaching the point where there was no turning back came in small successes - a time when I let my shoulders drop during iaido, focusing only on my breath during zazen, or feeling relaxed while taking ukemi. These were the moments I remembered. These were the moments that kept me coming back to the dojo. I realized that it is important to put myself in extreme training situations, but that I shouldn't disregard the smaller achievements. I know that everyday is different. Some days, I step on the mat and my body feels great, and on other days my knee hurts and I’m pissed off. No matter what the situation, I tell myself to be present and breathe.

As the years pass, many things have shifted for me. In the beginning, I was intensely motivated by Sensei. Sensei creates a powerful energy in the dojo and one cannot help but feed off it. But, eventually this must change. The desire to go deeper into the training must come from within. I know now that I must create my own fire in order to keep going. This is not a finite practice. There is no diploma or gold star upon completion. Every time I walk into the dojo, I remind myself why I am here. With every action, technique or breath, I try to drop something, to let go. I am not always successful, but I know if I make the effort I will continue on this path hopefully for the rest of my life.

Deep Cleaning

2010-02-19T17:02:00.002-05:00

by Krissie Nagy

When I take a wet rag to the concrete, wood, or tatami floors, class isn't quite over. For me, it's a time to spin my energy back into my body and out through my fingers in quiet and conscientious work.

I joined the dojo nearly two years ago. At the time I didn't understand this part of the training, much less that it was part of the training. It seemed strange and even servile to be asked to clean the same areas three times a day. The way I saw it, the dojo was immaculate and would most likely stay that way whether I was helping out or not. Then one day (a couple months in), I saw dust.

Finding dust gave me real purpose during cleaning, so I began to look for it. I delighted in finding every crumb nestled in dark corners, or rogue strands of hair behind pieces of furniture. Recently, I discovered that a damp rag, when taken to a seemingly pristine area of concrete, will reveal the loveliest array of baby dust bunnies (aww)! The gap between what a beginner cleaner sees and what a seasoned uchideshi, like Baisho, sees must be immense.

American culture makes cleaning out to be a drag. From the Swiffer brushes that put us as far away from the dirt as possible to the unlimited array of toxic “magical sprays” that will do all the scrubbing for us, the only thing we're missing is Merlin
(http://www.youtube.com/watch#v=75BJ2ovo-S0&feature=related). Our dojo is spick-and-span without the help of elaborate cleaning products, and mostly thanks to a few scrapped gi's, two buckets of water, and the members' collective awareness in figuring out what needs to get done. After potlucks, we could give Merlin a run for his money.

I find the after-practice clean a very meditative and calming activity, especially following an intense hour of training. Just as aikido has a way of magnifying aspects of my life, the cleaning practice has also brought a heightened level of awareness. Whether it's keeping my living quarters tidy or noticing the subtleties in a friend's behavior, I'm far less oblivious to details than I used to be. I'm also beginning to understand how cleaning is really an exercise in respect for our environment. If we can leave our surroundings more beautiful than when we first arrived, that is truly a harmonious way of life worth practicing daily.

Snow Storm, 2010

2010-02-11T10:39:00.005-05:00

Eggs Florentine, by Edward B., after Thursday Morning Aikido Class

2010-02-05T22:35:00.002-05:00

Espressos, Post Iaido and Zen Training, Friday Morning, January 2010

2010-02-05T22:33:00.003-05:00

I’ve Been Thinking about Bowing

2010-01-17T20:27:00.004-05:00

by John Brinsley

(John is currently living in Tokyo, Japan, and is a student at Hombu Dojo.)

New Year’s in Japan is a three- or four-day holiday, ideally spent with family sitting around doing not much of anything before going back to the routine of jobs, school, community activities, etc. Upon returning to work, some of the day is spent greeting your colleagues with, "Happy New Year, I look forward to working again with you this year (Akematshite omedetou gozaimasu. Kotoshi mo yoroshiku onegaishimasu)," and a bow. The hands are draped on the thighs as you make your greeting, and as you straighten up, you smile and give perhaps another nod and make a joke or ask how the holiday went.

Last Saturday, my family and I met at one of the many (many) Starbucks in Tokyo before doing some errands. This particular branch is adjacent to a large department store. We had a good view of one entrance as the doors opened at 10 am. As people made their way in, the clerks at the various concessions all bowed very slowly and deeply. One young woman in particular struck me: back straight, head in line. She kept her hands together at her chest and seemed to be very sincere about her task. The customers paid no attention.

The next day at Hombu was Kagami Biraki. The instructors and many members of the dojo pound mochi outside before and during the two Sunday classes, and the smell and smoke of the wood fires cooking the rice waft through the neighborhood. Everyone greeting each other for the first time of the year bows more formally than they otherwise would, and the changing room is even more crowded than usual.

Doshu, as always, has impeccable posture as he bows in to teach the second class. Then, he makes his way around the room greeting everyone, taking longer with the older members. I get a nod and a smile, “Long time no see, where were you during the holidays?” Waka-sensei and I grumble a bit as we practice on the wood in the back, given the limited space. I have to go ask a foreign guest watching class to sit down, and another time Waka-sensei notices someone peeking through the curtains from the men’s changing room. "What’s the matter with people, don’t they have any manners,” we say during kokyu dosa. Then, we bow to each other as class ends.

This sense of courtesy, which used to be innate in Japan, seems less so these days. Maybe it’s a reflection of the frantic pace of life: taking time to bow, taking time while bowing, requires a deliberation that is incongruous with listening to an iPod and text-messaging friends. Aikido is an antidote to that sensibility as long as it preserves an old budo saying: "Everything begins and ends with bowing."

To Robert Savoca-sensei, Kate, Cormac and everyone at Brooklyn Aikikai: Akemashite omedetou gozaimasu. Kotoshi mo yoroshiku onegaishimasu.

Testing

2010-01-16T14:14:00.001-05:00

On Friday, January 15th, nine people tested at the dojo. There was a strong showing of support from other members. Barry Blumenfeld, Mario Chavez, and Lisa Steiner tested for 5th kyu. Annie Hsu, Jenny Coletti, Sarah Kaylor, and Micah Jacob tested for 4th kyu (it was a surprise test for Micah!). Noah Landes tested for 3rd kyu and Tom Worsnopp for 2nd kyu. All of the testers showed good spirit and worked hard to prepare. Congratulations to all of you!

New Year's Eve

2010-01-13T12:05:00.009-05:00

Twenty-one people rang in the new year at the Dojo by practicing misogi, zazen and aikido. Then, we celebrated late into the morning drinking, eating a Japanese dinner, performing/watching Jonathan Rinehart's play (directed by Terri) and singing karaoke.

Feast and Famine

2010-01-04T22:13:00.002-05:00

by Scott Ashen

Recently, I went through a period where I had to significantly cut back on my training. This was immediately after a four-month window when I had been training very frequently and spending a lot of time at the dojo. The sudden change was a shock to my system. I realized there was a hole in my life that I had not expected. While I knew cutting back on my time at the dojo wasn't what I wanted, I did not know how much it would impact my frame of mind.

The last 6 months has been a period of training feast and famine for me. After I was laid off from my job in April, I started trying to get to the dojo at least once a day. I didn't always succeed, but when I did, it felt great - both physically and spiritually. I was able to attend classes I hadn't in the past, like the noon training. I was also able to finally sit zazen more than once in a blue moon. The energy from the dojo was magnified within me the more time I spent there. The spirit and energy I was receiving from Sensei, my sempai and everyone who trains at Brooklyn Aikikai was overwhelming. I found that the more I experienced this, the more I wanted. In a period of great stress in my life - being unemployed - I found a lot of peace and serenity; even while I was getting thrown across the mat.

And then it pretty much stopped. I found a new job in late August, and due to my new work hours, I was only able to train once, occasionally twice a week. It wasn’t that unusual when I wasn't able to train at all. Suddenly, a significant source of energy and drive in my life was reduced to a trickle. The old adage of you don't know what you have until its gone was true for me. I had not really appreciated what I was receiving from spending so much time at the dojo, until it was barely there. I could feel my stamina going, my energy level was reduced and generally my spirits were not as positive. Despite being busy with work and my family, I still wanted more and could not find a way to get it. I relished what little time I was able to spend at the dojo during this period. When I trained, I felt like I was putting more energy into those classes than I had before. I injured myself a couple of times and it was crushing spiritually. How could I ease up on my training or even skip any classes? With so little time available to me, I just had to persevere. My wife and kids were fantastic during these months. They understand the importance the dojo has in my life and helped me find ways to get to class. Because my son trains in the kids classes, he and I spent some time talking about our training and what it means to us. At one point I was a little jealous of him and his regimented class schedule - he makes most Monday and Saturday kids classes. For me, I just kept looking for ways to stay connected and focused whenever and wherever I could.

So now I’m back to a regular schedule. Yet another new job has allowed me to start training at a more “normal” pace for me; 3 or so classes a week plus weapons and maybe I’ll be able to get to the occasional sit. After those months when I wasn’t, it feels really good to be training regularly again. That energy level is back and getting stronger. I’ve come to realize how much I learned about myself during this up and down period. I don’t want to do it again, but as with any experience, look at it as having provided me with a learning opportunity. And what have I learned? I’ve learned that the dojo gives me more than I realized. I have learned how much my family supports me in my training. Probably most importantly, I have received new clarity on how important training is in my life which has given me new focus in my training. Recently, a friend asked me if it wouldn't have just been easier to stop training since I had to work so hard to get to the dojo at my old job. Without pause, I was able to tell him no - it was much easier to keep going. Quitting would have been the harder choice.

Misogi for Head Cases

2009-12-17T23:28:00.003-05:00

by Daiden Charles Young

P.R. Sarkar, the Indian philosopher, asserts that there are four kinds of human being: warriors, intellectuals, business people (acquisitors) and workers. I’m not sure how you would prove such a thing scientifically, but I find his typology useful when sorting out my relations with other people. Most of my friends at Brooklyn Aikikai are obvious warriors, who find their meaning in severe physical challenges.

I, on the other hand, am not a warrior. At various times in my life, I have thought that I should be more of a warrior and tried many sports, but I never achieved much. There always came a moment where I’d be thinking, “I can’t get jazzed about this. I hate my coach more than I hate the other team,” and I’d go read a book or something.

So I’m an intellectual, not a warrior. I was born that way. You can’t change your basic life energy. Maybe in my next incarnation I can be an aikido black belt.

Which is not to say you can’t do anything about your life energy right now. One of the occupational hazards of being an intellectual is getting stuck in your head. Early in my Zen practice, my teacher drew his finger across his neck, indicating that my head was cut off from my body, and I thought, “Well, this guy knows me. I have something to learn here.” When he strongly suggested that I try misogi, or breath purification, a few years ago, I took it as a command and I’m glad that I did.

Misogi is sort of based on rowing. You sit with your legs folded under you, and you push the rhythmic chanting to the point of hyperventilation. Sometimes beyond hyperventilation. There isn’t anything competitive about it. You just want to get through it without fainting. At the end, there is an incredibly invigorating high, as you experience chi coursing through your body like the Colorado River coursing through the Grand Canyon. All Western intellectuals who think that Eastern descriptions of the body’s subtle energies are mythology should be forced to do misogi at Brooklyn Aikikai. Overnight, academic writing would suck less by several orders of magnitude.

So there’s the instant payoff of unblocked chi, and there’s a long term cumulative effect. In Zen, they often talk about “loosening the diaphragm,” and I thought I knew what they meant. In fact, I didn’t. My diaphragm was so tight that I had no idea what loose was. After doing misogi a couple times a week (on average) for an extended period, I now know what a loose diaphragm is. I keep discovering new muscles down there, both in my gut and around the base of my spine. It has changed the way I breathe and the way I sit.

I read a book once by a gastroenterologist who said we have a “second brain” in our gut, because we have more neurons down there than any place except the brain inside our skull. This is a rare case of Western medicine confirming to some extent something in traditional Eastern medicine, namely the concept that the “hara” is the center of our being. Misogi, with its relentless up and down action in the hara, moves chi up and down the spine, thus connecting our two brains in the head and gut. Two brains acting as one--it opens all kinds of possibilities for mystical experiences that just aren’t available unless you do Zen and misogi. It might even raise your SAT score.

Pushing the Limits

2009-12-10T12:06:00.005-05:00

by Dmitriy Ovsyannikov

It was a cold and stormy evening. Three of us - me and two other members who were more junior than I was – were walking together after practice. The topics of discussion were the difficulties and experiences that were new and interesting for them. For me, however, they were neither new nor interesting. By this point, I had realized that everyone who outranked me had gone through all the stages I had, and, lacking an interesting story about joining the Dojo and lacking thoughts on quitting (anymore than quitting my profession) or unanswered moral or ethical dilemmas, I had nothing new or original to contribute to this blog. However, I thought it would very impolite to refuse a second request to write an article.

- - -

Soon after Sensei awarded me fifth kyu, I started feeling that classes were an exercise in futility. Although my muscles and joints weren't sore anymore and my breathing was only lighter than that of a steam locomotive, but lighter than that of many (newer) members, I felt no improvement in technique, sense of balance or accuracy.

Several months passed. Then, I was volunteered to sweep the sidewalk in front of the Dojo. This was my second time doing this task. Having finished, I realized that the area that I covered, as well as the cleanliness level, grew two-fold compared to the first time I swept, which was during my first week of training. At this point, it dawned on me that the change in my perception of what is “good enough” was enormous, but - it was not good enough.

Over the years in academia, I have acquired a “good enough to pass the test” mentality. If a top grade was given for an exam, the effort was appropriate. If a job was offered after an interview, the effort was appropriate. If a certificate was given after a fifth kyu test, the effort was appropriate.

However, both aikido and life in general are quite a lot more than a series of tests. To progress, one has to adopt a different mentality, something along the lines of “this effort was only good enough for yesterday” to push the limits on a daily, or at least weekly, basis. An obvious and simple way to push one's limits is to annoy a senior student (one has to be careful, of course, not to raise the annoyance level above mild). Unfortunately, it only works so far, especially since with sufficient practice one can avoid that particular senior student on the mat (not to mention that skipping class becomes an ever-present temptation).

Thus, and it sounds extremely banal and trivial, nobody will help you unless you help yourself first. Stop minding the exhaustion and the pain, which always come when limits are pushed. Actively seek stronger, meaner practice partners (they usually have cold, dry eyes). Attend seminars, for people you know tend to be more and more forgiving. And, eventually, you will be rewarded by becoming a better person - overall.

Here Now

2009-11-03T09:59:00.003-05:00

by Kate Savoca

I wasn’t planning on doing class that evening. I had already done the morning class, and since it was only six weeks since I had given birth to Cormac, I’d been taking it easy on the mat. But, I went downstairs to get something and saw that three of the six students lined up were women. I ran back upstairs (Cormac in tow) and put on my gi.

Coming slowly back to training after pregnancy and giving birth I see that I have missed the practice and also that I feel a responsibility as one of the senior members of the dojo to look out for the development of those junior to me. Recently, I have felt that most acutely with the female students.

I bowed in to the class and put Cormac in his bassinet on the side; Sensei started with ki no negare techniques. About 20 minutes later, Cormac started to cry. He was hungry. So, I excused myself and went to feed him. Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes passed and he was still hungry (anyone who has seen him recently can attest to the fact that he’s in the middle of a growth spurt!). I found myself watching the clock and hoping that he would soon be done. I wanted to get back to training.

But, babies aren’t known for blithely following their parents’ schedules, and Cormac, as amazing as he is, is no exception. He did finish eventually, and I did go back for the last few minutes of class. But I was left with the familiar and distasteful realization of how nearly impossible it is for me to simply do what I am doing. My mind is elsewhere, racing on to the next thing. Even when I am in front of this miracle, this child, I can’t stay where I am! Will I ever change?

This daily practice gives me thousands of opportunities to see this – again and again and again. In Aikido, Iaido, Weapons, Misogi, Zazen… how rare it is to have a moment in which my mind, breath, body are all here! But then there is another chance and another and another. One more strike or throw or cut or breath in which to try to actually experience something as it is happening. Of course, I can’t actually “try to experience” something – that sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? But I can make the effort to relax, to drop excess tension, to turn my focus to what is at hand. Perhaps then I can simply do what I am doing.

Weapons Sesshin, 2009

2009-10-29T10:26:00.000-04:00

by Annie Hsu

In a cloud of self
aggression, I kneel in wait
for dokusan. A
sharp wet wind sends me into
quick shivers. Quiet, at once.

My Front Bumper Got Ripped Off!

2009-10-22T15:10:00.001-04:00

by Justin Coletti

The other evening, I was driving down Flatbush Avenue on my way to drop my son off with my mother-in-law when a speeding Dollar Van ripped off my front bumper. A Dollar Van is an unregistered form of public transportation - just wave down the van, give the driver a dollar and he’ll take you and the rest of the passengers up and down Flatbush Avenue.

I must admit that I am a little vindictive when it comes to these vans because of their lack of courtesy on the road. With that in mind, my aggression met with the other driver’s aggression and I lost. It was pouring rain out, and my front bumper was lying on the ground between our cars. The look on my face was a cross between disbelief and complete rage. He was yelling at me and I put a finger in his face as we exchanged some very colorful words.

I felt very tense and agitated as I squeezed my busted bumper into the trunk of my car. We both just pulled away from the scene. As I drove away, I replayed what had happened in my head. I was angry with the Dollar Van, but knew I could only blame myself. I allowed my hostility to take control of my actions.

I train aikido at Brooklyn Aikikai regularly and have been for a few years now. Beyond just training our bodies to remember techniques, we are there to “polish our spirit” and to quiet our minds. Sensei has reiterated that our actions outside the Dojo and how we apply the principles of these techniques in our daily lives are far more important than just learning how to fight. The concepts of blending; being soft when confronted with hardness and visa versa; timing and distance; being centered physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually; and accepting things as they are - these are the principles we try to do our best to practice daily on the mat.

That evening in the rain, amidst the confusion of the frenzied street, I exhibited none of the above principles. I lost my center, became mechanical in my obedience to my unbalanced emotions and perpetuated more negativity in a city already brimming with it. Is my training all for nothing? Am I developing any of those qualities that help me be a more conscious human being, or will I remain a slave to my emotions and immature desires? I have no one to blame for my broken bumper but myself. That evening I acted unconsciously and without attention or regard for others. I had an opportunity to exercise my training in my daily life and I failed.

I believe one of the purposes of training at the Dojo is to change something in us. By placing ourselves in situations that demand constant attention, we hope that it can drop that thing in us that is constantly drawing us away from awareness and toward something more habitual and mechanical. If, through daily training, I cannot take those principles into my everyday life, then my training is superficial and means nothing. It goes without saying that I need much more training. However, the important question is, what will I do with that training?

All or Nothing

2009-09-30T11:28:00.000-04:00

by Talia Lugacy

I came to the Dojo hoping it would pulverize any habit I had to be heady or mental about practicing meditation. I came seeking some kind of experience, akin to meditation, that could tear apart any ability I thought I had to pay exclusive attention to the present moment. Tear apart, so that I might know with certainty what kind of ability this actually was -- what it is made of -- and how to possess it.

There's a tricky thing about living -- I've noticed in my infinitely limited experience -- and it's not new -- what you look for, you find. When you chase an image, you are acting like its shadow. Tricky, because I catch myself assuming that I know what it is I want. I am convinced that I already see and feel the contours and flavor of the thing I yearn to possess. So. That's not a real problem, until you really want to learn something.

In the brief space between being shown a technique and performing it myself, I discover that Attention is a state that cannot coexist with wanting, with searching. Either you are absorbed in the dynamic chase motivated by that thing you want to possess -- believing you understand, following what you see with your mind, giving yourself instructions on how to move; or, your senses are open to what is actually happening. If I really observe that pause, that preparation before an encounter, I see clearly that the two states do not, cannot, go on simultaneously.

This invisible and vague thing I am attempting to describe involves, in my own experience, a choice between taking it casually and taking it seriously. If I can observe myself - when I am being casual, in any aspect of life, it is because I am becoming afraid to be absolutely present. Some hypocrisy within is urging me to give a little less, to not be caught being painfully serious, to only be there 80, 90 percent. The absent percent becomes the happy difference my mind applauds when it stirs me to try again. So much for pulverizing my headiness. Hm. I have a private belief that's been festering for what feels like ever; and it is fed intensely by the atmosphere of the Dojo. There are no casual gestures in life. What you do, is you. Your word is you, your handshake is you, where you put your eyes and what you pay attention to, is all what comprises you. And there doesn't seem to be any part of that which is outside the realm of the absolutely magical and mystifying. With that spirit in my heart, it becomes impossible to approach training in a compromised way. For here is an art that actually creates sense and order out of impulses, a dialogue of bodies becomes their expression beyond thinking, formulating, groping.

I was fortunate enough through an uncanny series of miracles to be allowed and able to train intensely and daily, with no preparation whatsoever. The inspired heart tunes in at a level unrecognized by the casual hum of daily life, and the experience is explosive. I cannot see much into the things I know I don't know about -- it is not my place to comment on just how Aikido is challenging, for now I can only know that it is. What I do see is that to own it, to excel at it deeply, one's heart must be full of devotion, absolutely without compromise. It is from that center of affection that the necessary attention is born.

My Beginnings in Aikido

2009-09-21T14:08:00.002-04:00

by Ian Campbell

"Destiny rarely calls upon us at the hour of our choosing."

That's either from the Old Testament, or "Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen" - probably the latter. It sums up my second encounter with Sensei. The first time I encountered Sensei I had wandered into the Dojo looking for a new martial arts school. I was very impressed, very interested, but very intimidated. I was scared by Sensei because I knew that I couldn't get away with anything with him. I began training at a school that was closer to my home, had cheaper dues (I was rather broke at the time), and was more . . . casual. Martial arts is like relationships; I had been in a very serious one, and wasn't ready for another major commitment.

Flash forward a few months - I was in Barnes and Noble, looking for a book on O'Sensei to learn about his life and philosophy. I saw this man with an elusive demeanor in his early or mid-thirties. I said to him, "Hey, if you find anything by a guy named Morehei Ueshiba, let me know." From his reaction, or lack thereof, I figured he had no idea who I was talking about, but, after a few seconds, he pulled out a book by him.
"Oh, are you interested in aikido?" He asked.
"Yeah," I said, "are you into martial arts, too?"
"A little bit." I figured maybe he had a cousin who was an enthusiast.
"What are you looking for?" I asked.
"A different translation of the Baghavad-Gita." Then it hit me.
"You're an aikido teacher! You teach at that Dojo on Third Avenue! I saw your class - it was very intimidating, but I'm very curious about your school." I bombarded him with questions. He knew the Sensei with whom I was training. Sensei didn't seem to care whether or not I joined the Dojo. I think he even may have preferred I didn't, since I was already with a school.

I visited the Dojo again one afternoon when Sensei and Kate were out of town, and Brent was teaching. I watched the class, and was ready to make this new commitment.
Brent asked me, "Have you told your Sensei that you're going to be training here?"
"Uhhhhhhhh....."
"Tell him."

So, reluctantly, I did. I bought a bottle of sake, visited my first aikido Sensei, and said, "Sensei, thank you so much for all you've taught me. I am going to begin training at Brooklyn Aikikai, but I want to thank you for introducing me to aikido and giving me so much." Then, I handed him the bottle.
He said, "Yes, I know the school. Thanks for doing this the right way." He smiled warmly, and that was it. I felt a few inches taller. Integrity - that's how you stand tall without excess tension, isn't it?

During my first class, I partnered with Justin. I tried to practice the technique the way I did at my old school, but Justin grabbed my wrists and pushed me into the wall, HARD! I remember thinking, “How am I supposed to be 'soft' right now??” With his wrist and finger tattoos, I felt like I was fighting with a constellation - and not doing well.
"How was class?" Sensei asked.
"I feel like I took five of them at the same time."

As an actor and a student of martial arts, throughout my life and career, I've found myself physically at a loss. I feel as though I'm always negotiating between relaxed/slouchy/naturalistic and stiff/upright/try-hard. Here was something different. It was as if integrity was keeping my spine straight. As fears arise during training and become replaced inch by inch with breath and awareness, this duality begins to wash away. But, indeed, the path is narrow, and life is short. I see people at the Dojo, every one of them, full of courage, and willing to stand up for integrity. That is a very beautiful, and increasingly rare thing.

Getting Smashed

2009-08-25T10:38:00.003-04:00

by Jonathan Rinehart

Several months ago I bruised a rib during class. In quick succession I managed to get kneed and then punched in the same spot on the rib while taking ukemi. The next day my breathing was painful, movement was limited, and the thought of training was out of the question. It seemed obvious to me that I should miss a few classes so my rib could heal and I could avoid another, and perhaps more serious, injury. I emailed Sensei to let him know about my injury and that I'd be missing a few classes.

"Too many people take off time for injuries. They are actually gifts to work with." I don't know why, but upon reading Sensei's reply I laughed—I didn't know what to say or think, only that what I thought was the familiar and proper course (resting) was now gone from my mind. I went for a walk, thought about injuries being gifts (and what I could dish out to friends and family for upcoming birthdays), and then headed to the dojo for class not knowing what to expect.

As class got underway it was evident to me that pain, and avoiding it, was all I was thinking about. Each time I hit the mat my ribs hurt more, and with each thud I thought, "How can I fall without having my ribs hurt this much?" I watched Sensei and senior students more closely while they took ukemi. Their movements were relaxed and open. I realized that my understanding of ukemi was little more than how to fall safely without getting hurt—a pretty rigid definition, especially because its focus was on me not getting hurt, and not about the connection between myself and the person with whom I'm training. At this point, my injury gave me the ability to see some of the limits of my understanding of my practice, namely, ukemi understood as a passive falling, signaling the end of a technique, and not getting hurt.

And then a few months later I partially dislocated a shoulder during class. More presence! Sensei urged me to attend class as normal and work on kata, footwork, and conditioning. Training with this injury gave me more insight into lazy movements, of not turning my hips and arms properly—of all the things I was doing incorrectly but never truly realized because now, with a smashed shoulder, I couldn't do them in the same habitual way I always had.

Injuries limit our physical movement and therefore call attention to our techniques and practice in a unique way. In addition to seeing how I can greatly improve my footwork, move more from my center, etc., I began to see that taking ukemi is much more than just falling safely. It is an art of transformation, of moving openly from one state to another. Before I hurt my ribs and shoulder I wanted to remain healthy and free of injury (and who wouldn't?). But at the heart of my desire not to be injured was the anxiety of preservation. Ukemi, as I understood it before these injuries, was solely about preserving physical well-being. Consequently, as uke I would attack nage with hesitation. And as like begets like, my ambivelant attack would develop into a stiff and dull response to nage's movements. The last thing I wanted to do was open up and have a dynamic connection with nage and with whatever may follow.

Seeing that I have a ways to go with my ukemi is wonderful. It is important to have something to work on. My change in perspective, of being more open to transformation on the mat and off and less concerned with preservation, is something I will cultivate. As Sensei often says, "Don't hesitate—move forward in life!"

My First Day

2009-07-17T17:40:00.002-04:00

by Andrés Cruciani

When I opened the plastic bag, I couldn’t help but think my canvas gi was made of cardboard. This was not the same as the ones I had seen others practicing in the day before: Mine bent rather than swayed, folded rather than fluttered.

I put on my cardboard suit and followed an advanced student’s directions on how to tie my belt. As I walked onto the mat, I marveled at my gi’s size, at the amount of space between my skin and the canvas. I felt like a small puppeteer commanding this cardboard frame – this stiff, canvas exoskeleton – to move at precise angles. I wanted to jump out of my uniform: I was sure the gi would stay in place, standing rigid and alert.

I tried to mimic Sensei’s stretching, but I kept moving left when he moved right, right when he moved left: my feet were wrong, my arms weren’t in the same rhythm, my pants were falling.

He told us to roll. I tripped my way across the mat. Instead of a circle, I was a tumbling brick. I did not roll. “Backfalls!” he said next. Now this would be easy! I thought. But for 27 years I had been perfecting my ability to not-fall. I had so long ago grown out of falling that the floor repelled me. Through a succession of labored manipulations I worked my way to the floor. “Now try falling,” I was told.

For the rest of that class, we practiced a series of movements that I recognized as Aikido but that my suit and I turned into a mishmash of awkward gestures – a Japanese-inspired performance art of flailing limbs and bows. I finished the class like I had jumped into the shower without removing my gi; even the tips of my belt were soaked through with sweat.

Almost a year later, I look back on that first day. I felt alien, and so my canvas space suit was appropriate. But I also remember a spirit of adventure, a sense of determination, and an expression of will over fear. That first day Sensei had shown us a submission move. “Do you want to try it?” I had been asked. “Ok,” I had shrugged apprehensively. But it is that same ok that I have carried with me over the past year. That same ok that is helping me to slowly alter my gi from cardboard to silk, or at least cotton. Whenever I forget the newness of that first day – that exertion of will power to just let myself fall – I just look at Sensei’s outstretched arm, grab tightly, and “Ok,” I say, “Ok!”

My Own Personal Testing

2009-07-07T10:42:00.002-04:00

by Barry Blumenfeld

When Sensei mentioned that there was testing coming up, I was excited to learn that some of those folks would be people who started around the same time that I started. In some ways, it feels to me like we’re a “class,” and I was (am) very proud of them. That being said, I noticed some interesting feelings well up within me, as I am not testing. It’s not a surprise, since I have not put in even the minimum hours, but, nonetheless, my ego took a hit. I know that rank is not what this practice is about. The de-emphasis on belts and ranking is one of the reasons I was drawn to Brooklyn Aikikai.

For me, the greatest challenge this first year has not been the physical aspect of Aikido (this is not to say it isn’t challenging- it’s exhausting!), but it has been my relationship to the practice. When I decide to take on a new interest or skill, I expect to dive in and give myself over to it. I want quickly to become proficient at whatever it is so that I can express myself through it. Aikido is no exception.

But, now I am a “householder” - the single-income earner for a family that just became four. My time is honestly not my own. I see the young, single people having the time to take multiple classes, meditate, practice weapons and they improve quickly. Frankly, I’m envious. My ego is screaming, “I could be just as good at this! I want to be good at this! I want people to know I’m good at this!” But, my life just won’t allow me the time to do that.

Then, I come into the dojo. The first thing we do in the doorway is to bow - an immediate act of humbleness. We practice with an intense focus, honoring Sensei, our class, and the teachers of the past by coming to our knees in gratitude and with respect throughout the practice. As exhausted as we may be, we take care of the dojo first before even taking a sip of water. The intention the community holds - this is an act of service - is so pure. I see that in many ways we are not here for ourselves, but we are surrendering our own personal will to that of something older, deeper and greater. It is like the old story of the brazen student who does not listen to his teacher. When the teacher begins to fill a cup for the student to drink, he does not stop at the top, but lets the water flow over. The student asks why the teacher did this, and the teacher responds that the student is like the cup. He is already full so there is no room for the teacher to give him anything.

I’ve mistaken the purpose of this practice. At home, I have given up my needs and wants for those of my family. I thought I was going to Aikido to do something for me. But, in actuality, Aikido is a continuance of this selfless service, and it is through this surrender of the individual that one becomes part of something far greater and so much more fulfilling.

I get it now. My inflated sense of self - with the strength of Sensei - is choking me. What am I going to do? I know that I cannot beat it with pure strength. Instead, I have to allow it in, move with it, and drop down. Humbly come down to my knees.

MY Aikido training is a practice in humility. I AM being tested. Everyday.

Mess In Training

2009-06-15T23:17:00.004-04:00

by Fatih Genckal
The other day, some things occurred to me in a quite direct way when I got Sensei’s strike right on my jaw which knocked my head back and had me do an extremely quick back fall. It actually also stretched my neck and bent my back to a point where I would not have thought they could.

Practicing with Sensei or a senior person dislocates you. It upsets your balance. It messes you up. When you think you got the movement or the technique, and you feel strong, flexible, and ready to take your nice ukemi swiftly, Sensei throw a wrench in the works. He spoils it all. And after that happens for quite a while, you hopefully may realize that however hard you feel you’re training yourself, however much you feel you’re pushing your boundaries, working your muscles, that in fact your mind is orchestrating all that. It’s telling you what you’re doing, it tells you how much energy you should allocate to each thing, it even tells you how much more you should try to do, how much more you should and could push yourself and how to do that. It figures out ways to do things, and tells you how to do better. This way you know.

You know where you are and you know where you’re going, how much you have traveled and what to do next. It’s a sort of clear map. You think it serves your training. Getting a good strike from Sensei makes you realize how much more there is to it than that map. Suddenly you step out of it, out of that head-governed zone and try to deal with the chaos. Your body, not your mind, reacts then, usually in surprising ways. Only then you begin to train.

I think it was that same day that Sensei said “You’re not trying to defend yourself, you’re trying to know yourself.” or something to that effect, or maybe something that had in me that effect. Man is a creature of habit. We are constantly taught to make things familiar and safe, to reduce things into the comfortable, safe zone that we learn to build for ourselves to dwell in. So much that this becomes an instinct for us. And on top of that we think, think and think to further make things safe. That way we can know, we can predict.

We predict and constantly form expectations upon which we live our lives. We can live like this forever and we need to strive not to. What is so precious in the training is that it pushes us out of there into the unknown where we can actually learn much more about our real selves. What you do there is the beginning of your training. Let us all push each other there. It possibly is the best thing we could do for each other.

A Quote For Discussion and Thought From Sensei

2009-05-19T15:23:00.003-04:00

From Sensei: "The following is a quote from Taisen Deshimaru, a Zen Master. Please read and discuss."

"Sometimes people ask why I bow in front of the statue of the Buddha in the dojo. I am not bowing to a piece of wood, I am bowing to everyone there with me in the dojo, and to the whole cosmos as well. All these gestures are extremely important because they help us to acquire correct behavior. They develop dignity and respect, they help to create a normal condition in us. Nobody today is normal, everybody is a little bit crazy or unbalanced, people's minds are running all the time. Their perceptions of the world are partial, incomplete. They are eaten alive by their egos. They think they see, but they are mistaken; all they do is project their madness, their world, upon the world. There is no clarity, no wisdom in that! That is why Socrates, like the Buddha, like every wise man ever, began his teaching with "Know thyself, and thou shalt know the universe." That is the spirit of traditional Zen and Bushido; and in studying that spirit, it is very important to observe one's behavior. Behavior influences consciousness. Right behavior means right consciousness. Our attitude here and now influences the entire environment; our words, actions, ways of holding and moving ourselves, they all influence what happens around us and inside us. The actions of every instant, every day, must be right. Our behavior in the dojo will help to condition our everyday life."

-Taisen Deshimaru

Illustration by Hiroki Otsuka

2009-05-04T17:01:00.001-04:00

Yarn by Betsy Heistand

2009-05-04T16:34:00.007-04:00

Yarn is sold in skeins or balls. Skeins are those cool looking twisty things.
I spin wool into yarn on my spinning wheel. It ends up on a large bobbin. Then I make these large skeins using my niddy noddy (yep. that's what it's called).
I dye the large batch of yarn first so I get consistent colors for more than one skein. The yarn pictured got rewound into 200yd skeins.

Betsy's hand made yarn is available at http://www.betsyply.etsy.com

A Different Way of Knowing

2009-04-29T15:00:00.005-04:00

by Jenny Coletti

I spent much of my first year training Aikido with my mind something like this: “Don’t pull, stay centered, bend my knees, keep my back straight, stretch my back more, keep my hands in front of me, keep my hands open, keep my mouth closed, step forward, no- step backward, tenkan, wait-what is tenkan?, toes down, toes flexed, relax my shoulders, bend my elbow, keep the grip, roll, fall, move my hips, let go, don’t let go, remember to breathe!” I thought that if I could just remember all these things all the time, I would begin to learn Aikido. I thought I was paying such close attention to all the details, but I was allowing myself to become lost in them. My attention was far from clear or focused, it was scattered and distracted.

And then I found out that I was to be tested for 5th kyu. I wondered how I could remember all these things for all the techniques I would be tested for and it seemed overwhelming. Somewhere in the process of preparing for my test, my mind couldn’t take in any more details. I felt overloaded. I found that I couldn’t appreciate each moment and movement in a technique with my mind always anticipating, yelling, and demanding. My mind had distracted me away from the techniques, not toward a better understanding of them. I needed to begin to feel the techniques and to allow my body to move unobstructed by my overactive mind. It was a revelation for me and I felt a shift in my practice.

Preparing for my 5th kyu test gave me an opportunity to stop thinking and let go of my disquiet mind. I was practicing each technique over and over again until I finally allowed myself to feel the energy and movement through my body. It was freeing. I felt unencumbered when I finally let go of the never-ending dialogue and checklists my mind had been reciting. I realized that my intention and spirit had been hindered by my distracted mind and that I was always hesitating and wavering.

As I continue my Aikido practice after the test, I struggle to remember to keep my mind still and my awareness more focused. It’s easy to fall back into that mental dialogue, but I am getting better about quieting it. I try to approach each class with a clear intention to concentrate on one detail that I really want to work on and not get bogged down by all of them. It is a different way of knowing and of being, but I am trying to learn more with my body and less with my mind, to rely on awareness and attention and not memorization and details. Instead of thinking my way through Aikido, I am slowly trying to find my own way by experiencing it.

No Body, No Face

2009-04-13T08:16:00.001-04:00

by Annie Hsu

After ichimando a few weeks ago, Sensei asked the women who practiced that day what we thought of misogi, given that he's heard people criticize it as being “overly masculine”. Sensei's question took me by surprise because I had never thought about it in such terms.

While contemplating the question, instead of reaching any answers about misogi, thoughts about my job invaded. I find that one of most frustrating aspects of being a lawyer is convincing people that I actually am one. Once, after helping someone through their legal issues, I gave him one of my business cards. He looked at it, laughed, and said, “You're a lawyer?” Attorneys more often refer to me as “the young lady” on the record rather than how I refer to them, as opposing counsel (although I am tempted to use “old man”). In my office, the younger female attorneys are routinely the subject of letters written to our Director from older male attorneys complaining how we refuse to bend to their will. The younger male attorneys are never the subjects of these letters. These instances often throw me into a seething frustration, leaving me wondering if it's my age, gender, or ethnicity (or the entire magical trio) that engender such reactions.

Given the reign this magical trio has over other people’s perceptions of me and the amount of energy I’ve spent attempting to neutralize these perceptions, Sensei's question brought to light that I've never had to think about my identity at the dojo. All members of the dojo, regardless of age, gender, size or ethnicity, are expected to clean, cook, train with each other, sit in seiza until our feet are purple, bow to each other, and chant with all of our might. Women aren't expected to practice with less intensity or strength (and certainly won't be spared from getting smashed and choked), and men are expected to cook and clean. Sensei's standards for us, and, consequently, our standards for each other, are the same for each member. Because Sensei expects all from everyone, I've never thought to define our practice in terms of femininity or masculinity.

What I find so intriguing (and difficult) about practicing aikido and misogi is that we must be strong, but also relaxed, soft and aware. We must be what is stereotypically described as “masculine” and “feminine” simultaneously and without thought. When both the “feminine” and the “masculine” blend into one movement, one technique, where does the feminine end and the masculine begin? One day, while practicing sitting kokyuho with Brent, he mused that although he was trying to be as soft as possible and I was using as much muscle as possible, he was able to push me over repeatedly while I was attempting to apply the technique. The soft strength for which we strive is beyond masculinity and femininity, but, rather, is the result of the constant work of learning our bodies and polishing our technique.

Sensei teaches us to lose something every time we practice. Often I've wished I could go through life without a body, without a face. Aikido has given me exactly that – while on the mat, it has allowed me to shed the reactions to my identity and practice free from the limits that attempt to bind me in too many other aspects of my life.

Training Outside the Dojo

2009-04-02T23:00:00.000-04:00

by Kodjo Pleune

The word aikido can be roughly translated as "the way of harmonious spirit." In aikido you learn how to take your opponent's force and use it against him. You don't fight force with force. The most basic situation I can think of is if someone is trying to push you to the floor, and instead of pushing back you move out of the way and let them fall. In essence, you let your opponent do most of the work for you. This doesn't apply only to physical situations, though. I have come to realize that aikido is not just about physical training but mental training as well. You can use the same principles to deal with any situation.

One of the core teachings of aikido is to stay relaxed, both mentally and physically. When something is really not going well, our natural reaction is to get angry and fight it. I find that getting angry doesn’t help me find a solution to a problem. What I try to do is take a few deep breaths and let the anger subside then approach the situation with a clear mind and more often then not I'll find a solution to the problem in itself. Once I started to keep that in the forefront of my mind, I was able to apply the principles of aikido to anything, from twisting my hips when throwing or hitting a ball, to diffusing a tense situation between friends and even strangers. That's not to say I'm relaxed all the time, but certainly more than I use to be.

If you can stay relaxed and focused you can deal with anything. This is something for me to strive for in my day-to-day life. And hopefully one day I'll truly be centered.

A Thousand Arms and Eyes

2009-03-27T03:34:00.002-04:00

by Giun Kendo

A bit ago, I had a chance to spend a week as a guest at Brooklyn Aikikai. It was my first time to visit the dojo and my first time to do aikido. I was quite impressed by the dojo -- most specifically by the energy and positivity of the community. I am very gratefully to have been so warmly, thoroughly, and immediately welcomed into the midst of such a vibrant and inspiring practice community. Thank you all!

As it happens, while I was staying at the dojo, I received an unsolicited and uncharacteristic e-mail from my brother, in which he asked point-blank: "What do you think the point of your life is now?" In part, I told him that I imagined myself to be engaged in an effort to learn how to live a good human life -- and to put it into practice. And this is one of my strongest impressions about the dojo. I left the City thinking that Brooklyn Aikikai offers a positive and invigorating example of how one might live a good human life, and the value of such an example is not to be lightly dismissed. I tend to think that mainstream American society often does a lousy job of guiding people in the direction of a good human life -- a meaningful life; a dignified life; a beautiful life; a sacred life. Frankly, many, many modern Americans are utterly adrift and have no sound understanding of how to live…and, in the midst of this, the dojo offers an example of how life can be.

To further this stream of thought just slightly, one might say that the ideal of Mahayana Buddhism is the bodhisattva -- a being who vows to be reborn again and again and again in the cycle of suffering until all sentient beings have been liberated. Probably the most well-known bodhisattva in Buddhist mythology is Kanzeon (or Kannon or Quan Yin or Avalokiteshvara). Kanzeon is the bodhisattva of compassion and is often depicted with a thousand eyes and a thousand arms. These symbolize Kanzeon's ability to perceive all the suffering of all the beings in the universe and to respond compassionately to each situation with just what is needed. So, since I received my brother's big question, I have been thinking about what it means to look at the state of the world around us, identify what is most needed, and respond accordingly. And I have been thinking that Brooklyn Aikikai responds to the needs of the present world in a few critical ways.

The dojo offers training in discipline and self-control. Somewhere along the way, our culture seems to have forgotten that discipline need not be a negative term, and that, in fact, well-disciplined people are happier than those with poor self-control.

The dojo offers physical, visceral, concrete training to a world that has become dangerously abstract -- and in which many have largely lost touch with their physical bodies. This physical, concrete practice does wonders to re-unify one's mind and body -- to foster a healthy integrity between one's physical, mental, and spiritual sides.

And, perhaps this is a harder term to pin down, but I feel it is important. The dojo teaches its students to carry themselves and to treat each other with dignity. To behave in accord with a conviction that human life is meaningful and valuable. Indeed, sacred. And that human action matters. This, too, I am afraid is often lacking in our era, but it is of boundless importance.

So, that's my reflection. And it circles around again to end on a note of gratitude. I know that Brooklyn Aikikai in the form that I witnessed it would not be possible without the dedicated effort of many, many people, and I wish to express my thanks and respect to all those of you who have put your energy into building and nurturing this dojo. You've created something truly admirable, and I only hope that you will charge forward…optimistically, intelligently, diligently. And if the situation permits, I hope I will be able to join your Way and your community again.

Three Moments

2009-03-22T19:41:00.003-04:00

by Todd Barnes

Two weeks ago three important moments occurred in the life of the dojo. One, we had a test where we saw five of our fellow members rise in rank. Two, we had a meeting where we learned about the plans for the dojo’s physical expansion and our part in raising funds. And three, I moved to a new apartment. All powerful moments in time, they taught me a wonderful lesson about what we are part of here in Brooklyn.

First the testing. Sensei knows where we are in our training and could do away with tests altogether, but there is something about them that still works. More than twenty members sat in seiza to support the four who were testing. Sensei threw us a funky wrinkle and called up several members for surprise practice tests as well. This heightened the intensity and pressed all of us to contribute. The spirit was strong and we needed the energy of every member there to pull through. In the end, after almost two hours, we had the four planned testers rise in rank, one surprise promotion and more than forty feet purple from lack of circulation.

During a test when Sensei yells “uke!”, people rush to aid their fellow students. That is a metaphor for what we do in our training with each other every day. What works about the test is it shows us all something about ourselves and the health of our community.

At our fundraising meeting we had an even greater turnout. This was the second Friday night in a row we were asked to attend and we did so en masse. The evidence suggests we are either painfully unpopular individuals or we are committed to the dojo. I’ve met almost everyone and I’m pretty sure we must be committed (not in the rubber room sense). We discussed the need to raise funds for an expansion of the dojo. This will allow for Sensei to continue the commitment of his life to the dojo, provide rooms for visiting instructors, and allow us to grow our uchideshi program. Could there be a more inspiring project? I have no doubt we will raise the money necessary to complete the expansion and beyond.

Lastly, I needed to bring furniture up and down stairs a bunch of times last weekend. On the way down it took three people almost three hours to load the truck. When I arrived at my new address it took eight people twenty-eight minutes to empty it. That’s because Sensei and Kate came. They were joined by Sensei’s friend and former teacher, Imetai. Later Sarah arrived (the day after her test no less). Sensei and Imetai have trained for more than fifty years combined. If you have ever wondered what physical transformation you might undergo in your training you should see two Sensei move furniture. It is terrifying and awe inspiring.

And if you’ve ever wondered what kind of bond we all have as fellow students, if you’ve ever wondered how committed we are to each other. I have your answers...

- We will rush to take ukemi for each other as long as the test lasts.

- Sensei knows with minute detail when you’ve been to class, if you are injured and what progress you’ve made. He and others live their lives committed to this practice and keep their doors and hands open to us without respite.

- And there is something in this bond, this commitment, which can convince a perfect stranger (Imetai) to race up two flights of stairs, repeatedly, until all of my worldly goods are in place.

These recent events proved to me beyond doubt that we are all part of something very special.

Vase by Ming Yuen-Schat

2009-03-16T13:04:00.004-04:00

photograph by Ming Yuen-Schat, see more of Ming's work at http://www.flickr.com/photos/mingyuen-schat/

Big Yellow Taxi

2009-03-04T10:55:00.009-05:00

by David Lee

There’s a well-known song by Joni Mitchell that includes the lines:

“don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got till its gone..”

While I’ve always loved the song these lines took on a new significance for me recently when I found myself laid out at home for several weeks, unable even to get out of bed much less train due to a severe hernia. I’m sure, like most aikidoka there have been many times in the past when I’d talked myself out of training. I was too tired, it was too cold out, it was too hot out, my wrists hurt etc etc. During these moments of laziness it was just too easy to make an excuse not to go, “I’ll go tomorrow instead, next week I’ll train twice as hard” and all the time taking for granted the fact that I was able to train at all. That I had my health, that I lived in a city with such a great aikido dojo and teacher, that I could afford the monthly fees – all of these luxuries were easily forgotten. Forgotten until I no longer had them.

During many long hours of lying on my back staring at the ceiling I found myself longing to be able to do the simplest tasks again. I couldn’t stand long enough to make myself something to eat. I couldn’t leave the house to go and buy groceries. And I couldn’t train. I found myself missing Aikido a lot during this time. All those excuses now seemed so wasteful and I was forming a new commitment to my life and to my martial art that I promised myself I would honor once I was fit again.

This was the first lesson being unwell taught me. The second was more subtle but no less valuable. Sensei kindly gave my wife a book of Zen teachings for me to read while I was out of action. At first I thought just how nice this was of him to try to try to keep me entertained and I was honored that he’d thought of me at all while I wasn’t training. I then realized that this wasn’t simply a kindly gesture – perhaps the message was that, even though you can't practice aikido physically, you can still practice aikido mentally and this was his way of teaching me even while I couldn’t even stand up.

Aikido isn’t just something that happens on the mat – it’s a state of mind, its something we take with us every time we leave the dojo and its still with us even when sick and incapacitated. We should treasure every moment we are able to physically practice it and we should continue to train even in those moments when we are not able.

JUST WATCH!

2009-02-22T16:22:00.004-05:00

by Iwona Kupka

For the last few months, the questions I hear the most often is: “Why aikido?”, “ What does aikido give you?” So, this is an explanation for everybody who asks.

Only four months ago, after my first week of practicing aikido, I had a conversation with the Sensei. He asked me how I felt about my aikido classes. I don’t remember everything that I tried to say except for one fact. I answered him: “Because of the fact that English is not my native language, sometimes I don’t know which I am supposed to choose: watching techniques or listening attentively to what the teachers say”. And then the Sensei said, “Don’t worry about your language, just watch!”

Have you ever gotten a piece of advice in your life, which seemed so simple that you couldn’t believe it would work? I think that is what happened to me four months ago.

The next day, after my meeting with the Sensei, I came back on the mat. I tried to just watch…but I couldn’t stop thinking about all my limits: a language barrier, shyness, being exhausted mentally and physically. It doesn’t mean that I didn’t try to take the Sensei’s advice - I did, but…I observed the technique, and I was thinking “Ok, when it is your turn, just step forward on your right foot, grab his wrist and elbow - I think that I get this”. After choosing my “opponent”, I realized that “I DIDN’T get this”. Every class the same feeling - really depressing - again and again.

Just watch, just watch, don’t try to get “everything” at the same moment – that was in my mind, but unfortunately there were a lot of different things in the way also. I can’t say when I started to change but…it happened and it was an amazing feeling and hard lesson at the same time. Polishing my spirit, stopping my impatience, getting stronger physically – that’s what I thank aikido for, and that’s my answer to: “Why aikido?”

I have to add one more element which is perhaps the most important in my adoption of aikido. Because of aikido, because of people whom I meet at the dojo, I learn every day to open my eyes and look for more. I open my eyes on aikido, I open my eyes for me, I open my eyes for the most important things in my life. So, I will come again to the dojo tomorrow and…I will just watch!

Ichi go Ichi e

2009-02-15T20:22:00.002-05:00

by Reiko Rizzuto

Recently, a friend of mine died, suddenly and at a young age. In times of tragedy and sorrow, you look for lessons to get you through. Lessons like, life is shorter than you think, so make the most of it.

What aikido offers me in such a moment is an opportunity: to be new. To start fresh, to let go. It may seem like a contradiction. After all, don’t we strive to follow the instructor’s demonstration exactly, to do it over and over? What could be more of ‘the same’ than tens of thousands of ikkyos?

But every time I step on the mat, I have the opportunity to be different. To drop a little more, to get closer, to enter deeper. Lift your hand, turn your palm…these simple adjustments can change everything. And as my practice deepens, I am offered the chance to do nothing – not to think, not to plan – and still to find myself where I need to be. Far from being exact and correct, aikido offers me the chance to be present. To meet my partner where she is, to experience her attack as distinctive – and in my response, to make my own life anew: Who I am. What I can do.

There is a saying in Japanese that describes the gift of aikido perfectly: Ichi go Ichi e. It translates loosely into “one time, one meeting.” When I was living in Japan, the Buddhist priest who used the phrase described it this way:

Each time we encounter another person in our lives, it may be the last time, and it may be very important, something may happen in that moment to change both of our lives. It may be something we have done before, but this one time between us cannot be replaced. Each time, this is our time: just once, you and me.

Self Portraits

2009-02-10T23:48:00.009-05:00

by Justin Coletti

You Must Die on the Mat

2009-02-09T23:55:00.000-05:00

by Tom Worsnopp

As someone who is soon to test again for rank, I found my mind returning to the question of why we test at all. This is especially poignant given the general consensus that rank is of no importance. "If advancing in rank doesn't matter, then why test?" the reasoning goes. "If I fail, what have I lost?"

Viewed with a fixation on rank, testing is difficult to justify. But testing is more than a way of acquiring rank (meaningless or not). Testing is a tool for improvement. During the period leading up to the test, we practice harder and more frequently. We are encouraged to focus on specific techniques, and question them in detail. We must become technicians. This kind of training takes us outside of our habitual practice and allows us to see techniques in a different way.

Then there is the test itself. During the test, we must exert ourselves to the utmost; we are pushed harder than any class pushes us; we are mentally and physically exhausted. This kind of training leads to improvement of a different sort. It reveals how we behave under pressure. It reveals how we handle fear. And, with our muscles exhausted, it reveals how to act from our center, from our hara.

Years ago I was told that during the test "you must die on the mat". At the time, I took it to mean that I must try hard and exert myself a great deal. However, there is more to this assertion than I initially understood. Trying hard is one thing, giving everything is another. Giving everything requires us to let go of our fears and desires. It requires us to let go of our very selves. This is the death we must strive for.