My Front Bumper Got Ripped Off!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.