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.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Friday, April 9, 2010
Fresh Blood
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Croissants
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!
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
No Turning Back
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.
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.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Deep Cleaning
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.
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.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
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