Training at the Farm by D. Hall

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On Pain - by Z. Ludescher

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so I began training Aikido.

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

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

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

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

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

On Giving

In the Buddhist tradition, the six paramitas refer to six virtues that one seeking enlightenment or Buddhahood must possess. Dana, or giving, is the first of the paramitas. There are many forms of giving, but I would like to mention three, and comment on them in relation to our practice in aikido.

According to the Vimalakirti Sutra, (tr. Burton Watson, Columbia U. Press, 1997) the three primary ways to practice giving are:

1.     The gift of non-fear;

2.     Gifts of the dharma, i.e., preaching the dharma (the way) to others;

3.     Gifts of material goods such as food, shelter, clothing, money, et cetera.

While material gifts, the third category, may not seem as lofty as the other gifts, they are just as essential. Without basic necessities such as food, water, clothing, and shelter, it is extremely difficult to begin to cultivate an inner life, a deeper life. For a true study of the self, one must be able to have one’s basic needs met.

            This is similar to daily practice in the dojo: if we cannot pay the electricity and other daily bills, we cannot afford to keep the physical structure in which we practice open. Gifts made such as money, tools, supplies, and training equipment can be essential to keeping a dojo running well. And because dues collected for teaching do not represent a realistic exchange for learning the art, it is necessary to encourage these donations to have a flourishing dojo. Beyond these basic needs, our practice demands other stimulation: we cannot practice in a vacuum, no matter how long we have trained. For this we often need to travel—to meet and interact with others at different dojos and to train with them. The practical side of travel, whether sending students to a seminar or bringing high-quality teachers to one’s own dojo, requires an immense amount of money—funds for gas, planes, food, et cetera. A gift given toward keeping the dojo running well, or encouraging exchange of practice, can be listed in the above third category of gift-giving.

            The second category of giving is that of making known the dharma, or the way. In our case, I would suggest this is the offer of our practice, our knowledge, to others. As countless others have helped us with their efforts, so too must we give back and help others. Generations of individuals long since passed have helped to bring forth our art and develop it. Truly understanding this should keep us humble and grateful. No matter our level, we must do our best to give back a gift of our knowledge and practice. By doing this, we keep ki circulating and lively.  Only by giving back can we insure a line of practice is continued. This second category of gift-giving could also be thought of as making known the principles of the art. By correctly making known the art, we preserve it for future generations and are giving a gift to future students.

The first category of gift-giving is the alms of non-fear. This is the gift of a certain quality of peace, of hope, to others. If aikido is truly an art that can help to reconcile opposing forces, then we must be able to see this aspect of the practice and give it to others. Often a student or fellow practitioner has difficulties on the way. A vital gift can be offered to support this person—to provide her/him encouragement at a time when s/he needs it most. If a gift of non-fear can be given, it has the potential for a radical transformation—one that could truly change a person’s state of despair into one of hope.

To continue with the Buddhist model, we can look at the above ways of giving in relation to the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha.

The Buddha, with his outstretched hand, corresponds with the alms of non-fear (the first category), giving hope to all that each one of us may know our real nature, and that suffering can be ended. This image is the symbol for the cutting away of self, and is the ultimate gift to one’s Self. Practice on this level means each one of us realizing our true nature.

The Dharma flows naturally forth from the Buddha’s hand, his teaching spreading throughout the world. This gift (the second category) is the gift of the dharma, or law, to transmit correct principles and ethics to future generations.

The Sangha (or third category) supports the practice and work of each person engaged in the Dharma, and, in doing so, provides a foundation on which to continue and build their practice. The gift of the Sangha is the gift of supporting practice.

            This three-fold model can be seen as a triangle, each aspect contributing to the other:

                                                                       

                                                                       

                                                 

            The Buddha (or any individual) strives to perfect her/himself by destroying her/his own illusions, giving the ultimate “gift” to her/himself. From this realization, which includes becoming fearless, the desire naturally flows forth to help all sentient beings, as one realizes the world’s complete interconnectivity. The Dharma is thereby brought into being and spread. For it to be sustained, a group is formed—the Sangha. The Sangha supports the Dharma, and gives the teaching to all who will hear it. This encourages the development of further seekers, which leads to the arising of new Buddhas and thereby continues the circular flow about the triangle.

For our own development in Aikido in relation to giving, we must give on all levels. We may begin with ourselves, coming to the practice to seek ourselves, or our own interest in the art. We are here giving a gift to ourselves, allowing ourselves to grow and mature and develop fearlessness—the stage of the Buddha. But it cannot stop there. As we grow in understanding, we must give our knowledge to others and seek to spread the principles of Aikido to the degree we can understand them—this is the stage of the Dharma. This giving will naturally lead to the growth of like-minded seekers, which will be a support for future individuals. This group of seekers or practitioners—the Sangha—has to be supported in order for the flow of giving, and thereby development, to continue.

To summarize, we can think of giving and practice on three levels:

Practice for oneself;

Practice for the art/principles/law;

Practice for/with others.

The three practices of giving are interconnected and, to my mind, cannot be separated. Let us try and engage in a true practice of dana and go forth and practice giving on all levels.

R. Savoca, with R. Heins

1 January 2014

New York

"I wanted only to try to live in obedience to the promptings which came from my true self.  Why was that so very difficult?"

-Demian, by Herman Hesse

want what you have

            In college, my voice teacher once told me a story.  There was a famous music professor who toured the country giving lectures to huge audiences several times a year.  Those who knew the man on a more personal level knew that he was rather reserved and timid, always preferring to stand outside of the spotlight, but when he was on stage, he gave the most impassioned speeches.  A colleague of his approached him once after one of these lectures and asked him how he did it: How was he able to transform himself into this other powerful, confident being. The man turned to him shyly and pulled out two small pieces of paper from his left and right jacket pockets.  In his left hand the paper said, “I am a speck of dust in the Universe.”  In his right, “I am the Master of the Universe.”  He went on to explain that he reads the paper in his right pocket before going out on stage, and he reads the other as soon as he’s off stage.  One to inspire, one to humble himself.

            It must have been August when I went to train one day because I was already sweating as I walked into the dojo.  I remember having a sense of dread about that day’s class, too.  Work was stressful that week, family stuff, I hadn’t been able to come to class that much that week, blah, blah, blah…and now a class in the middle of a heat wave, at noon, with only a handful of other people training.  I was about to be crushed.

            And, I was right.  I feel Sensei thrives under these conditions.  He must because we began that class with a slew of rapidly changing conditioning exercises that led straight into the techniques.  It was all a blur.  We switched so quickly from technique to technique, from pins to throws, all while the dojo magically transformed into a sauna.  We all struggled that day forcing ourselves just to stand after each throw.  Through sheer necessity, we pushed each other to dig a little deeper, to find that extra kernel of strength until that final clap from Sensei came.  Class ended, and I was drenched in sweat (mostly my own), breathing heavily, and feeling pretty awesome.  I survived.  All the baggage I brought into the dojo with me had somehow melted away. 

            While cleaning upstairs, Sensei made a comment about the weather.  I responded that the heat did not bother me so much as the humidity did especially during training.  Sensei looked at me and countered by saying that you have to believe that this is the only way you want to train, whether it is a hundred degrees or below freezing in the dojo.  “Then you’ll always have what you want,” he said.  I had to take a moment to let that extremely true and beautifully simple statement sink in.  Perhaps it is societal but it is very easy to see the negative in everything and very easy to carry that around with us.  We sabotage ourselves by creating an environment where everything that happens, happens to us thereby diminishing our own power.  It becomes a cycle of victimizing oneself, a cycle of which I am very guilty.  The answer to change this all around seems so simple, but I have been learning every day since that the application is the hardest part.

            How can we all just “Be Here!” as the posters in the dojo say?  How do we let go of everything to focus solely on the task at hand?  Perspective is a powerful ability.  There will be times when we have to give that speech or take fall after fall, and from what I understand of Sensei’s statement, we have to learn that the situation will stay the same.  How we respond and the attitude in which we confront that situation is key.  It has been a couple months since that moment, and translating that idea on and off the mat is a constant battle.  A battle that seems less daunting the more I am on the mat.  Funny how that works out, isn’t it?

-A. Fukui

From One Thing Know Ten Thousand Things by J. Shannon

Miyamoto Musashi captured in his writing, 'The Book of Five Rings' (written 1643 A.D.), a key difference in the oriental and occidental mindset.  In western culture we are often encouraged to do everything well, and to focus on those things that we do not naturally do well to improve upon them.  This with the idea that we will become more well-rounded.  Just think of what students go through with college applications in the western world as an example.  Regardless of how good you are at math or science, writing or art, you have to show that you were involved in clubs, sports, and school politics to get placed in some of the best schools.

In the eastern culture the practiced study of one thing is more often prized over general knowledge.  Each person has their role in society and each person is expected to perform that role with the highest of skill, regardless of how exalted or menial the task might be.  In 'The Book of Five Rings,' Musashi says in reference to the study of the art of the sword... "This is something that requires thorough examination, with a thousand days of practice for training and ten thousand days of practice for refinement."  Ten thousand days is roughly thirty years of deliberate practice and devotion, which leaves little other time for alternate study.

The idea of this concentrated study is that through this one art, you will know all others.  The implication is that the mastery of one art allows the practitioner to understand the interconnectedness of events and objects and similarities in all things and that truth is easier to find this way than in dabbling and being distracted with ten thousand different arts.

What the modern western students of martial arts can take away from this way of thinking is to focus their attention on a few things, to be deliberate with their study of those things, patient with the learning curve that follows, and to understand that through thorough examination of their art they may one day understand the truth of all art.