Lauren Moline is an 18-year-old aikidoist from
Victoria, British Columbia. her father has been practicing Aikido since
she can remember, and has guided her in her training since she was 6 years
old. Although she says she does not practice regularly due to school and
other activities, she does "always" follow the philosopy!
Here is her account of a couple of Aikido Diary experiences:
Well you want stories about Aikido. I can tell you stories!!!!
I did know a guy who had to use his knowledge on the streets in a fight. His name was Mike Chin. He has been practicing with my father for as long as I can remember!! Anyway this car of young guys (who were probably about my age) decided one day to key some cars (you know, running the key along the side of a car ruining the paint job completely) So Mike was in his car about to pull out of a parking space along the side of the street when these guys slowed down and proceeded to key his car. They were obviously looking for a fight but Mike was confident that he was going to talk to them or get their licence # (or something) so that they could pay for the car. As calm as can be he walked over to them and started trying to talk. The passenger comes out of the car, opens the trunk, and tries to take a crow-bar to Mike. Without a blink of an eye Mike had the guy on the ground and had the rest of the car surprisingly co-operating. I always liked this story because the good guy did prevail!!
My other story is about me at the MAF Summer Camp in Chicago. I was there with my Dad about 2 years ago. There was a Sensei there name Mamura Sensei. He was, I think, 83 years old. His presentation for the end of the week (at the social) was a Japanese song that he was getting his roommates to sing with him. My Dad was staying in his room, so, of course, I was visiting. Mamura Sensei immediately liked me for two reasons (1) I can sing (2) I know some Japanese. So the two of us sang for about 2 hours one night before the last day of practice. The next day I went to practice when Mamura Sensei was helping out. I paired off for a technique with a very large (about 6'3") black belt. (I don't have a rank because I don't practice regularly!) This black belt wouldn't help me at all. So there I was (5'2") trying to pull and push this massive guy around to do the technique. All he did was stare at the ceiling! Meanwhile, Mamura Sensai (who is small and fraile) comes along to help me. He quietly says "Now, because you are a woman and because you are so much smaller than him you must...." and before I could blink this large 6' giant was lying flat on his back (looking very dazed!!) with a very cute 83-year-old man looking down on him. I have never had a better lesson in Aikido. Once you know what you are doing nothing matters!!! You are a master. Those are my quick stories.
Richard Levitt is an aikidoist from Oakland, California. He trains at the Aikido Institute under Sensei Hoa Newens and Kim Peuser. Mr. Levitt's martial arts experience dates back 15 years and includes wing chun, tai chi, tae kwon do and Iwama-style aikido, in which he began training in 1992.
Meeting Waza
We're in a meeting of about 9 people, plus two conferenced in by phone, all to discuss plans for an upcoming new business pitch. It's our first meeting as a group to discuss this very important piece of business, and the lines of responsibility aren't clearly drawn. Obviously, everyone wants to shine, each to play an important part.
My job is creative director, which means everyone expects me to be a well of ideas and solutions. I offer up ideas, some are accepted, some challenged, questioned or rebuked. A few people pitch in, while others sit quietly.
As the meeting drones on, issues are brought up, beaten into submission and applied to a monumental list of action items, it occurs to me how similar this meeting is to jiyu waza. Really, to Aikido practice of any kind. Both my thinking and my patience are challenged, and everyone has their unique way of issuing the challenge, much the same way uke delivers an attack.
Some are straightforward, confronting the core of an idea. Others attack an idea from behind, "Oh, good idea, but the client won't like it ..." Another attacks originality. Or strategy. Or practicality.
Once I took those attacks as an affront, and dealt with them by attacking back. I took it personally, incapable of changing my perspective, or taking the time to consider the source.
More recently, I've seen that people attack ideas the same way uke attacks nage: by looking for a weakness and exploiting it. Yet in doing so, they also reveal their own weaknesses, or in this case their concerns!
As an account manager questions the strategy, she's saying, "I'm responsible for presenting this solution, is the client going to understand it?" When the production manager questions the practicality, what he's saying is, "Hey, I'm going to have to follow through on that, and I question the logistics." The account supervisor wonders about the tactics, but between the lines asks, "I'm responsible for profitability, where's our margins?"
It's my job to get ideas on the table, but it's not my ideas anyone is really interested in, it's their relationship to them! So the blending I do at work is to blend with perspective, rather than physical energy. But it's still the same blend.
Instead of delivering a nice sankyo and flattening uke on the mat (which I have to admit consideringÄsometimes fairly often), the technique is empathy; it's delivered by allowing uke to fully express his or her energy, letting it into the room to dissipate. Listening carefully and respectfully, validating their position. Then offering a solution that quells both explicit and implicit concerns.
Uke says: "That idea's too weird, the client's not going to get it, and we won't get the business." He means: "I'm really insecure about presenting that idea, and I'm afraid of being rejected, looking foolish, or both." I say: "That is a weird idea (blend). Let's do some research that quantifies the idea, and present them together (empathy)."
Uke says, "Okay, that'll work," Uke means: "Okay, we'll see." It's kind of like getting uke to tap.
Better still, all that positive, empathetic energy works its way into the room more easily than angry energy. It's infectious and joyful, and everyone appreciates it.
Too, I have learned to express my ideas in a way that others can hear. Like calling out uke, I can put out a leading question or pre-qualify a statement, or simply, just prepare them for what I'm going to say.
Since I can't control how others hear me, at least I can control what they hear, and how it's delivered. More times than not, others in the room are struggling to understand my position (and hopefully trying to take it in), and I want to help. So the easier I make it, the better off we all are.
If I keep moving on the mat, it's easier to blend; if I stay fluid and open in meetings, it's easier to blend.
The lesson I've learned is that if I don't fight, I won't get beaten up. When everyone expresses themselves clearly and without anger, each is heard more successfully. Everyone gets what they want.
In the creative process, really the creative sales process, we're challenged further. Even after exhaustive research, careful planning, and engaging execution of a communications plan, there's going to be someone along the line with enough influence to derail it all. Someone who just doesn't get the program.
They don't like some detail and the campaign gets killed. Or worse, it gets tweaked and changed bit by bit, until it resembles nothing of the original. There's a story that constantly circulates in the ad world about the client whose wife just had a baby, so he wants to see a baby in the ad. Or he likes purple, or Paris, or thinks funny hats are terrific.
But basically, he takes a stand simply because he's in the position to do so. Many people like to see their influence in black and white, or they don't feel like they're adding value.
Yet the lessons I've learned still apply. Sometimes on a bigger and more frustrating scale, but the song remains the same. Often times we decide ahead of time on elements of a program that we'll sacrifice for the sake of elements we're committed to preserve. In meetings, we'll focus on the sacrificial things, which the client will then consider more carefully, and predictably, want to affect.
We're initiating the technique. Putting a hand out there for a katate grab. And just like on the mat, they'll usually grab it. Aikido often expresses itself in subtle ways. In how you cross the street or move through a crowded room. I've experienced that it isn't always just in movement, but also happens in action, position or observation.
Wendi Maxwell is a black belt at the New School
Aikido dojo in Stockton, California.
"I found Aikido in 1988 when I was looking for an ethically acceptable
martial arts activity for my preschool son. I've been studying with Sensei
John Smartt ever since, and now have my third-degree blackbelt."
Wendi also taught beginning and intermediate adults until her new commuter
job took up too much time, but she feels her real skill is helping other
blackbelts express themselves. She supplements her Aikido training with
related disciplines, such as katsuganundo, a Japanese movement-based healing
art, and guided dreams (both waking and sleeping) for meditation and insight.
"I agree with Terry Dobson that Aikido 'is a lot like dancing.' Each
new partner brings new music, new moves, and helps create a new me."
Irimi Nage
He bows from the waist, his back slightly stiff.
Our eyes meet, and I feel a thin chill of excitement in the small of my back.
Bone by bone it slides up my spine causing a ripple of movement, an intake of breath.
The white bleached canvas stretches taut beneath my feet; a pulsing connection travels through my body and settles small and hot in the center of my belly.
His attack arrives fast and hard.
Lunging forward, half fencer, half barbarian, he strikes out, the wooden knife in his hand slashing down toward my throat.
I spin as he attacks, our paths inescapably connected.
The knife slashes earthward, slicing the air where I recently stood.
We twirl as one now, facing the same direction, seeing the same future.
I've slipped to his side, causing his motion to spiral around me, capturing his orbit around my axis.
Our bodies touch, my breast and shoulder pressing against his back.
One hand cradles his jaw, the other stretches the knife away from my thigh.
He whirls around me, his legs out of control, his head held securely against my chest.
I step out of orbit, retrograde motion, and let him turn back to me.
With both hands now I hold his head, the full moon descending in an arc to the horizon.
I kneel and lay him gently on the ground.
The knife, its attack useless, lies forgotten in his hand.
Carefully I pull the blade from his fingers and slide it through my belt.
I step away from his body, rise, and bow to begin again.
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