2007 Summer Gasshuku: Govinda Valley

The train trip was relaxing, giving me the opportunity to retreat temporarily into my own private world of sci-fi make believe and fantasy. A short 1 hour ride outside of Sydney and we had arrived, a train station in what appeared to be the middle of the national park. A little scary, but also exhilerating.
A short walk later the three of us arrived at Govinda Retreat, beautiful, restful, peaceful, all these words and more. Already I felt overwhelmed by the prospect of so many people. I would find a private space at the first opportunity.
The laying of the mats ensued, claiming of rooms, after which a dozen or more students decided to travel into town for lunch. Initially this appealled to me, but my better judgement won over and protested at the fact that I needed some privacy already. Ok, but next time I must be social.
The students drove out of the retreat, and I walked quietly down to the stream, found a beautiful spot behind an old shed, amongst wildflowers, a view up through the valley, and the tinkling sound of the creek only several metres distant.
Although overcast and slightly wet, I felt at peace and content here.

I withdrew my Jo, and played with the energy I have learned to create through it's extension.

Many hours of training, fatigue, and sore swet-rashed skin later, I finally arrived at Sunday morning. Finally an outdoor session. We connect and extend, expanding, contracting, sending and recieving Ki through our fingertips. Our teacher stops us, we gather in a circle, and he inspires us with is words.
It seems a little corny in retrospect, yet he quotes Yoda and still I find tingles running up my spine. He's right, of course - the very philosophy which underlies this art we practice can be tied back to everything that was ever said by one little green alien with hairs growing out of his nose.

“Size matters not. Look at me. Judge me by my size, do you? And well you should not. For my ally is the Force, and a powerful ally it is. Life creates it, makes it grow. Its energy surrounds us and binds us. Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter. You must feel the Force around you; here, between you, me, the tree, the rock, everywhere, yes. Even between the land and the ship.”

And if Yoda could see the Aikidoka on that day, basking in the light of the sun, sending and recieving Ki with nature, I am sure he would be proud. Or... proud, he would be!

Correlative Factors

Initially I didn't realise there was a connection.
My ukemi was superb, and my instructor new it. He called me up to demonstrate with him for each and every technique, for close to a month. He threw me around like a rag doll, and my ukemi rarely resisted his fluid instruction. It was beautiful, perfect. Like a dance where each partner knows their moves, and follows through with confidence and intent.
That was 6 months ago. My ukemi worsened, and I eventually levelled out at my 'regular' ukemi training level. How? Why?
During that period of high ukemi performance, I regularly visited the local parkland during lunch breaks to swing my Bokuto and Jo, experimenting with the sensation, trying to "discover something new" as my teacher is always advising.

I have started this practice again, visiting the local parkland (this time a different park, my workplace has since moved to the far western suburbs. Nevertheless, this hardly affects my weapons training - except to say that I am *more* cautious to cover my weapons when walking with them along the street) and swinging my Bokuto, playing with the swirling and swishing movements of my Jo.

I love my Jo, it does everything that my Bokuto does and more. It extends beyond the measure of my arms and fingers, beyond its own length, touching distant trees, shrubbery, grass. My ki extends through the Jo, and beyond, blending and uniting with nature at my discretion.
The feeling is unifying and harmonious.

I teach myself a 31 move kata, yet it's complicated. Regardless, I practice diligently, and become excited by my progress.
I spin the Jo through my fingers, twirling it like a baton. When did I develop such fancy (yet possibly useless) skill with this weapon?
I drop it, deliberatly, and spin it back up through the air with my foot. Fancy? Showy? Or am I becoming one with this weapon? Have I finally began to cotton on to what my teacher has been trying to explain to me these past 12 months?

I *am* the Jo. My energy extends through it, beyond it, merges with it and yet leaves it. My energy traces the imaginery line that the Jo creates, and touches distant horizons. This works in reverse also. I draw energy *in*, from the distant horizon, from distant trees, flora and fauna, through the end of my Jo, up the length of my arm, down into my centre. It becomes part of my Ki.

What is Ki? I don't know what it is to you, or what is to my teacher, or what is to my fellow Aikidoka, but this is what it is to me.