Mindfulness of Action

My second lesson of the year and I'm beginning to fall back into that comfortable groove of Aikido-minded training. We are acclimatising to our new Dojo, I have to say that I find the view from our Dojo somewhat distracting at times - being able to see directly out to the inviting water of the swimming pool does little for my concentration, but it does help me feel a little relaxed whilst training.
An overseas student joined our class last night, black belt, though I believe from a different stream of Aikido. How is it that Aikido can feel so awkward and non harmonious from somebody who I am supposed to listen to and respect? The hierarchy in Aikido can be confusing at times. While I am supposed to respect those senior to me, how does this work when they have glaring deficiencies that are difficult to overlook?

Perhaps it is a matter of respect being earned, and not simply given on the basis of the fact that one is wearing a Hakama? I would think that this is true of all levels, regardless of your belt colour. If somebody is a different level to me, whether higher or lower, there are certain abilities and skills they will have that I do not, and vice versa.
Regardless, I believe one should not give advice to their partner, *unless* it asked for or you are the teacher of the class! This works both ways. If am senior, I will not give advice unless a junior obviously wants it. If am junior, I wouldn't even consider giving advice unless my senior made his desire absolutely clear.

In the matter of a senior student with.... deficient abilities, I would simply keep my mouth shut and do my best, while avoiding the temptation to judge them.

How can I be a good Uke or Nage if I am busy judging them?
On that point, I have often found that when I slip into the roll of concentrating on what my partner is doing, rather than what I am doing, then both of us suffer.
I believe mindfulness is key. Do not worry about what everbody else is doing, worry about what *I* am doing.

A New Hope

This week started out somewhat depressing in the knowledge that our sister Dojo in the eastern suburbs had begun classes again this year, while we were still "dojo-less".
Things look positive at this point, not only has my teacher already located a new Dojo months sooner than expected, but it is located within walking distance of my house! (if you consider 40 minutes walking distance, I certainly do...)
I look forward to the mixture of morning and evening classes, and of course the benefit of having the dojo close to home. In the past we were unable to train Keiko after class due to the club closing times, but hopefully at this new venue we can Keiko to our hearts content!

I hope things continue in this positive direction, after such a long break I need something to reinspire me for my Aikido practice. Already I feel overwhelmed by the prospect of winter Gasshuku, a nearby Dojo's weekend Gasshuku with which we are affiliated, and the upcoming Japan trip in May.

What's that? Sorry, have to go... my Jo is calling me!

And Everybody Was Kung-Fu Fighting, Ooh! Ah!

Jason wanders off into his own private fantasy world, flying through the willow tops jung-ho styly, while in the background popular Taiwanese singer Jay Zhao sings 'Uding'.

End of Year Antarctic Flight

I was certain that I would be writing here an analogy centred on the spectacular views of Antarctica that I was privelaged to experience on new years eve, with my mother. However the more I have reflected on the experience, the 14 hour flight between Sydney/Melbourne to Antarctica with 449 other passengers plus flight crew, the more I have come to realise that I can only reflect on my own reactions to the experience and what this teaches me about myself.

How does this relate to Aikido?

It relates more to how I cope when surrounded by people, how I deal with my own expectations, the ways I strive for balance in a situation with few avenues of escape.
I don't know if I want to attempt to describe, or if I have the right combination of words in me to describe, the experience as it occurred from my perspective. Or if I could even begin to do justice to those small, occasional pearls of life lessons we learn about ourselves in such unique situations.

I'm not sure if I will write more than this, I may, but I will need to do it justice.

As One Closes, So One Opens

The depression of change overshadows the immediate future of my spiritual pursuit in Aikido.

Two days after our return from the wonderful Govinda Valley Gasshuku, it was my surprise to learn that our contract/lease with our current venue is ending due to some differences in 'philosophical' outlook between our dojo members and the boxers who share lease of the same room.

My future with my current Aikido dojo is now uncertain. I cannot travel to the Eastern suburbs after work twice a week (considering I live in the inner-western suburbs), and I have reservations about my teacher's willingness to actually re-open a dojo in another venue.

In fact, I had strongly suspected that my teacher would close the Dojo for the past 6 months or longer, after low attendance rate at a number of classes amongst various other cues I have read in his body language.

The beauty of life is in change, nothing remains the same. I read that somewhere. Perhaps I will find a new equilibrium (ie a new Dojo?) that is able to support my interests in Aikido, remaining philosophically compatible with my own beliefs and those practices I have already learnt. Sometimes when one door closes, another opens - I will try to remain positive.

During the Xmas break, I will continue to practice with my Jo. Perhaps this will help keep me inspired.

Domo Arigato Sydney Dojo, we will miss you!

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.