Not Less, But More
About a month ago we said goodbye to our cat, Monkey, who passed at the ripe old feline age of seventeen. I had heard from many people how the death of a pet can impact you in ways you may not expect, even more so in some cases than another human being. Monkey was a near constant presence and, as a pet, provided a canvas for the projection of many things: our emotions, our very human need to anthropomorphize, to connect back to the natural world, and ultimately, our grief.
Grief is a funny thing. I have seen how it impacts individuals, families, even whole communities and nations. The only way through is through, to let yourself feel it, which is about as much fun as it sounds.
So what does this have to do with Aikido, you might ask?
Well, first that grief is a reinforcement of the concept of impermanence. We are all passing through this reality in our own way. Each life is made of countless moments, each of which are individual and unique, even when shared. I may practice ikkyo thousands of times, but each time I do it is its own experience. There will not be another exactly like it again. It is fleeting, and therefore in its own way, precious.
Grief also requires one to join with it to fully move through it. I have seen so many resist grief, to their own loss. Viewing it as a seemingly endless state of sadness it is, understandably, avoided at all costs. But grief is also just as much a part of yourself as it is about whatever or whoever caused the loss. To reject it is to reject part of who you are.
Aikido’s usefulness, its applicability, is not so much in its “martial” nature in my opinion. Rather, it is a willingness to try to move towards acceptance: acceptance of the situation at hand, acceptance of how I may really feel about something, acceptance of what may come, or what may not, of what is. This is not to suggest a practiced apathy, or a learned helplessness in the face of adversity, but an ability to be flexible, which can then yield possibilities where others might see none. That is its true practicality. The secret is not in the role of nage, but in the role of uke. We have all marveled at someone else’s fluid ukemi, but when we train most of us tend to focus on how to administer the technique and dominate, not on how we move with it. We focus on the role of nage. This is perhaps also understandable as this is the role emphasized when we test. We remain in the role of nage when testing, but seldom are asked to demonstrate ukemi as part of our tests. This has always struck me as a bit odd.
A more open kind of approach to training also invites vulnerability and the unknown. I do not know what technique will be executed when Sensei calls me up. I do not know what my partner will actually do during training. However, it’s in those uncomfortable spaces that growth occurs (or at least, where it can occur if we allow it), and when we come to understand this it becomes less and less uncomfortable. Over time a kind of joy begins to emerge and it is at these times that we can look back at the path behind us and see how far we have come. Not in some outwardly demonstrable or marketable way necessarily, but internally. Our bodies can start to relax. Our minds can do the same, and we can discover that we have not become less, but have simply discovered more.