Tonight at aikido my sensei read to us a newspaper article about serendipity.  He related what was in the article to what we do as part of our practice.  Laughing, he told us that he sees in aikido in everything he reads.  Now I laughed too as I thought about how I felt reading Wisdom Sits in Places.  There were many points while reading that chapter where I found myself thinking, “Hey, that’s what sensei talks about!”

The Western Apache notions of wisdom as having a smooth, steady, and resilient mind struck me as being relevant to my training.  There are many parallels between Dudley’s explanation of wisdom and my sensei’s explanation of our aikido practice.  Dudley’s story about his grandmother begins with her telling him “life is like a trail.”  The concept that in our lives we walk a trail or path, sometimes called a way, is a theme found in martial arts.  You walk this path, physically and metaphorically, to develop yourself in body and mind.  Dudley’s story starts with “the trail of wisdom.”  My sensei too usually starts with an explanation of the word aikido.  The last character, do or tao, means “the way,” or even “the way that it is.”  Aikido is a practice of walking this path the way Dudley walks his trail.
Then Dudley explains briefly what it means to have a smooth, steady, and resilient mind.  A smooth mind requires one to be present and aware of surroundings.  This parallels the precept in martial arts that “the eye must see all sides.”  A surface level meaning of this precept is that one should be aware of physical surroundings in order to avoid danger.  On a deeper level, the precept refers to seeing from someone else’s perspective; seeing all sides to the situation.

Dudley goes on to say that to have a resilient mind you must not block your own path, and that only you stand in your way.  The founder of aikido used to say that to have victory over others is a relative victory, while to have victory over yourself is an absolute victory.  In our practice today we emphasize that our biggest obstacle is ourselves and our perceptions.  If I can change my mind and have control over myself then I need not worry about trying to have power over others.

A steady mind, according to Dudley, is demonstrated by the ability to control your emotions and treat others well.  Tonight my sensei reminded us how the founder developed aikido so that we could develop ourselves and help one another.  Part of mastering yourself means behaving compassionately and respectfully towards others.

It seems that both the attainment of wisdom in Apache culture and proficiency in aikido require having your center; both physically and mentally.  With all the stories Dudley shares of places he says to Basso to think on it, that to develop wisdom he must keep on thinking about it.  To achieve wisdom it is a continual practice that must be worked on over time.  Those who have attained wisdom help to guide those still on the trail of wisdom.  This role parallels perfectly with that of the sensei.  The sensei doesn’t tell you exactly what to do or how to be, but they have gone down the path and now turn back to point you in the right direction so you may discover for yourself the way to be.

The way Dudley explained wisdom as a continuous practice to develop oneself resonated with our practice at the dojo.  Perhaps, like my sensei, I see aikido everywhere and make connections that others outside our practice wouldn’t immediately see.  However, like the cowboys who knew the story of Old Man Owl without needing further explanation, so too in our dojo community do we have an understanding of these precepts and explanations of our practice.  We share these stories with new students and point them down the path.  Some people stop on the way, and some continue to “keep on thinking about it” (Basso, p. 127).

After the close reading our guest did on Thursday I have been thinking about action and passivity.  The narrator, at this point in the book, seems to be a very passive participant in his own life.  He spends much of his time watching others and waiting for others to do what he wants.  When things don’t go as he hopes he is let down and is upset.  However, if he never puts something into action himself how is he going to get the result he expects?  I was particularly stuck on the sentence on page 595 of Within a Budding Grove when the narrator says “My whole plan was wrecked.”  The plan he’s referring to is his plan to look indifferently at pottery and hope that Elstir will introduce him to the little group of girls.  However, he only tells Elstir after the fact how much he’d like to meet them.  I was stuck on his notion that waiting for someone to do what he wanted was a plan.  To me, not doing anything and expecting results is typically not a very effective plan.

The more I thought on his passivity I realized there were two events in Combray where the narrator made a plan and followed through.  The first was when, as a child, he writes to his mother while she’s at dinner to have her come kiss him goodnight.  He even confronts her in the hallway.  His plan works, she even spends the night with him, but he’s miserable.  The second plan he acts on is when he works out a way to visit his old uncle Adolphe without his parents.  He sneaks over to visit his uncle so he can meet some of the beautiful women his uncle hangs out with.  While his uncle seems irritated, it seems as though this plan has worked.  However, the narrator tells his parents what happened.  This causes conflict in the family and uncle Adolphe no longer visits them.

In both instances the narrator made a plan and acted.  In both instances he got the result he wanted.  And in both instances there were negative consequences that overshadowed the victory of enacting his plan.  This may have taught him as a child that action isn’t the best way to go about things.  It makes more sense now that as a teenager the narrator opts for waiting and watching rather than jumping in and doing anything.  I’m interested as the novel progresses to see if the narrator continues to be so passive in his life.

The focus of my memory project is to explore the ways we interpret information from our teachers, and how we then communicate that to our students.  Specifically, I will be exploring this transmission in a martial arts context.  Currently, my passion for this project comes from my position as an instructor where I train, and the many questions I have about how to be an effective teacher.

But where did my drive to teach come from?  In reflecting on this question I’m brought back to my bedroom in my childhood home, in a house my dad built.  I would sit in front of my stuffed animals, and using a small whiteboard, would lecture them on whatever I had just read about. It seemed to be a need of mine as a child to impart what I had learned to others.  If my mom brought me to some social event I had no shyness about talking some adult’s ears off about my latest obsessions; from dolphin intelligence to Thai culture.

As I grew into adolescence it became less about teaching others and more about storytelling.  I was rarely at a loss for words and practiced using gestures and expressions to convey my meaning more clearly.  As I progressed in theater I was put in a mentor position where I was given many opportunities to teach newer students what I was continually practicing.  At this time in my life it didn’t occur to me to analyze how I was teaching others; whether what I was saying was really helping them or not.

When I started my martial arts training the thought of teaching was so inconceivable that it didn’t even register as any sort of possibility.  I could barely wrap my head around the idea of rank promotions.  After a few years the desire to teach struck me like a roundhouse from my old instructor.  I realized I needed to do self-defense classes.  Someday when I had enough training, someday when I knew what I was doing, someday way down the line.  Still, the concept was very far off, a future goal that didn’t need to be addressed yet.

It wasn’t too much longer after that realization that my current instructors started making comments about me teaching.  “Someday when you have your own dojo…” “Some day when you’re teaching…” These comments startled me, but still, the position seemed like it was in the distant future.

Suddenly though, changes started occurring in the dojo.  Two instructors moving away, another needing a break, and assistant moving on.  Having just tested for my brown belt (an occasion that came much sooner than I
anticipated) my instructors asked me to begin teaching.  First it would just be helping out for kids class.  Then filling in for adult classes. Finally, developing a toddler program.

Faced with teaching others you really start to critique what you do.  Do I know enough to teach others?  Am I good enough at this to teach others?  Does what I say make sense?  Am I saying too much or too little?  What do I do
if someone asks a question I don’t have the answer to?  How do I correct someone in a constructive way?  How do I make sure all the students practice safely and respectfully?  And on and on.

My teacher often asks me “any questions?”  After asking one or two I usually say “that’s all I’ll ask for now.”  I need some time to let the rest of these questions form into sentences.  As a child in front of stuffed animals teaching was easy.  Now, when faced with four-year olds and forty-year olds the task is more daunting, and more enjoyable.  For this project I will be able to ask questions of my teachers about what we learn, how we practice, and how/what we teach.  Teaching, like the techniques we practice, requires practice and awareness.  After learning more about how my teachers teach, maybe I can be more effective in helping others learn.

Today, before going to work where I teach kids I took a quick nap. My concerns around waking up in time leaked into my dream. I dreamt that I went to work as usual, but older kids had shown up for my toddler class. I was confused about them being there, but agreed to let them stay if they assisted in teaching.

When I woke up, but for just a brief moment when I hadn’t fully become alert, I was of the impression that I no longer needed to go to work because class already happened. Luckily, I woke up fully, went to work, and had toddler class without any interruption from the older students.

Prior to starting class I shared my dream with one of the mothers there. She too had a dream of her mundane work day, and had woken this morning feeling that since she had taken care of all that she needed to she no longer needed to go to work.

What a strong impression dreams have when they consist of such normal every day events. Going through the day unsure if you’ve already done something or merely dreamt it, had a conversation with someone or imagined it, is simultaneously interesting and confusing. In that moment of just waking, when I was still foggy from sleep, I had the utmost conviction that my middle school students had come to help me teach. Though the second time I walked into work today, this time fully conscience, they were nowhere to be found. All the conviction I felt about the events that occurred while sleeping conflicted with the reality of actually being in the space.

I’m interested in the narrator’s separation of self. This keeps coming up. Separation of his physical self and mental self in the opening pages. Separation from his heart when he must go to bed without his mother’s goodnight kiss. Separation from his consciousness when viewing something beautiful. Separation of himself from reality while reading. He even speaks of trying to transcend his soul. How much more separation can you get?

I find this particularly interesting because in my training with traditional Japanese martial arts there is an emphasis on what we call coordination of mind, body, and spirit. Through our martial practice we strive to bring our whole self together and in the moment (another thing the narrator rarely does). Even the Japanese word for heart (kokoro/shin) speaks to this unity. It is used interchangeably to also mean mind. And within older Japanese culture, the heart and mind were seen as being located near the navel, literally within the physical center of a person. To leave your thoughts to wander in your head puts you physically off-balance.

So this concept of mind/body/spirit coordination found in traditional Japanese arts comes from the culture of Japan at the time these arts developed. I wonder then if the narrator’s quest to separate all parts of himself comes from the culture of France at the time. Is this an expression of feelings of alienation? What is to be gained by splitting oneself into so many pieces?

As I was walking home I saw a rock that inspired in me some strong reaction, a sentimental feeling of fondness.  Much like Proust’s narrator being stricken by the beauty of a flower or a church steeple, I was stumped by this very ordinary rock.  As I walked on a moment I recalled a memory this rock had thrust upon me.

Several years ago, on a sunny and slow day, a former student of my theater teacher’s returned to impart on us some of the knowledge she was gaining at a professional acting school.  She had decided to take us on a right-brain walk.  The purpose of this silent activity would be to engage our creative right brain; to act on our impulses without carrying judgement or logic into the interaction.  So we began our quiet exploration of the school campus.  We felt free enough to climb trees and to roll in the grass, to move around in ways we hadn’t in a long time.

On the course of this walk my friend found a rock.  She lifted this large rock, no more special than the others nearby, into her arms and cradled it protectively for the next hour.  She held it close to her chest, turning away when others would walk near her.  Only once did she seek me out to have me hold the rock while she carefully leapt her way across the parking lot; an act I suppose she felt to be too dangerous for the rock.

When the walk ended and we began to reflect on our feelings and actions my friend told me that upon seeing the rock she felt the strong urge to protect it.  She felt as though the rock were her baby and she had to shelter it from harm.  To many of our classmates this seemed unusually funny because it seemed so out-of-character for this particular girl to exhibit such gentle and maternal qualities.  She always had an outward appearance of disgust and indignation at having to be amidst our classmates.  Her hardened attitude kept many people at a distance.  However, knowing her as I did, her need to mother and shelter a rock seemed appropriate.  Some of us in her close circle used to refer to her as our mamma bear.  She was always aloof in her affection towards us, but aggressive in her defense of us.

So while walking home after seeing a rock this memory flooded to the forefront of my thoughts.  In just a brief moment I could recall the bright day; the image of my friend, worry on her face, as she gingerly carried this large rock in her arms; the timidness with which she admitted to me, back inside, about her feelings.  After this memory came back to me the fondness the rock inspired in me was connected to my friend, whom I always found endearing when she acted on such heartfelt impulses.