ARTICLES/ESSAYS
REALITY IN PRACTICE
(this was written in 1999 as an electronic mailing list entry (Aikido-L) in response to someone else’s question: “Should I point out openings in my teacher’s technique?”)
I've been thinking quite a bit about this thread and for what it's worth, I'll post some opinions based upon my personal training. Here goes:
What is "reality" when it comes to training? Does "reality" mean that each encounter on the mat has a true life and death outcome? Not in my training. My instructor is normally terse but he has shared one piece of advice that I rehash in my mind regularly. Paraphrasing, he said something to the effect, "...at your level, both you and I are responsible for maintaining a martial sense on the mat. It's my job to create the proper atmosphere that demands and fosters constant awareness with an appropriate level of intensity and it is your job to make use of this. For example, what this could mean is that you must not take for granted that a hand is just a hand. A hand can be a knife. It can be a broken bottle or a club or a foot or a chair. Visualization of this type will help build martial
awareness......" What am I getting at? That in class, nobody pulls out a live blade and tries to cut me. Does this make my training any less "real"? If I am training properly (which I don't always do because it's very difficult) then NO I don't believe that it does.
It's very common for people to put their teachers up on a pedestal but let's face it, they are all human beings first. They are imperfect as we are and the only thing that separates us from them is that they have taken to the path ahead of us enough to be able to show us the way. So, is it possible for them to be up there on the mat demonstrating a technique and to have an unexpected opening? I don't see why not. After all, as well as being teachers, they are also still students. I personally spend ZERO time looking for suki while I'm up taking ukemi for my teacher. The fact of the matter is that there is absolutely ZERO time to do anything else but blend with him.
If I do otherwise, either consciously or unconsciously, our centers disconnect and the dynamics of the encounter change (usually with my body taking more abuse than necessary). Hypothetically speaking, if I were to see an opening while taking ukemi, would I try to take advantage of it? Personally, I would not (unless it was explained by my sensei that this was specifically what I should do)! Why not? Because a number of things could happen and none of them would I want to deal with. First, there's a damn good chance that the opening is not really there. What I mean is that what I might perceive as an opening might not be at all. Second, if there were an opening in his defenses and I was lucky enough to see it and "seize it", as someone's tag line reads, there's a damn good chance that my
teacher would be able to see this attack also and deal with it swiftly. So, what kind of harm is done here? Maybe none or maybe he senses that I'm "feeling my oats" and need to be taken down a peg or two. That would get ugly real quickly and my training is intense enough without me making it more so. Third, what if he was having a bad day and I was able to exploit this opening? What would this prove? That I was better than him? I don't think so. How would it make him look in front of the class? How would it make me look? If I were to observe this behavior, I wouldn't think twice about my teacher getting hit. It could happen. I WOULD think that the uke was trying to prove something and I would be disappointed in him/her for stroking their ego. Does this mean that these encounters are less
"real"? I DON'T THINK SO! When the teacher is up demonstrating a technique or principle and I am up there taking ukemi it is only a demonstration not a fight, not a competition, not a mugging. It is just a demonstration, a very REAL demonstration.
Now, what about "committed" attacks? Every one of my attacks, whether with my teacher or a fellow student, is a committed one. To me the word "committed" when used in this context means that I have the intention and follow through to make contact with my attack should the other person not take appropriate action. This does NOT mean that I attack faster than they can handle it (in the case of a more junior student) or that I can receive the technique. In fact, in my opinion "committed" has no speed/power connotations in this context. I like to think of it as focus/intention and follow through. Once again, by practicing in this manner does my training become less "REAL"? Again, I don't think so. I do feel that uncommitted attacks greatly diminish the value of training.
Some other thoughts: Aikido is all about blending. In addition to other things, this means working at the level of your partner. This level, although having some loose relationship to rank, is not constant. What I mean is that I just can't blindly think, "I can throw Julie as hard as I want because she's my sempai so she'll just have to deal with it one way or the other" and then go act upon this. If Julie happens to be having a bad day and I injure her because of my lack of sensitivity, then there is NO harmony and it would show a great lack of control and martial sensitivity on my part. Training devoid of this control and sensitivity is LESS REAL and also not proper (in my opinion).
In summary, thank you all for starting and participating in this thread. It has caused me to reflect on just what aspects of my training are important so that I may continue to sincerely follow my path of aikido.
In aiki spirit,
Mark Chiappetta
1999
"WHEN THE GOING GETS TOUGH...."
Aikido Life Inside and Outside of the Dojo
The original impetus for writing this essay was as a prerequisite to taking the shodan examination. However, as I sat down to begin this potentially arduous task, I realized that I was being presented with an opportunity to reflect upon what impact Aikido has had on my life thus far.
Aside from the obvious benefits, such as better physical conditioning, increased mental awareness, and improved coordination, there has been one area of my life that has been dramatically impacted by my training in Aikido. In order to explain this further, I should first present a little background.
I began training in Aikido (after a break of five years) in March of 1996. After a year and a half of training regularly, my instructor decided that he no longer wanted to teach and therefore was going to close the dojo. At this time, two other students and myself made the decision to join Connecticut Aikikai. I can still remember our first class together back in the old Grand Avenue dojo. The intensity of both the students and Yahe Sensei were amazing and as a nice surprise, the three of us were accepted into the dojo population as if we had been there all along. I remember driving home awestruck but somewhat confused. I had a strange feeling that, at that time, I couldn’t really put my finger on. Much later I would come to realize the nature of this feeling; I had found “my” teacher!
Six months of increasingly intense training had passed as I received a job offer that required relocation to another state. I accepted the job without significant thought and left my life back in Connecticut for this new adventure. As with starting any new job, I had little free time and therefore did not train for the first four months. However, when things got back to normal, I began practicing at a large Aikido dojo near my office.
Immediately I knew that there was something missing from my practice at this place. But what? In an effort to answer this question, I spent a great deal of time thinking about what I needed and wanted from my relationship with Aikido. So, I sat down one day and made a list of things that were important to me. Through the course of this exercise, I kept writing down words that I’d previously used to describe my training at Connecticut Aikikai. Hours of staring at this piece of paper led me to a very tough realization. Not just that I was longing for something that I had previously discarded, but that this behavior was part of a destructive pattern that spanned most of my adult life. This was something peculiar about my character that needed further investigation.
After serious introspection, I came to the conclusion that I have a very strong tendency to run away from difficult situations for fear of failure. Boy do I hate the sound of that! Up until recently, I never would’ve been capable of admitting that I was one of those people that “got going when the going was tough”. There’s no way to deny this. The proof is in black and white. This would explain the following: Why do I have so much trouble entering directly into a shomen attack? Why do I pull my center back when taking ukemi? On a larger scale: Why did I carelessly give up the one person that I was in love with when the talk of marriage arose? Why did I leave my dojo when things started getting tough? The list of evidence is long and clear. The diagnosis, which up until recently has alluded me, was made possible through my training.
It’s said that the first step in being able to solve a personal problem is to admit you have one, to understand its nature, and to embrace it. Through my training in Aikido, I have learned something fundamental about my character that I’m not happy with. I firmly believe that I can come to terms with this problem and correct it by focusing on this aspect of my training while on the mat. I can only remain optimistic that this correction will carryover to my life off of the mat and outside of the dojo.
It is safe to say that I will be working on this for quite some time back at Connecticut Aikikai which is once again my “home” dojo. I am thankful to my teacher, Yahe Solomon, for allowing me to come back as a serious student and for giving me a second chance. I’m also thankful to my art, Aikido, for helping me see with clarity, this one true aspect of my character and being.
Mark J. Chiappetta
April 1999
