In our older kids’ class (8-13) it’s not uncommon for some after-school slack, slop,  and goofiness to occasionally visit some of the children during training (imagine that). I have discovered a great line that works almost every time. It goes like this… “That failed to express your greatness.” If you say it right, the child doesn’t hear that they failed. They hear that they’re already great, and they just need to show it. And then they do. They step through their technique with an elevated sense of center, the energy is more intentional and focused, and they are more connected to the ground and their partner.  It’s like friggin’ magic. Of course you have to follow up with positive reinforcement and occasionally remind them to bring back “The bigger Johnny (or whoever).” It had been going so well, in fact, that I decided to try it with adults. It didn’t go so well. The first one was with an intermediate-level student who’s temporarily disconnected alignment wasn’t getting her effective outcomes. I tried the line. She nodded and then proceeded to nearly rip the guys arm off. “What are doing?” I asked. “Declaring my greatness,” she said. I reminded her that I didn’t ask her to declare it. I asked her to express it. It took a while, but we got there. The next student I tried it on was a more advanced one (same class). She was dis-integrated in her movement, and for her, applying relatively listlessly. I tried the line, and once again, the student answered with forcefulness. “What are doing?” I asked. “Proclaiming my greatness,” she said. So, I reminded her that I didn’t ask her to proclaim it. I asked her to express it. It took a while, but we got there. It seems that children have an easier time accurately understanding what their “greatness” means. Adults immediately hear that there’s something they need to DO—something harder, faster, stronger. Kids hear that there’s a way they need to BE. How wonderful, and…how scary.

A few days ago I got a phone call with news that my old friend, Keo Power, had committed suicide. I was shocked at first. Less than a day later I was remembering the times he had said that he’d rather put a bullet in his head than…die slowly of some horrible disease or be incapacitated, or whatever condition of perceived hopelessness it was at that moment. It’s hard to say this, but knowing Keo as a man of action—sometimes volatile action—I suppose I shouldn’t be shocked that this is the way in which his life ended. I don’t know the exact conditions that triggered him into killing himself, and I certainly don’t want to play armchair psychologist, but…how hopeless he must have felt. It makes me sad.

Keo loved to create—much of the time for others. He was an extremely generous guy. My world has his handiwork everywhere. I walk in the dojo and there’s not a spot that he hasn’t built or touched in some way—the mat, the weapons racks, the dressing rooms, the frame for the stained glass that he installed as a surprise one night after everyone left the dojo, the old “Aikido of Mission Valley” sign that he carved for me. As I walk through my home I notice tools he gave me before he left for Japan and the stovetop espresso maker he gave me. He was serious about his coffee even when he was living out of his van, and he felt that I should be too. I still use it for camping.

Keo was also an Aikidoist and a student at our dojo for several years. He got his Ni-Dan with us. The fact that he was a close friend before he started training with me was sometimes a challenge, because we didn’t always agree when it came to Aikido. He often had a hard time going in the direction I encouraged while still honoring his previous training, which was the stated reason he came to me. That was a source of both appreciation and frustration for me. With that said, he had his moments of greatness on the mat and he was a model of diligent training. That relationship taught me a lot about being a teacher who’s also a friend, and meeting people where they’re at without compromising my own principles.

It had been a while since I had seen Keo. He left San Diego a few years ago. I would occasionally hear from him, and was under the impression that things were going well for him. I took for granted that I would see him again, and that we’d sit down and share a few beers and talk about aikido, adventures, and women once more. We did that pretty often. Now that I know it won’t happen again, I miss him, and I’m grateful that we were in each other’s lives.