I just returned from a long weekend in Maine. My cousin’s daughter, Jasmine, had her Bat-Mitzvah and just about everyone from the family was there. It was not as I remember mine or my sister’s, or any others from my generation. This was an actual rite of passage—an opportunity for Jasmine to be presented to the community as a ready and complete participant. I was impressed by the preparation she obviously invested in it, the community service that she did (and continues to do) as part of the process, and the mature words she had to say about Love when she spoke to the congregation. Mine was sterile and empty in comparison, although I’m not sure I would have appreciated it either way when I was thirteen. The weekend got me thinking about Rites of Passage, how it’s expressed in Aikido, and what I can do to improve that element. I know it’s very different from dojo to dojo, so I’ll share the way it’s done at Aikido of San Diego. Like Jasmine’s experience, there is a long preparation period when the candidate works with a senior mentor to sharpen their “vocabulary” of the art so that when it’s presented, it is clear and is delivered with confidence. Here is where we may be different from other dojos. Last year I implemented a new policy where candidates must complete a project of their choice that they relate to aikido before an exam is administered. Jasmine’s community service project at a local senior home clearly added dimensionality to her rite of passage experience, and more importantly, to Her. That’s what we’re trying to accomplish, too—an experience that connects the dots between the formlessness of principle and the form of the manifest world. Yes, this is also expressed (hopefully) in their technique, but the project is there for dimensionality. The way of Aikido should transcend technique just as Jasmine’s passage into the Jewish community should transcend ritual and “vocabulary.” I don’t know what she has to do, if anything, as a follow-up to her Bat-Mitzvah. At Aikido of San Diego, the last part of the rite of passage is unwritten, comes some time after the exam, and is an integral part of the experience. I will approach the new Sho-Dan at some point, present him/her with a key to the dojo, and ask him/her to instruct a class. It doesn’t mean I think they’re a teacher—simply that they have a foundation worthy of guiding others in my absence, that they are trusted with the dojo, and maybe most importantly, that they are expected to continue discovering new levels of themselves. Like any rite of passage, Sho-Dan is not an end, but a new beginning.  

This is a message to my friends who fruitlessly engage the online (and offline) martial artists and “Aikido” practitioners who whine about fighting, aikido training, and “street worthiness.” You know who and what I’m talking about:

Despite the tendancy of a true Aikidoka to include, evolving sometimes means distancing yourself from people who wish to challenge growth by dragging you down to their level of dysfunction. The deeper you swim, the louder they’ll get. But eventually you won’t even hear them, because they’re still standing in the shallow water. They can’t swim, and don’t wanna learn. They are, in fact, afraid to swim. Nothing you say or demonstrate will change their delusional perspective. I, personally, choose not to engage them. Life is short. Engage those with hope and interest, because sometimes we have to leave people behind in order to move forward.

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.