Aikido is and always has been a new paradigm in martial arts training, and has truly redefined what it means to be “martial.” The old paradigm is concerned with winning, power over others and conditions, and typically approaches body and form through right-or-wrong lenses. It says that there is a technique for this situation, this is the way you do it, and if you repeat it enough times it will become natural. The old paradigm always carries at least some life-denying energy in either intent or training approach. The new paradigm is concerned with personal evolution, empowered relationship with others and conditions, and typically approaches body and form through true-or-false lenses. It says that techniques are vehicles for embodying principles, there are infinite forms of appropriate response for this situation, and one will be expressed when I am a true expression of guiding principles. The new paradigm is always life affirming in intent and approach. There is much more to distinguish between the two paradigms, but this is enough to make my point…which is this. There are simply too many of us out there with the Aikido brand who are operating from and within the old paradigm. Aikido is in danger of becoming another “jitsu” or “ryu,” and this I take seriously. Aikido is not a jitsu or ryu. It is a martial instrument for personal development. Don’t confuse the techniques we practice with the Aikido itself. When O-Sensei stated that Aikido was here for human beings to become one family, he didn’t mean that repeating nikkyo until it was really strong would manifest that. He meant (I believe) that Nage and Uke can relate to each other in such a way that each can learn nikkyo, and it can be an affirming martial expression of harmony. But it won’t turn out that way if we’re not approaching it that way. This is where all of us can be real warriors—to be a living reflection of what Aikido actually stands for. I know this because I, too, went through a long period of letting go of the old paradigm and making myself vulnerable to the possibility that I wouldn’t be able to walk my talk. But this is the issue, isn’t it? I think those of us on an Aikido path all have to face this at some point. So, are you ready to face the fork in the road? I’m not gonna say that I hope you pick the “right” one, because I don’t want to imply that Aikido is the right path for you. Maybe a jitsu or ryu is the right thing for you. I do get a little worried, though, when I see the Aikido name attached to it. Maybe it’s one of those inevitabilities I should just let go of, but I don’t think I’m ready yet.

I am aware of the growing trend of Aikidoka to cross-train in other martial arts. It has received a lot of support over the past few years from some high ranking and influential people in the Aikido world. I find this trend to be really unfortunate for Aikido, and it saddens me that people are being encouraged to go in that direction. Now, I have an idealist nature, and I understand that not everyone is like that. I’m always looking at myself and double-checking about my congruence with principle, spirit, and ideals. To me, Aikido is an ideal in action, and I have found absolutely no reasons to give up on it as the complete and whole practice that it is. I think that when it comes to a question like cross-training, it’s important to ask ourselves why we practice Aikido, why O-Sensei developed the art, and why he did so in the unique way it’s supposed to be practiced (the non-competitive Uke-Nage relationship, etc.). If you are an Aikido practitioner and you have decided to train in another martial art because you believe it’s going to make your Aikido better, my question for you is, “In what ways is it really helping?” Your answer will not include anything that addresses the ideals of Aikido. How could it? That’s what Aikido is for. Most of us get into the art for the “right” reasons. Something about the ideals or philosophy of Aikido resonated with us, right? I’m left with an impression that what really motivates people to cross-train in order to improve their Aikido is fear—fear that their technique is weak, fear that Aikido won’t “measure up” against other martial arts, fear of being dominated or not being dominant, fear that the “real world” doesn’t care about ideals, etc. Stop it. Just the premise of what is taking you to cross-train is already limiting you. Basically, you invested in an airplane because you wanted to fly. And then you found out that flying was either difficult or personally challenging, so now you’ve rented a car because you think it will help with the flying. Huh? Sure, in the meantime your rent-a-car will get you to places that are more familiar and comfortable to you, but is it familiarity you want? Aikido is way bigger than that and has plenty of space for all energies to be practiced effectively, and in ways that take You to new and bigger places. If you really want to cross-train, how about something that supports a practice based on the ideals of Aikido. For instance, if you’re finding that presence is challenging for you, then take up meditation. If you feel your Aikido would benefit with a body that’s more open and aligned, then take up some Yoga. But everything you need in terms of technique and the “martial” aspects is already contained in quality Aikido training, and just as importantly, in a way that supports the ideals of the art. My advice is don’t give up on Aikido. Return the rent-a-car, get back to flying, and Trust.

Forge and forget, forge and forget…

In the most basic terms, that is what a training pattern on a path of mastery looks like. There are many who never really get to the “forget” part, which is a shame, but that is a future topic. Forging is the focus of most peoples’ training, and that’s why I’m writing about it first. I think that “forging” in the context of our training is a little misunderstood and slightly misleading. I think the problem is that we all seem to follow the model of sword forging for obvious reasons of history and lineage, and that is normally interpreted as something we do to steel in order to create something more refined, strong, and sharp. The emphasis is on repetitive doing, and the goals tend to be associated with more yang qualities (energetically speaking). Steel, however, is much different than body. Steel has properties and tendencies—qualities if you will. Body has that and more. It has intelligence, and a natural tendency towards homeostasis (balance). It is a living aspect of a bigger unit. In my experience, when you try to forge your body and movement in the common interpretation of that tradition, natural body intelligence gets usurped and you end up with a practice that’s not very natural. That can often feed imbalances that are already there. Aikido becomes very “cookie-cutter” like. I’m quite sure O-Sensei didn’t have that in mind for us. I find that when it comes to “forging,” it makes a lot of sense to ask ourselves some questions before we start hammering away. Who is the One Forging? Who’s the One even asking the question and thinking about it? What is the relationship between the One who’s forging and the body that’s being forged? How does that One have to be in order to see the body-mind come to a functional balance in (and outside) the context of our training?

So what happens when you ask yourself those questions? Do you suddenly get a sense that You are not your body, and vice versa? Do you sense that you are not your thoughts and beliefs, and vice versa? Without separating those aspects from each other, it’s important to be able to distinguish them. It’s only when you can see those distinctions and hold an awareness of it that You will actually be able to operate as a unified functioning unit—balanced and intuitive. Now you are open to a more dimensional forging experience. Yes, it starts with body, but you may never get the benefit of truly knowing the effects of your thoughts, beliefs, and patterns on your actions without asking some simple questions and making some simple distinctions. I’m quite sure the finest forgers of swords will tell you that it’s much more than hammering, folding, and polishing. The great ones will see the reflection of their whole Self in the blade they have meticulously forged, and, if approached consciously, you may see the same thing reflected in your training (and techniques that you create). Forging is more than repetition of movements. It’s a conscious, balanced, and dimensional path of training and development.

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.

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.