Northern Wind

Based on my own training over the years as well as observing the training of other students, it seems like there is sort of a three-step progression that occurs. What I Am Doing? When we first start out, our focus is mainly on our own bodies. We learn what our feet should be doing, what our hands need to do. We practice our positions, memorize certain choreography, learn terminology, get accustomed to a new culture. For the beginner, it's actually okay that they don't necessarily have kuzushi or off balance, that their timing is off. Build the plane first, then fly it. Defend It's also a time when we focus on what to do when we find ourselves in the midst of conflict, which is to say, defending ourselves, just staying alive. What HE/SHE Is Doing? Once we get the hang of all that, we can begin to think about the meaning behind it. When I do a given technique with all the appropriate footwork and hand positions, what is that supposed to do to uke? Sure, up u...

If you study any modern Japanese martial art, you are no doubt familiar with the concept of "do." It's most often translated as "way" or "path," which makes for a very handy and versatile metaphor for the long, wonderful journey that is budo . If, then, the study of a martial art (or really anything) can be likened to a path, what does that path actually look like? To me, it takes on different forms as you progress. A paved street When you first start your study of an art, and for some time afterward, the path will probably look like a paved street . That road has been paved by the many who have come before you, who have traveled this exact path a hundred thousand times. It's a solid foundation, and it's objective is firm. There are all kinds of signs and maps to help you along your way, to guide you in the right direction, also designed by those who arrived long before you. Failure to follow that guidance will likely get you lost...

It doesn't seem to matter how intensely interested a person is in studying his or her martial art of choice, all of us, at some point or another, come face to face with burn out . Now, "burning out" can range anywhere from a small sort of fizzle—in which your interest dips, or your body is just plain worn out so you take a brief vacation for a week or two—all the way to a complete and utter implosion, where you give up entirely on the art and never set foot in a dojo again. I myself, have gone through several burn outs, so you might say I'm something of an authority on the subject. Fortunately, in each case, the burn out was never so bad as to prevent me from returning. I took months, even years off, but (so far) have always come back. So what is "burn out" exactly? Why does it happen? What do we do when it happens? How do we prevent it from happening? Over the years, I've developed a few ideas, and this post is the first of three on the subject....

In time, earth fades, leaving only the wind. These are the techniques which feel so much lighter to uke, unlike earth, and are so ephemeral and difficult to see, unlike fire. These are the techniques which often send uke flying, such as kote gaeshi , kubi guruma , or sumi otoshi . There is a moment of faint connection between tori and uke, but then it's gone again. Wind neither strikes like fire, nor holds like earth. It brushes against the skin lightly, here, then there, then over there. This is an element that astounds younger, newer students. Consequently, he can at times begin to believe in his own "magic," indulging in his new role as mentor and sensei. He can also fall in love with the sound of his own voice, philosophizing ad naseum to a room full of captive, weary students. Wind is open. While fire and earth tend to focus on what's in front of them, wind is constantly moving, aware of everything around it, yet fixated on none of it. Wind's ...

To me—and this is simply my thoughts on the subject as of today—Martin Luther King Jr. Day is about so much more than just the relationship between white people and black people. It's even about more than just "racism." It's about the seemingly instinctive impulse for one human being, or group of human beings, to consider themselves superior to another person or people, for whatever reason. And all kinds of reasons exist, even today: men believing they are superior to women; one nation believing they are superior to another nation; the young believing they are superior to their elders; the rich and entitled believing they are superior to the poor and uneducated; one religion believing they are superior to all other religions; this politcal party believing they are superior to the other. I've seen people act with cruelty or indifference (and I believe ignoring someone is just as bad as mistreating them) for the most absurd of reasons: because they we...

After fire—again, in my mind—comes earth . Here we find the techniques in aikido which tend to bring uke under control, as with pins and joint locks such as oshi taoshi , waki gatame , or tenkai kote hinari . With earth, one's ki is much, much more calm than with fire. In fact, earth is emotionless, being neither angry nor kind. Though not as merciless as fire, it stems more from apathy than compassion. Earth is steady, hardly moving. Ki moves in small increments, usually up and down—especially down. Earth is patient, and will wait for uke to bring the attack, even baiting him. Like a python, earth allows uke to squirm all he likes, all the while crushing him gradually at the right moments with deceptive ease. Uke slowly crumples helplessly under earth, often digging his own hole from which he cannot escape. Both earth and fire do not evade or escape; they own and command the line of movement, derailing uke. Earth is comfortable with his tekui waza , his favori...

To me, the element of fire can be represented in aikido by techniques such as the first five techniques of junana hon kata , or randori no kata (or "the 17" as we often call it). Like these, fire is direct, right to the center line (as opposed to working from uke's elbow or wrist). It often moves in short, straight lines. With fire, one's ki moves quickly, instantly lighting up the sky like lightning, and fades just as fast. Fire is definitely not soft. Rather, fire is sharp and capable of taking an opponent down in a single cut. There are no joint locks or pins, no effort to control or suppress; fire simply strikes (hence, ateme waza ). In terms of "go no sen, sen no sen, and sensen no sen", fire lays more in the realm of sensen no sen : our opponent has perhaps only the intention, the thought of attacking. Scarcely can he begin his move when the flames sweep in and level him like a forest fire. Which means fire can also be impetuous...

My sensei has on occasion related aikido techniques to what are commonly known as " the five elements ", which are of course earth, water, fire, wind, and in the Japanese version, the "void". It's a fairly common concept, really, that seems to permeate most cultures. To students of Japanese martial arts, probably the most familiar association would be Miyomoto Musashi's renown work, " Book of Five Rings ". In the Japanese tradition, the elements are called the 五大 (go dai, literally "five great"). These five are earth, water, fire, wind/air, and void. Or, in Japanese: 地火風水空 ( chi ka sui fuu kuu ). Now, I've thought a lot about relating the concept of the five elements to aikido, and frankly, wondered if attempting to do so was merely an exercise of trying to fit a square peg in a round hole. After all, isn't the whole idea of the five elements is one of those cool, poetic philosophical constructs that would be ideally suit...

Occasionally, in judo, I get asked a question about a common problem. Essentially, a student it trying to throw their partner but can't get in. Maybe he feels like his partner is just too tall, or too big and strong. Fair enough. The same thing happens, actually, in aikido randori. Things are great when practicing a throw and we have a compliant uke, but when it comes to an uke who doesn't want to be thrown, he hit a wall. What happened? I want to throw, but I don't want to BE thrown... First of all, let me remove the aspect of sport or tournament judo from this discussion. Nothing against judo as a sport or those who participate in it, mind you; I love watching tournament judo, it's exciting stuff. It's just not why I myself study judo (and most of my peers, as well). In a match, I'm trying to score points, to win; the other guy is also trying to score points and win. I'm trying to keep from being thrown so I don't lose; so is the other guy. ...

One of the things I was taught from day one, and have heard over and over since then, is "maintain eye contact." The reasons why one should maintain eye contact usually came from a strategic standpoint. If I'm looking at uke's eyes, I can see what rest of him is doing out my visual periphery. So if I'm looking at uke's hand because I'm trying, for example, to do kote gaeshi , I'm vulnerable to his other hand smacking me upside the head. But when it came to judo, we find that if I'm looking at uke's eyes, I can see what his upper body is up to, but his feet tend to fall out my field of vision. Therefor we were often told to look about chest level, and huzzah! Now I can see all of him, the sneaky bastard! Then I ran across this quote from O-Sensei, Morihei Ueshiba: Do not stare into the eyes of your opponent: he may mesmerize you. Do not fix your gaze on his sword: he may intimidate you. Do not focus on your opponent at all: he may...

Imagine a small rivulet of water, flowing gently downhill. Now, let's say a rock appears directly in front of this little stream. What happens? Does the water stop and push against the rock, trying to shove it out of the way? Of course not. Does it try to pull the rock off to the side to make more room? Nope. Does it simply turn around and go back where it came from? Huh-uh. The water simply flows where it can. Let me repeat that: The water flows where it can . Water does not, conversely, flow where it cannot. I know, I know. All that sounds painfully obvious, but it's a rather basic principle that nature seems to understand quite well, without having to "think" about it. But people? Well, there's both a blessing and a curse that comes with the ability to think. The ability to reason has it's benefits; I don't think many would disagree with that. It's through the process of thoughtful analysis, or careful study, and detailed experimenta...

Funny how our ideas and our approach to a given thing change and evolve over time. "Truth" seems to be more and more elusive: what I accepted as gospel one day, I can't help but doubt the next. Okay, maybe it's more like years than days, but still. If there's anything I've learned from budo that is absolutely permanent and unmovable is that nothing is really permanent and immovable. Just when I think I "understand" a thing, I find a new perspective (typically through the eyes of someone else). I almost want to go back to students I've taught and say, "Hey, remember that thing I taught you? Well, here's another way of thinking about it..." This time, I happen to be thinking of the concept of the stage of a throw in judo. I'm sure you've heard it: First, kuzushi —off-balance Then,  tsukuri —fitting in Finally, gake —the throw For a while now, I've been thinking of it in terms of a sort of math problem: 1 + 2 ...

I've heard the expression "slow is fast, fast is slow" for many years as I've trained. Frankly, I always thought I understood what it meant. And I did—do—but I guess my understanding of it has broadened. Sorry, but I don't have time to go into all of it right now (I know you were just dying to know), but I thought I would share an interesting visual example of this particular maxim, one you can try for yourself and even demonstrate to a class. All you need is a piece of scrap paper and a pen or pencil. Your task is to draw as straight a line as you can over and over, 10 times. First, do it as fast as you can. Then do it again, but go as slow as you can. Below is the result of my attempt: Quite a difference, huh? The first bunch of lines is fairly scattered and broad, while the second batch is not only pretty consistent with smaller variability, it's also darker, or more intense. Bare in mind, that I'm a graphic designer and illustrator by trad...

My thoughts lately are on the subject of space. I'm still working out the best wording to describe it, though. I want to say "controlling the space," but for some reason, using the word "control" feels a tad unsettling. It sounds as if I'm trying to make something go, trying to force something that I want to happen, as opposed to remaining open to the flow of things. But they are intentional, and they do serve a purpose. When do I do one thing over another? I suppose that's the flowing part. At any rate, there are moments when I want to occupy some of uke's space. Uke is like a stream, flowing down his predetermined path. I am a large stone placed in that path. I'm not trying to stop the stream, like a dam, but interrupt it, send it veering off on a path it never intended to follow. At other times, as uke flows like a stream and I dig a narrow trench in the dirt. Again, his path is diverted, this time drawn into my space. Sometimes...

It occurred to me a little while ago that the term "balance" as I have always applied it to budo might have another meaning. My definition fell along the lines of "a state of equilibrium or equipoise; equal distribution of weight." Standing up without falling down. So when it came to "breaking use's balance," I assumed my job was to make my uke physically unstable, tipped over in one direction or another, on the verge of gravity pulling him down to the ground. But then I started thinking about other dictionary definitions of "balance" I realized those could apply as well. Balance between objects Balance also means "to arrange, adjust, or the proportion of parts symmetrically." In other words, when two otherwise separate objects equal each other in some way, be it weight (as on a scale) or size or position, etc. When we begin in budo, tori and uke face each other. Both have all their proverbial weapons (arms, legs, cen...

I heard a story once about a woman—let's call her Jill—who was preparing to cook a roast as her little girl watched. Noticing that Jill cut off the end of the roast before placing it in the pan, the little girl asked why. Jill paused. "Actually," she admitted, "I don't know why. That's just they way my mom always did it." She had assumed it had something to do with how the meat needed to be prepared, but now that she thought about it, she couldn't figure out what purpose it served. Out of curiosity, Jill later called her own mother to ask why she always cut the end off of the roast before cooking it. Oddly enough, Jill's mom also admitted she didn't know the reason, either. It was just something her mother had always done. Now even more curious than before, Jill called her grandmother, a very old, frail, but happy lady. "Grandma," Jill began, "mom and I were just wondering—why did you cut the end off of a roast be...

It wasn't long ago that a critical aspect of different sections of  junana hon kata , or randori no kata , finally dawned on me. I realized that, with the second section, or hiji waza , I was focusing on what I was doing to the arm or elbow, and with the third section,  tekubi waza , I was focusing on what I was doing to the wrist. Which would seem natural since that's what their names mean: "elbow techniques" and "wrist techniques". The epiphany, however, came when I finally realized that I'm not doing something to the arm or the wrist, but rather I'm using the arm and wrist as a means of affecting uke's center line. The first section, or atemi waza , deals with going after the center line directly. From there, we move outward to using the arm to affect the center line, and then move even further out to using the wrist the same way. This realization has, in turn, affected my perspective of the rest of not only aikido, but judo as well....