Learning To Be Silent

Yesterday was the 30th anniversary of the International Day of Peace. First observed on September 21, 1981, the goal has always been a day free of armed hostilities in the international community.

The state of the world, also yesterday:

Former Afghan president assassinated.
Civil war draws closer in Yemen.
Africa continues its seemingly never ending war with itself.

We have a long way to go.

Once, long ago, Budai was traveling the dusty roads of his native Fenghua, in what is now the Zhejiang Province.

Carrying his cloth bag, and his prayer beads, he would give candy to the children he met. His only payment, a penny, he would ask of his fellow monks, and other travelers he encountered on the way. On this particular day, Budai passed by a monk not known to him.

“What is,” the monk inquired, “the meaning of Zen?”

Budai dropped his bag to the ground.

“And how,” continued the monk, “does one realize Zen?”

Budai retrieved his bag, and the candy, and continued down the path.

Long ago, when describing the known and unknown world, cartographers would sometimes say, “Here Be Dragons.”

It was a warning, not just to sailors and kings, but to dreamers and thinkers too: “This is Christendom, the world as it is. And over there, next to that crease in the corner? That’s something else. Best to stay away.”

We face the unknown every time we step outside. And like those explorers long ago, we learn—sometimes gradually, sometimes not—the one irrefutable fact of our existence: Change is inevitable, and no matter how distant the unknown world seems, it will, sooner or later, find us.

For us, unfortunately, the dragons are already here.

The question, I think, is how we deal with this reality. Do we try, futilely, to ignore it? Or are there other paths?

Aikido forces us to consider these questions. At its best, every Aikido technique is a test. It is our chance to confront the unknown, writ small.

And what do we do? We get back up, brush ourselves off, and help our partner do the same. It is training for life, and how to live. And ultimately, it is training for the one inevitability we all eventually face.

Certain events in my life have cast this reality into sharp focus. I can see the dragons, coiled just over the horizon, waiting…

So what am I doing about it? How am I dealing with my reality?

I’m training, of course.

By Lawrence Bienemann

Japanese warrior folklore says that samurais were warriors who woke each morning saying, “Today is a good day to die.”  While they meant it literally, the rest of us might benefit from some sort of reminder to stay in our day.  But in this culture, the recognition that any day could be our last is considered kind of a downer.  We certainly don’t want to wake up thinking that this would be a good day to die.  We seem to prefer things like, ‘Where’s the coffee?’ or ‘What do I need to do today” or ‘Maybe I should call in sick?”
 
I recently read about aikidoist Mary Stein choosing to finalize her “Advanced Healthcare Directive” and her decision to have it witness by two of her fellow aikido practitioners.  You probably already know that this type of document is a fairly straightforward, common sense legal summary so that family or caregivers understand our wishes and instructions under certain medical circumstances.  What I found intriguing was her ability to carry her practice into this important part of her life.
 
I began thinking about similar connections to what we do in the dojo, during meditation, and while writing.  In Zen meditation practice is we sit on a mat, and meditate.  We strip away and discard thoughts that are not true for us, returning to breath and ‘no thought.’  Each moment leads us toward our truth.  Each moment also leads closer to death.
 
In the dojo, each move is executed with the idea that we have to completely give ourselves to it, let go of our fear of “doing it right’ and eliminate the fear of injury.  In that way, each martial arts move is a form of death to the practitioner.  We give up the illusion of control and give ourselves over to the inevitable.
 
The Buddha said—paraphrased—“life is suffering and then we die.”  I replicate that statement every time I go to the dojo or meditate.  I ‘suffer’ then I ‘die.’ The positive implication is that, as a result of these practices, I move closer and closer the truth about who and what I am… and am more able to accept those findings.

Editor’s note: You can read more of Lawrence’s thoughts at Senior Samurai. All of us at the dojo are looking forward to your return in December!

In The Republic Socrates is famously asked:

What nonsense have you prize idiots been spouting? And why do the both of you give way, ridiculously, to what the other says? I say that if you really want to know, you should not only ask the question. It’s easier when you ask than when you answer.

It’s a common complaint.

Socrates himself admitted it, at least according to Aristotle. To his contemporaries, Socrates simply “did not know.” So what does it mean when Socrates, the corrupter of Athens and father of Western philosophy, tells Meno: “I only know that I know nothing”?

At about the same time, give or take a few hundred years, Maha Maya, princess to a small tribe in modern day India, gave birth to a child in the foothills of the Himalayas. Years later, after Siddhartha Gautama attained enlightenment, his followers would sometimes teach the Parable of the Empty Cup:

A scholar, noted for his knowledge of Buddhism, determined one day to seek out a certain Zen master, a fellow traveler on the Noble Eightfold Path. The scholar set forth, and after a time, found who he was seeking. Overjoyed, he approached the master, and after introductions, began expounding on his life’s work. So satisfied was he, that even as he spoke, the scholar scarcely noticed the setting of the sun, nor hours later, the frost settling on the morning grass.

The master, attentive to his guest, offered him a cup of warm tea. Slowly the master poured, filling the cup half way, and then completely, so that the tea poured over, first onto the table, and then to the ground below. And still the master poured.

“Stop!” cried the scholar, as he pushed himself away. “Can’t you see that my cup is full?”

“Yes,” replied the master. “You have come to me already knowing all there is. Can’t you see that your cup must be empty?”

And the scholar, being a fellow traveler, knew that it was so.

Half a world away and the same idea: From ignorance comes wisdom.

If this idea, the idea of the beginner’s mind, is in fact the beginning of wisdom, count me in with the Philosophers.

The Theologian

I know someone, a gifted martial artist in her own right, with a somewhat different perspective. In her world, wisdom is a top down affair. For her, there is no path to wisdom from reason, no bridge between natural and supernatural revelation. The source of all reason is inspiration, and all reasons are ultimately His.

Let’s call her the Theologian.

I can already hear some of you: “She’s wrong, of course. In Aikido, we’re told to keep a beginner’s mind. I’m supposed to keep my prejudices off the mat. Right?”

Right?

Tokyo, 1925

Here’s how he later described what happened:

I felt the universe suddenly quake, and that a golden spirit sprang up from the ground, veiled my body, and changed my body into a golden one. At the same time my body became light. I was able to understand the whispering of the birds, and was clearly aware of the mind of God, the creator of the universe.

And Aikido came to be. O-Sensei here is not speaking the dry language of philosophy. On the contrary — this is revelation.

“Aha!” my young friend might say, as she moves irimi, “How can you practice honestly, when you can’t honestly acknowledge the Founder’s own experience?”

How indeed?

Is my friend, in fact, correct? Has my skeptic’s eye turned against me, keeping me off the Path?

Honestly, I don’t know.