Learning To Be Silent

I am plagued by 5th Kyu Shihans.

Or rather, was plagued, before receiving my yudansha. And like Dr. Bennell, I still see them, these pod people, everywhere, at seminars, at other dojo, and sometimes, close to home. They are a contagion.

But I am getting ahead of myself. Allow me to explain.

Several years ago, as a yukyusha with some experience, I noticed a peculiar pathology, which exhibited itself primarily at seminars. The subject, namely me, would pair with an obviously new student, one with whom I had not trained previously. The new student, or carrier, would then proceed to instruct, correct and otherwise comment on my technique, despite the obvious gulf in skill between us.

I naturally attributed this to an infection addling his brain, since no disinterested observer could mistake the more seasoned practitioner. And no matter the speed with which I performed the technique, or the pain which I applied to his body, the student would feel compelled to make his critique.

The disease, therefore, is marked by a complete and total lack of awareness.

I named the condition, or more accurately the infected carrier, a 5th Kyu Shihan. The name stuck, and is, I believe, a useful shorthand for describing the disease.

Making the Diagnosis

I have come to rely on a three part test to determine whether a student is, in fact, a 5th Kyu Shihan. Although satisfying any one condition is sufficient to make the diagnosis, it is insufficient to rule out other, more benign causes. For example, your partner may just be an idiot, for which, unfortunately, no cure exists.

First Symptom

Your partner compliments your technique. This one is tricky: I caution the practitioner here to rely on her own clinical experience. If the compliment carries with it a connotation of judgment, as opposed to aspiration, the student is a 5th Kyu Shihan.

Although it may appear a contradiction, a compliment, if accompanied by judgment, is in fact identical to criticism. Essentially, the student is placing herself in a position to judge another, more experienced student’s technique. Whether it is praise or criticism is irrelevant. The student has exhibited a sign of the disease.

Second Symptom

The student assumes a curious, if fictitious, familiarity with the leading lights in your organization. I call this infection by association. In truth, this is simply a form of the logical fallacy, argument from authority.

Here, the student professes an intimate knowledge of a leading sensei’s preferences regarding technique, or attempts to regale you with sly anectdotes from back in the day. Of course, considering that day could not have been more than two months prior, as Kung Fu Panda would have been his closest connection to the martial arts, is of no matter. The point our friend is trying to make, is that he, and not you, knows the hidden purpose behind this particular lesson. If only he were free to speak candidly, surely you would understand….

Third Symptom

A lack of humility. Let me be more specific. I am not referring to the fawning humility towards rank you sometimes see on the mat. This is a misunderstanding of the term, and has more in common with Dickens’ Uriah Heep, whose humility was in fact rooted in pride and ego. Nor am I referring to proper etiquette, or rei, which of course is expected when we give ourselves freely to our partners.

The humility I refer to, rather, is a great teacher, but one with which the 5th Kyu Shihan has no acquaintance. It is the knowledge that we know certain things, don’t know certain things, and crucially, know there are things that we know nothing about. This idea, that there exists whole categories of knowledge not yet dreamt of, is the essence of budo training. It is the quintessential empty cup.

It is also anathema to the 5th Kyu Shihan. Although when cornered, the infected carrier may admit to some questions regarding technique, the practioner must be vigilant. The 5th Kyu Shihan will only admit to questions that fit his Weltanschauung, or worldview. In his universe, everything is accounted for, including Aikido, which he has placed neatly on a mental shelf. The answers, if not obvious, are already there, waiting for just the right moment.

Of course, he is happy to answer any questions you may have.

An Advice To My Colleagues

Although pernicious, the disease is, in my estimation, not always terminal. With practice, the afflicted soul can sometimes cast off the infection and become a fully human, fully aware Aikidoka.

As always, our best defense is vigilance.

By Maggie Schill

At this point in my training, if there is one truth about Aikido I have been able to discover, it would be this: Aikido is circular, not just in movement, but in concept.  Uke is as fundamental to nage, as surely as nage is to uke.  To focus on one is to learn the other.

I’ve heard instructors tell me how important ukemi was to my Aikido.  In the past I thought this meant I should take good ukemi for the sake of my nage.  It was my gift to nage.  I thought ukemi was about helping my nage look good and train more effectively.  However, my experience at Winter Camp 2009 has altered my opinion.

On the last day of Winter Camp 2009, I took Yamada Sensei’s morning class.  There, he demonstrated a throwing technique that required a huge extension and a low cut.  Sensei separated us all into groups and told us to have at it.

Unfortunately, in my group I was the first Aikidoka in line.  There were about fourteen uke waiting for me to throw them, but I just couldn’t figure the movements out.  After about four failed attempts, I was unbearably embarrassed over my 5th kyu inadequacies.  Sensei approached me and grabbed my uke from me.  He demonstrated the technique for me once more and spoke sharply: “Extension! This is why I failed the shodan!”  I was completely embarrassed.

I tried the technique two more times, and failed.  I ran to the back of the line, forgetting to bow the next nage in, feeling utterly defeated.  With my pride crushed, I readied myself to take the best ukemi I could for the nage in my group.  I thought I could prove I’m not a totally useless Aikidoka by taking great ukemi.  Maybe I could win back a little bit of my pride.

As uke, I exaggerated my movements, expended a lot of energy, and did everything in my power to maintain connection.  I’m sure my ukemi wasn’t the best; especially in comparison to all the black belts and deshi present at Winter Camp, but it was my best.

Finally, the line went around until it was my turn as nage again.  I bowed in with great apprehension.  I was sure that my second time up would just be a repeat of the first, and I prayed to God that Sensei wouldn’t be around my group to see me fail again.

My first uke approached me.  I met him, and to my surprise, I knew the movements.  I understood then what Sensei meant about extension in this technique, and I understood why I couldn’t get my uke moving without it.

With my first uke I ran through the movement slowly.  With my second, I got more of my hips into it, and by my fourth uke I felt like I wasn’t a total embarrassment.  My fifth uke was an older black belt.  He grabbed me, moved with me, and said: “There you go girl, you got it.”  His words were encouraging.

This experience has convinced me of the interplay between uke and nage.  The art is circular.  The parts are interconnected.  If you learn one aspect of the art, you are in a sense learning them all.  Not until I was thrown some fourteen odd times did I understand what Sensei was trying to tell me.  Not until I was forced to feel the technique did I understand what I needed to do to make my uke feel the technique.

So in closing, the lesson learned is this: Ukemi is not just a side note, or a means of making nage look great.  Take as much of it as you can, and be grateful every time it is your turn to be thrown.  If you want to be a great nage, become a great uke.

Over the years, I’ve noticed a tendency among Aikidoka to focus on differences, or the things that divide us.  Whether those things are technique, pedagogy, or organizations, invariably the conclusion is: “Well, I’m sure that works for them, but it’s certainly not the way we would do it.” The implication, of course, is that the other way, the new way, (which in most cases isn’t really new at all, if only our friend had been paying attention in class), isn’t actually Aikido, or at least the Aikido our friend thinks he’s practicing.

That’s why I love training at other schools, with other instructors. Rather than focus on those “things”, I try (sometimes successfully, sometimes not) to focus on our commonality, or those principles which make our techniques work. It’s not the slight distinctions with ikkyo that matter, it’s the other things–positioning, distance, balance–that make the technique what it is. Sometimes we lose sight of this, to our real detriment.

And the connections don’t just stop there. All the dojos participating in our friendship seminar have real connections to each other. They may be obvious, as between our school, Brevard Aikikai and the Aiki O-Kami Society. Our connection there, of course, is Yamada Sensei.

Or they may be less obvious, but no less real. You may be surprised to learn that the founder of our school, Curtis Rosiek, was a student of Tom “Doc” Walker Sensei, the much loved founder of Sand Drift Aikido. In fact, Walker Sensei tested our earliest students. So our connection with Sand Drift is one of shared history.

And what about our friends at Shugenkai? Well, Woodard Sensei is a student of Kevin Jones Sensei, who studies under Maruyama Sensei. For years, Maruyama Sensei was a senior student of Koichi Tohei Sensei. Dee’s instructor, Yamada Sensei, although an uchi-deshi of O’Sensei, also counted Tohei Sensei as one of his instructors.

The connections are there, if we choose to look.