Learning To Be Silent

Editors Note: The author of this post wishes to remain anonymous.

Often times the importance of ukemi is understated leading to various outcomes, such as: inefficiencies in techniques, miscommunication, and injuries.

Uke’s level of commitment to their attack is an important element in observing the applications of various Aikido techniques. This is not a suggestion that uke will determine the outcome of an application. Rather, that uke will influence the outcome based on various factors, such as (but, not limited to): commitment of attack, speed of attack, type of attack, tai sabaki, ma ai, etc.

Uke’s commitment should not end when nage reacts to the attack. Uke must stay committed in their role and maintain connection and move with the energy to offer nage the opportunity to carry out an array of techniques. Of course, this is not to say that uke should viciously attack nage, nor ferociously resist the applications of techniques. On the other hand, uke should not immediately collapse during applications, if projections are not producing energy, or immobilizations are ineffective. Factors such as level of experience, stylistic preferences, and stamina will affect the interaction between uke and nage, and should always be considered by the parties involved.

There are factors compounded upon factors in the world of martial arts that create a great deal of uncertainty, even in controlled environments. In any relationship, whether a business transaction or the interaction between uke and nage, communication is essential. As martial artists we communicate through ways that transcend spoken words. Among these channels is the physical connection between uke and nage. In either role we must feel the flow of the technique and react. In doing so, we continuously send a message until the technique is fully carried out. The direction in which one’s shoulders or hips face, the positioning of one’s feet, shifting of weight, looking in a particular direction, and tapping out are all examples of communication.

The relationship between uke and nage is one of cooperation, communication, self-control, and consideration. It is a working relationship meant to facilitate learning and development and to build confidence in one’s technique, and each other. Aikido has a certain level of sophistication that many other martial arts do not observe. As aikidoka fulfilling either role, we are selfless and concerned for the well-being of others by maintaining control over the situation, and ourselves.

Our thanks to Grady Lane Sensei, who taught our morning class and stayed for the misogi training. Thanks also to our friends from the Aikido Center of Savannah, who made the trip from SCAD.

After class, Dee and I had a lovely lunch with Lawrence, our resident Senior Samurai. During our conversation we spoke about a topic that I think merits a brief post.

I had recounted to Lawrence a few experiences on the mat when I was genuinely afraid. Not worried, or put off, but legitimately scared, if only for a moment. It’s happened a few times in my Aikido career and I believe I am the better martial artist for it.

The fear I am speaking about is the total loss of control I’ve felt when thrown with vigor by a high ranking practitioner. Specifically, when I’ve had no idea what to expect, and was projected with power into the mat. The kind of technique that, had my ukemi failed, would have resulted in a serious fracture. Of course, looking back, I realize that the control my nages were exercising would not have allowed a truly debilitating injury. But at the time? Scared senseless.

There are lessons here on several levels, both on the mat and off. The main point, however, is this: You face your fear, and you survive the technique.

I think it’s crucial for our students to look for these opportunities, especially at seminars. Not recklessly, mind you—there are brutes out there whose connection with uke is—how shall I put it?—a bit lacking. And of course there are those less experienced practitioners whose ability to instill fear is caused by the fact that they don’t know what the heck they’re doing. Which of course is dangerous.

But the ability to face the unknown and survive, I think, is an important lesson in budo. In the best of circumstances, it may even spark a reexamination of your own practice, and what Aikido as a martial art actually is, rather than what your dogma may have led you to believe.

By Carl Frederick
Here’s a scenario for you: You’re in class, either learning a new technique or practicing an old one. And maybe the instructor tells you to “play around with it,” perhaps throw an atemi, or a counter, or this, or that. So you work at it with your partner. And then, the inevitable.

“Well, what if I do this?” your partner begins. “Fine,” you boast. “I’ll just do this.” Back and forth you go, and then, just as you think you’ve reached that pinnacle of transcendent awesomeness, your partner executes that ONE atemi, that ONE counter, or that ONE irimi.

And you freeze.

“What do I do now?” you wonder. Of course at this point you’re technically dead.

Game over. Thanks for playing.

You begin to question everything. You replay the encounter again in your mind, looking for the correct response.  “What if,” you wonder, “I had just moved there, right before he did that.” For some, the tendency is to become depressed, believing their entire technique is flawed. They may even look at other activities to fill their time. Knitting perhaps?

I’m exaggerating, of course, but there is purpose to what I am saying. Throughout my martial arts career, I have personally seen the foregoing play out, time and time again, either in myself or my fellow students.

Given my chosen career, for me “failure” means “death.” But as I have learned, and have tried to teach others, the martial arts are always variable. Always. No matter how hard you train, there will always be something that comes along, some surprise, that will inevitably screw everything up. You can mull over a technique for days, looking for perfection, but in the end someone always comes along to set aside your best laid plans.

A mistake I sometimes see is believing that some foolproof, perfect technique exists. I am at fault for this as well. But we simply cannot achieve this. There’s no one way to do something — sometimes you just have to do whatever it takes to make it work. I believe fully that the best martial artists are not the ones who are “perfect” in some abstract sense, or, say, have a playbook of everything that may happen in an encounter, or even those who create detailed backup plans in case their first backup plan fails.

For me, the most impressive martial artists are those who can adjust to new situations, and prevail. Even if it’s messy.

We love to talk about it, sometimes glibly, sometimes with an earnestness you can only find in a dorm room bull session. We tell each other to recognize it, avoid it, and at the end of the day, let go of it, as if it were some detritus we’ve collected over the years, imperceptibly, like some disintegrated portion of ourselves.

I am referring, of course, to ego.

And with apologies to Mr. Montoya, I do not think it means what you think it means.

So, at the risk of offending all those earnest dorm room philosophers, I’d like to take a stab at it today. First, however, some background. What I propose here is not some metaphysical treatment of the concept, or an examination from, say, an Eastern or even aiki perspective. Today is all about practicality. And so, in that spirit, let’s subtitle this little discourse…

A Practical Guide to Ego

We all know the signs of overt ego gratification, so I’ll dispense with this one quickly.

The subtle hints we give, that emphasize seniority; the conversations we have, that are intended to exclude; the gratitude we lack, when offered a lesson; these are all behaviors that, even in our worst moments, we recognize as ego driven. And these are the behaviors that, when allowed to pass unchecked, are most destructive to dojo life.

But there are other, less obvious signs of ego poisoning.

The Self-Deprecating Student

Let’s start at the other end of the spectrum, with someone you may recognize. She’s the Aikidoka most disappointed in her technique. Unrelentingly self-critical, she never seems to measure up to some arbitrary, personal standard she’s devised. In her mind, judgment has already been passed, despite the remarkable progress she’s made, and continues to make.

And yes, she is just as ego driven as her boorish counterpart.

From where does her internal critic reside? And from what stuff does he make his judgment? From her own ego driven expectations.

Taken to its extreme, this behavior plays out in that instance where the student believes she doesn’t deserve the rank awarded to her. In that case, the student is actually substituting her judgment for that of her instructor. And although her behavior may appear humble, or even praiseworthy, it is, in fact, completely ego driven.

Let’s move on. I’ve written about this particular fellow before, but I think his type bears repeating here. We’ll call him…

He Who Approves

The problem here is one of judgment. We all know how criticism, specifically that noxious form intended to reinforce differences, or draw attention to rank, can be a vehicle for ego. What you may not realize is that praise, functionally speaking, is exactly the same. In both instances, the student, whether by critique or compliment, is relying on his own personal standard to judge a fellow student.

“So what?” you may ask. “I like compliments. What the heck’s wrong with you?”

But therein, of course, lies the problem. This interaction, this dispensing of judgment, confuses the role of teacher and student. In the dojo, the only role the student has, properly, is to receive instruction. It is the teacher’s role to correct, or offer praise when warranted. By giving the compliment, and thereby extending judgment, the student has usurped a role not meant for him.

I’m The Most Non-Competitive!

My last example today involves intent, specifically the intent a student brings to training. In truth, this topic is broad enough to fill several posts, so I’ll be brief.

In a nut: Aikido is a cooperative martial art, at least from my amateur perspective. Our training methodology is to approach our kata with martial intent and vigor, but with the purpose of helping our partner understand the technique. And yes, in some cases, this means countering the throw or pin. Sometimes failure is the best teacher.

But the intent here is always cooperative. It is never a contest of strength, never a desire to win.

Competition therefore, at least in a dojo setting, is yet another manifestation of ego. It is the refusal to put your partner’s training before your own.

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To be clear, I’ve certainly been guilty, at one time or another, of all the behaviors I’ve just described. And yes, ego training is difficult — it’s a not insignificant part of my Aikido practice. I write this as a fellow student, a beginner, trying to make sense of a frankly confounding topic.

I hope you find it useful.