by Lisa Granite
“Tales of and Aikijutsu Fledgling”
Pushups.
I want to talk about pushups.
More
specifically, I want to talk about how it never occurred
to me that pushups would be an integral part of my
martial arts training. I always thought I kept my
imagination well toned; however, I would have been less
surprised to see a petite, pointy-eared creature
instructing students to “let the Force flow” than I was
to see pushups. Ancient ritualistic motions, deep
breathing, meditations, levitation — I prepared myself
for all that. But plain old physical conditioning just
didn’t cross my mind.
Before I
become completely mired in this obsession with pushups,
let me say that this is one of the few things about
aikijutsu that I didn’t expect. Unfortunately, this is
not because I am extremely knowledgeable. Before my
visit to the Itten Dojo, my martial arts experience was
rather limited. Nonexistent, in fact. Therefore, I had
no expectations.
So what brought
me to learn something I knew nothing about? I think that
question answers itself, but I’ll try to expound a bit.
To the consternation of many, I rarely have solid,
logical reasons for doing anything. I am a creature of
instinct, and by this I mean not that I follow every
impulse, but rather that I am attuned to my inner
rhythms. I listen carefully to my inmost being, and when
it truly desires something, I supply it. It’s far more
challenging to do what you really want to do than to
indulge every whim in hopes of finding something
worthwhile.
I really wanted to
explore the martial arts for a long time, but for a long
time the time wasn’t right. I have no concept of when or
where the initial impulse developed — it seems like I
always knew I would pursue this, eventually. If you
forced an answer from me, I would say that my desire
most probably arose from my general interest in Eastern
philosophies. Reading Way of the Peaceful Warrior,
by Dan Millman, when I was fifteen or so was an
awakening — his ideas touched me like nothing else I had
learned thus far.
Many more books
followed, and for several years I ignored any physical
development in favor of what I saw as
intellectual/spiritual development, which I thought far
more meritorious. I went so far as to view my body as
more of a colossal burden than as anything helpful. How
annoying it was to have to interrupt reading or
meditating to get something to eat, or go to the
bathroom. I didn’t see too many perks in being human
beyond having a brain.
Then,
sometime after I graduated college, I realized it wasn’t
my body limiting me, but that neglecting my body was
limiting me. Ironic that after all I’d been learning
about refusing to accept any perceived limitations of
mind or spirit, I never sought to apply this in a
physical sense.
This newfound
imbalance was not to be tolerated. So I began working
out, and after a year or so of weight training and
various aerobic activity, I happened across an Itten
Dojo brochure at a local book store. As I recall, I was
quite intrigued by the definition of budo — “perfection
of technique” sounded like what I’d been attempting to
do with my life in general — but I did not feel ready.
In another year, I am ready. I feel comfortable with my
physical body; I feel balanced at last. Also, I’m
finally in decent shape — I don’t want to huff and puff
and pass out during my first class.
So, I call Mr. Wolfe, chief instructor of the Itten
Dojo. I try to stress the fact that I know nothing about
any type of martial arts. He doesn’t seem to mind. He
offers to send me more information, and I make an
appointment to watch a class.
A
few days later, I eagerly rip open the packet Mr. Wolfe
has sent, and begin to devour the contents. The personal
letter surprises and pleases me, and it does explain
aikijutsu in more basic terms. Basically, it seems to
involve throwing people around. No problem: I grew up
thrashing my two brothers on a daily basis, at least
until they hit puberty. I guess I can learn a throw or
two.
Finally, after one
snow-inspired cancellation, I get to watch a class. I’m
excited and nervous — I’m going to watch people practice
an art I have no real concept of — will anything make
sense?
As it turns out, no,
nothing makes “sense,” but lack of understanding doesn’t
affect my appreciation.
I watch,
and everything amazes me; everything is beautiful. The
movements are soft, dance-like, yet powerful. The focus
in the dojo is almost tangible, as is the energy the
students radiate like quite fire. Every small gesture
seems purposeful and very real — somehow more there than
everyday movement. Any person’s “normal” motion seems
listless when compared with the concentrated intent of
aikijutsu techniques.
Of course, in
the midst of the dance, I witness the pushups. And
(gasp) stomach crunches as well. You can imagine my
sense of sacrilege. Luckily, my powers of adaptation
enable me to digest this affront quietly. I figure
pushups are a small price to pay if I get to learn how
to move like that. Before the class is over, I know this
is what I want.
My first class as
a student feels awkward — that is, I feel awkward. And
ox-like. No one else appears to be feeling ox-like. I
know that the uniform I wear is called a “gi,” but right
now I am not very comfortable in my gi. I’m not even
sure how to pronounce it. Gi, obi, ukemi — I am
desperately unhappy with the number of words I do not
know. And tying my belt seemed altogether too
complicated. My belt — I think my belt is my obi — is
tied properly now, but I have no idea how it got that
way. When I glance at myself in the mirror, I think I
look more like a kid ready for Halloween than a martial
arts student.
Well, I can’t learn
everything in one night, but I am determined to try. I
set my brain on “record” and watch everyone carefully.
Everyone is helpful and, fortunately, patient. I learn
how to bow, both standing and sitting. I learn that
sitting on my haunches is called “seiza,” and that I’ll
be sitting like that quite a lot. I learn that the word
“Osu!” is to make up the bulk of my vocabulary during
class — apparently, whenever anyone says anything to me,
I say “Osu!” and bow.
Just when I
begin to think that I’m a natural at this aiki stuff, I
get to learn how to roll. It looks like a big,
open-limbed somersault to me, albeit with a little more
grace and a lot less noise. I decide I’m not going to
allow a little somersault to get the best of me. Then I
attempt it.
Even though I start
the procedure already stretched out on the mat rather
than standing, and even though I’m bent at a ridiculous
angle that makes my roll three-quarters finished before
I begin, I land crooked. I land with a loud thump. I
land, ignominiously, on my butt. I think gazelles would
not be much impressed with me at this point in my
training.
I also manage to stumble
my way through a technique called “Katate-dori
Shiho-nage,” although I have no realization of it at the
time. The most I grasp is that I hold out my hand,
someone grabs it, I grab them with my other hand, take a
big step and raise my hands to eye level. At least I can
do something better than rolling.
By the end of class, I still feel like I don’t know
anything, but I’m also beginning to feel that the time
may possibly come when I will know something. I think. I
know that eventually some of these words and exercises
will come more easily, but for now everything is
confusing. I am in a new country where I know nothing of
the language or the customs.
Happily, five or six classes later, I learn to tie my
obi without supervision. I am very proud of this skill,
especially since it’s the only one I seem to have
acquired. I manage to walk through the basic steps of a
technique without too much of a memory lapse, but then I
find there are a thousand other details I must apply.
This is complex and exhilarating — the class always goes
by in an instant — but it is also frustrating because I
want to know and perfect everything at once.
Since this is impossible, I try to focus on mastering
one detail at a time. This is just as difficult as
trying to perfect everything, but it distracts me from
thinking how utterly incompetent I am.
I do realize that I am not hopeless. I am learning, one
tiny move and breath at a time. And every time I manage
to remember this cut or that lunge, I am pleased with
myself. At the end of these few short weeks, I already
notice subtle changes in the way I move and breathe. I
don’t land on my butt anymore. Well, not as often. I
still consider myself quite the fledgling — but I’m
getting better at those pushups all the time.
