One Hundred and Seventy-four

And so it came to pass that there returned to Anywhere a Student of the Master of Anywhere. The Student had spent a long time wandering in the Wide World on a Journey, searching and finding (though sometimes not) at the behest of his Master. She it was who had instructed him to seek out Senior Students of the Master of That Other Place, then recently passed, and ascertain how each was transmitting the inheritance as passed on by the Master.

On a day of warm sunshine and clear blue sky, rare for this time of year, they sat in her training hall speaking of the things he had found out while on his Journey. As he spoke she noticed small details of the world around her, in and of themselves worthy of little note, but when taken together ran counter to the normal rhythms of Anywhere. The smell of a flower that should no longer be in bloom, the caress of a breeze a touch cooler than it ought to be, the sound of Smith's hammer upon anvil slightly out of tune, the rays morning light coming in through the windows at angles that were slightly too acute, and, just at the limit of her hearing, a faint tune being played upon an instrument that she was unfamiliar with. All together these slight deviations of her normal environment weighed upon her as she tried to pay attention to her pupil's tale.

"... finally I came upon his Hall. It is set high in the mountains, far west of That Other Place, among tall green firs where the snows melt not and the land lies under its white carpet all the year long. I was welcomed into his Hall and sat with him. He had food and warm drink served while we talked. The food and drink did much to put me at ease and assuage the hurts visited upon me by the long cold trek into the mountains. He asked me of my reasons for undertaking the Journey and I freely told him of my assignment from you.

"He smiled, seeming at some old fond memory, and after a long while said, 'Well that you have arrived here first, for I am the eldest Student of the Master of That Other Place. I was his first and was with him at the last. Of his teachings none know more.'

"He went on to tell me the story of his time with his Master; a long and intricately crafted tale it is.

'I first began my studies with my Master when he was yet somewhat young and new to teaching. His Training Hall was located down by the docks and each morning we had to rid the place of the rats that nightly rested there before we could begin our Training. The Master, in those days, was full of his youth and suffused with energy that seemingly knew no bounds. He had strength to spare and was not shy about accenting his technique with it. I was his only Student for a long while and so felt first hand the vitality of his execution. As we practiced he would talk, sometimes of himself, sometimes to himself, or so it seemed to me. But always his talk was of a nature that reflected the fear he had experienced as a child and his need to protect himself and those he held close to his heart. He had perfected his Art, he said on more than one occation, in order that he may be disadvantaged by no one ever again. No thought was given over to the Higher Ideals of Training (although later in his life they would emerge as he escaped from the darkness of his fear), only to effectiveness and martial viability of technique. It was five or so years after I began my Training that another Student knocked at his door and asked to be admitted...'"

There it was again, wafting in on that too cool whisper of a breeze; a high pitched sorrowful lament of a tune, barely audible over the sound of his voice. The tune wound itself about his voice so that she heard both as one. In her mind's eye she felt, rather than saw, the history of the Master of That Other Place as it unfolded in her Student's tale. She learned of the Gatherings and Leavings as Students came and went from the Master's school. And with each Leaving another Student went out into the world to teach what he had learned, but which was only a piece of the tapestry being woven by the Master of That Other Place. Yet each Student being well trained in the Art of Learning wove into his piece of the tapestry the tale of his own progress. And what started as a single piece of cloth woven by one person began to grow into a many layered work of dazzling complexity. Reflected therein, forming the common thread that held the entire work together were the many stages of the Master's growth upon his path. Such was the diversified nature of his Students that in later years, as the Master's Art continued to grow and evolve, conflicts would arise as Students generations down the line lost sight of the commonality that bound them altogether and began to claim ownership of the True Art of the Master of That Other Place.

Her Student stayed with the eldest Student of the Master of That Other Place for many days learning much. She felt the Master's joy as each new Student found the way to the Master's door; and his sorrow as one by one they all left to find their own Ways out in the Wide World. Each armed with the knowledge learned from the Master went abroad to share it with others. And so they came and went until upon a day at last the circle was complete and only the Master, now very old and close to moving beyond this life into whatever awaits, and the eldest of his Students remained.

She sat mesmerized as the musically verbal tale wormed its way into her. Its power was palpable and she saw at last the nature of the message.

"...then on a morning when the spring blooms of the snow stars poked up through the cold white powder the eldest Student of the Master of That Other Place came to me as I sat in meditation. 'Time for you to leave', he said. 'The Master of Anywhere has sent you on this Journey that you may discover how the Master of That Other Place's students have disseminated his teachings. I will set you upon the path that will lead you to each in the order of their appearance here so that you may experience his change throughout the years.' I gathered my things, and after sharing one more meal with him, once again took to the road..."

There followed the tale of his travels to each of the Master of That Other Place's Senior Students' training halls. The tale is long and full of many adventures, worthy in and of itself of a full recounting. However she stopped him after a while and bid him leave her with these words, "You have done well Student. It is time for you to move on and become a Teacher in your own right. You have been taught and learned how to learn. You must now find others to whom you can teach the Art of Learning. You are not doing my Art, Student. Go out and share your Art with others."

Her Hall, situated at the edge of Anywhere, was perched upon a jut of land that stuck out from the plateau like the prow of a great ship. West it faced and as she gazed into the waning light of the setting sun the story of her own life and the development of her Art unfolded in her mind's eye. She recounted the arrival and departure of each of her Students and saw herself as they must have seen her. She realized, for not the last time, that the continuity of her Art would die with her; as would the continuity of the Master of That Other Place's Art die with his eldest Student. The thought saddened her momentarily; until the last ray of light from the sun caught the blossoms of the weeping cherry tree in her yard. Though each branch of the tree was independent, all were tied to the trunk that was their common source. She and her Students, trunk and branches. Though fractured, her legacy would live on and grow as her Students followed their own paths and continued to learn and teach. Each Student's Art represented an incomplete piece of her Art, a rendering of her Art as it was manifest over a given period of time, preserved first and then extended, a living thing that would go on evolving...

The Musician, and with him his tune, fades from Anywhere as fog melts from the air in the heat of a sunny day. The consequences of his having spent time there await the unfolding of the years to make themselves known.

One Hundred and Seventy-three

Get in tune
with the rhythms of life.

Know the
ebb and flow
of life's cycles.

Be in sync
with the trend.

Ride life's ups and downs
with equanimity.

Enter when pulled
turn when pushed.

See both sides
not in opposition
but as one.

One Hundred and Seventy-two

The tin whistle plays and upon the warm breeze floats the cool melody, once blown never to be recalled; released upon the world in the hour before the hour before dawn when night holds sway and day is a remembrance of time gone by and yet to arrive. Long years of learning wash behind the Musician carrying with them all the baggage of his life. Before him lie the notes he has produced, traveling from him in ever widening spheres, each a product of what as gone before in his days upon the earth. To hear his song is to experience his life in his music; music that can only be created by one such as him. For he is long of age and wizened of years gone by, with light yet but still a hope at the end of his tunnel. It is music that weaves the tapestry of his long life and listeners can glean only a fragment of the whole of it yet at once feel the impact of its totality and weight.

His music is carried on the wind, to places well known and to some lost in the dust of history, moving into the small cracks and holes of fractured reality to fill the voids of forgetfulness that litter the landscapes of the world. So the history of those places is forever altered, amended, colored by the softness of the song. Beauty is wrought where the emptiness of memories no longer remembered have left nothingness in their absence. In other places the draught of corruption is amplified by the music. For all that is soft be not always sweet. Flowers grow through cracks in pavement in the hearts of concrete, steel and glass cities while children in other more idyllic places are taken before their time. The music plays no favorites, it deals in life and death with all the dispassionate reserve of an oncologist informing a patient that treatment has failed and perhaps going home now to pass on is the only recourse. As it passes and touches the lives of people, they are changed, and not knowing why or how they become other than once they were; and so go on becoming while friends, lovers, spouses and children can only watch and wonder, for not having heard the music they are left behind.

Moving on, the Musician and his music go forward to work their magic in a world where magic has no place and all magicians are merely the creators of slick illusions… or is that the illusion? Ask the Musician if ever you see him. Perhaps he will answer, perhaps not, but in his music you will hear something of meaning meant just for you, else never the opportunity to ask would have occurred and he would have passed you by without a glance or a note for you from his tin whistle.

The Musician walks bustling highways and lonely back roads all across the world and ever his music is heard in the land by those it is destined to touch and work its magic upon. His boots are worn and scuffed, dusty with the flotsam and jetsam of everyday life. Upon his head sits a hat of faded leather. Softened by years of exposure to the elements the hat hides his face, or most of it anyway, so that the casual passerby will see only the thin line of his mouth above a square strong chin and the sharp point of his nose protruding out of shadow. Clad in grey that mimics twilight shadows and fades to black as night creeps into the remnants of a day once sunny and bright, he moves down a dusty street of some out of the way place long forgotten by even the other out of the way places of the world…

…and so comes to Anywhere.

One Hundred and Seventy-one

If you hate a person, you hate something in him that is part of yourself. What isn't part of ourselves doesn't disturb us. - Hermann Hesse

The inward looking direction of my training forces me to see myself as I am, stripping away the garb of ego that I use to present an image of myself to the world instead of who I really am. The process of finding myself has been long, difficult and on-going. I suppose, since I am continually changing, finding new and inventive ways to hide myself, the journey will never end. I can approach myself without limit, but due to the unflagging efforts of my ego, never quite reach me. There'll always be another layer of self protection (or should I say delusion?) to peel away.

When I encounter someone I don't like I ask myself what is it about me that I see reflected in him? Then, as I continue to train, I can meditate on the answer and so, hopefully, eventually arrive at an understanding as to what it is about me that I don't like and change it.

I can take Hesse's quote and turn it around to read:

If you like a person, you like something in him that is part of yourself. We like that part of ourselves that doesn't disturb us.

Finding the parts of myself that I like, by seeing them reflected in the people I train with and interact with in the world, and letting them flourish is also an important part of my training. In this way, purging the negative while nurturing the positive, I continue to grow.

Interlude

They meet at last
upon other shores,
where pain and hurt are but shadows of a prior life,
dwindling, fading,
drowned in the light of a new day.

She passed in quiet solitude,
yesterday,
in the light of a waning summer’s afternoon,
giving up at last,
the body she knew
as herself for ninety years.

There upon the other side he awaited her arrival,
having made the journey fifteen years earlier.
And who is to say
what lies before them?

Goodbye Mom and Dad,
may you sail to lands
where the grass is always green,
the air fresh with the seasons’ aromas,
where your love for each other
will be eternally renewed.

I love you both and wish you well.

One Hundred and Seventy

The weather is still hot and seen from North Mountain Road the distant Catskills are softended and blurred by the haze that rises from the valleys. In the fertile fields corn stands tall ready for harvest. White cylindrical bales of newly mown hay lay about the fields awaiting storage.

The deep greens of high summer are fading to paler, duller shades that herald the onset of autumn. Already the maple leaves are turning and beginning to show their fall colors, orange to red in so many different shades; so easy to spot against the still predominantly green background. The late summer sun casts long soft rays of golden light through the leaf canopy of the part of the Harlem Valley Rail Trail that Mary and I call the Cathedral. Tall trees soar above the trail, leaning together high above to form a living roof.

As we slowly (we are invetrate cruisers) pedal our way down the trail, a red tailed hawk swoops out of the trees above us moving from our left to our right, perches on a branch a little ahead of us, and seems to wait for us. As we close on it, the hawk launches once more flying to the oppsite side of the trail where it alights and again awaits our approach. This goes on for a ways, the bird moving from one side of the trail to the other, patiently waiting for us to catch up before moving again, until finally it flies off on an errand known only to itself.

Aikido in daily life; the awareness of the interconnectedness of all things. There is no separation, only self imposed isolation; no boundries, only the tyranny of ego. Each moment I can choose to close myself off from the wonders of the world around me or permit myself to enjoy their splendor. The practice of Aikido is a way of integration for me; a way of mitigating the societal induced differentiation I have experienced since birth. Via Aikido I have learned to re-connect with the world; to hold myself forth and let the world re-connect with me.

One Hundred and Sixty-nine

Below is a brief interchange I had with Dan and some further comments from me.

I said...

I'd rather have uke
push the air
where I have been
than push me.


Dan said...

While that is excellent and sounds rather nice, by the way.

In a more poetic refrain:
He pushes the air
Where I have been

There is another way, Ron. he can push on you, and you use his enery to take it from him while simultaniously feeding back. He feels like he is pushing into a hole while you are cpatruing his being and leading him.

In my way of moving:
He pushes
I take from him what he offers
I give it back to him equally
We meet..in peace.


Peace
Dan


I said...


Hi Dan -

And so, together, we complete the circle.


All the best,
Ron


Dan said...
Well I like my version of
"He pushes the air
Were I have been.."

I love your version that fits my own


"Together we complete the circle..."

I'm stealing that (with credit).
Short and to the point.


Thanks
Dan

What I see is that Dan and I are talking about the same process albiet from diametrically opposed viewpoints. I am taking what uke has to offer while in a state of motion. My movement suggests a trajectory that uke may move in without encountering any resistance from me. Dan seems to be accepting uke's gift of energy statically and then leading uke in some way without much motion at all (I may have totally misinterpreted Dan's remarks here so please forgive).

Dan's statement: "he can push on you, and you use his enery to take it from him while simultaniously feeding back. He feels like he is pushing into a hole while you are cpatruing his being and leading him." is what I refer to as simultaneous leading and following or moving in concert, not conflict. When I yield my position to uke I do it in such a way as to afford him the opportunity to fall into the momentary vacuum I leave behind. The energy he has expended must go somewhere so I accept it with thanks, and give it back to him when we meet up later. His balance I keep; it will be restored when he meets the mat. I refer to this as the cycle of conflict engagement, neutralization and resolution.

It's rather like a surfer who rides the wave front, remaining calm and upright while the sea froths and churns around him. He accepts the force the ocean gives him, following where it leads, while leading it, as it in turn carries him along.

One Hundred and Sixty-eight

It's not about the throw or control or imposing my will upon another. It's about discovering who I am and how I fit into the world. I see myself in the patterns my partner and I form as we work together to achieve a union of sorts that, sometimes, is profound in a way that transcends our individual natures and becomes... something else; if only briefly and not often enough. It's at those moments of intersection that I am totally aware of the Art that is Aikido; an Art that, from conflict, gives rise to deep and abiding beauty.

One Hundred and Sixty-seven

I'd rather have uke
push the air
where I have been
than push me.

One Hundred and Sixty-six

Ahh, definately not the uke I once was. My attacks have slowed with age though there has been no ebbing of intent; and while I still take ukemi for my students every class I notice that I don't bounce up the way I used to. It's more of a rolling "ease yourself up from the mat son" type of motion now.

I feel that it's important to keep taking ukemi for as long as I am able. How else am I going to feel the progress of my students? So much of what we do is internalized that just looking only tells me part of the story. By feeling their technique in response to my attacks I am able adjust my instruction for each student individually.

Experiencing connection as uke enables me to push students to their limits, and then just a little bit further so as to help them grow into their power. I love it when I go to stop a student's technique and am treated as just another uke, taken off balance and sent to the mat.

When I turned forty I somehow convinced myself that I was getting too old to fall. Thankfully, Mary banged me on my head a few times and with a few choice words quickly dispelled me of that notion. Twenty-three years later I'm still grateful for that.