“Time is free, but it’s priceless. You can’t own it, but you can use it. You can’t keep it, but you can spend it. Once you’ve lost it you can never get it back.”

As many of you might know, compared to many I train with, I am new to Aikido training. I do not have the years of continuous training. As I continue my Aikido training, I have come to realize that while there are ranks and tests, the true determining elements in learning, training and developing my Aikido skills is a “Test of Time”.

This is not a new idea and I’m sure I’m not the only one to experience this. Time is finite. It has bounders and limits. Our existence is time boxed. How we choose to use time is crucial. For all of us who have chosen to make Aikido a part of our lives, we are told of the commitments that it asks. We are told that Aikido is not simply a recreational activity to be performed on weekends.

Take a look at your Aikido inspirations. If you look at them and admire the skills they possess, ask yourself what has gotten them to that status. They have one major thing in common; they all have dedicated themselves to Aikido. They made Aikido a part of their lives and we are witnessing the results. I don’t know about you but I want to emulate these results. I admire the Aikido Senseis and want to one day attain what they have attained.

As stated earlier, our time is limited. In accepting the challenges of commitment and dedication that Aikido asks of us, we will face the true “Test of Time”.

Continue to train hard, sincerely and passionately, my Aikido cohorts.

Rey Robles
Southern Maryland Aikido Center

Ma-ai is a concept that is often described to Aikidoka as meaning “space-time”. It is taught as a beginning concept of ‘safe distance’ typically measured by both practitioners extending their arms from a hanme stance so that they cross somewhere between the wrist and the fingertips. This “space”, if you will, represents the “time” it would take an attacker to reach the defender… the time required to take the step that spans the distance. This “time distance” provides the defender with an interval to react and thus effectively respond.

Such an elegant a formulation because of its economy and simplicity, but the equation E = mc2 (another space-time continuum) also appears simple but is about as conceptually complicated as you can get. And ma-ai has its complications and nuances as well.

First maai is not a fixed single concept. It is neither a fixed space nor a fixed time. For example if two opponents are of different heights or different arm lengths or different leg lengths then the maai is different for each of them in the same instant of encounter. The taller individual or the one with longer arms may not need to take a step in order to touch the opponent and thus is ‘closer’ and the opponent needs a longer distance for effective maai.

Conversely if one of the opponents has exceptionally fast reflexes and is the speedier of the two then the slower combatant needs more distance to maintain safety. But this requirement also brings with it the problem of giving the slower opponent a greater distance to cover when attacking, which in turn, because s/he is the slower of the two, gives the receiver of the attack an even longer time to respond.

These complications of the “space-time continuum” thus lead to another dimension, a dimension of mind (insert “Twilight Zone” music and the narration of Rod Serling… but I’m dating myself! However, it is where I’m going with this though… more later… with a sudden twist at the end.)

There is a maai of consciousness… the steadiness of attention, the constancy of focus, the point of breath at either inhale or exhale.

To gain a better understanding it is helpful to observe that maai is not just one thing but at least three things. The basic description of maai given above is actually a combination of two types of maai and blurs their differences a bit. When one is keeping a distance that allows for some reaction time this distance can be more specifically labeled as “to-ma” or perhaps called “long distance”.

But when one can strike the other only by covering the distance of one step then that distance is more specifically called Issoku ittō-no-maai (Itto-ma or “chuma”, middle distance). With this physical space there is very little time to react and so concentration must be unwavering. At this distance, all other factors being equal, the advantage goes to the opponent with the stronger steadier mind. Indeed it is possible that a stronger steadier mind that can identify and exploit lapses in an opponent’s consciousness may in fact more than compensate for the opponent’s advantages in reach and/or reflex speed.

The third kind of maai in this categorization scheme is “chikama” or short distance. In this situation an opponent has gotten too close, too far inside, in order to allow for any reaction time and there is nothing that can be done to defend oneself. An example of this is an instance in which a man brandishing a knife has gotten within 10 feet of a man with a holstered sidearm. The man with the knife has an overwhelming advantage. In fact in law enforcement training the safe distance here, the maai, is deemed to be a minimum of 21 feet.

In this last category an aware and “intuitive” mind could still have an advantage by moving ahead of the attack or specifically leading it to a pre-determined spot chosen for its defensive advantage. This is one of the meanings of the concept of “leading” an opponent’s mind.

We deal with maai constantly in everyday life. It is as simple as the time elapsed between the knock on the bathroom door and the same hand then turning the knob to open the door. It seems rarely, if ever, does the “knocker” allow for any time for the “current user” to respond before s/he tries the knob. If this occurs on an unlocked door in a public place like an office or garage restroom the “current user” soon discovers that there is an “opening”!

More dangerous is a failure to maintain a safe following distance between cars on a highway. Here severe tragedy can result from chikama, maai that is too close and inappropriate. This situation is exacerbated by texting while driving. Here there is a lapse in consciousness that allows great distances to be breached before there is even an awareness of danger and response and reflex speed remain as factors after initial awareness.

And then there are the more subtle nuances of maai that are manifest in body language and the cultural overtones embedded within non-verbal communication. If you are adventurous, experiment with the invisible boundary that represents the half way point on a shared table. Spread out across that line in a cafeteria or a library… what’s the body language (or possibly the spoken language) of the “sharer”. Or what’s your comfortable speaking distance? How close do you allow a boss or a co-worker? Where’s your line? What’s your maai?

Culturing an awareness of details and allowing for the healthy sensitivity of “relaxed alertness” is the way one can take advantage of “kokoro-no-maai”… a lapse of spirit, a wandering of the mind which leaves a momentary “tsuki” or opening. Such moments are said to exist at certain points in the breath cycle such as just before an exhale is completed. One would unleash a most successful attack if coupled with a “ki-ai”, a spirit yell, an exhalation at the moment of the strike. The same would be true at the moment of response. However if one has not quite finished an exhale then this has to be completed, followed by an inhale before there can be a powerful exhale again. Thus there is an “opening” at that specific point of the breathing rhythm.

But none of this has anything to do with my point! Or maybe it has everything to do with it.

This all started while I was listening to a discussion on my car radio as I drove to work in congested morning traffic with an aggressive driver tailgating me as she did her lipstick in her rear view mirror. One of the contributors speaking on the radio used the phrase “the problem with the world today”… when it occurred to me that this was a confluence of issues in space and time that could be eliminated with an awareness of maai.

Technology has become a virulent attacker to the act of living in a relaxed manner in the here and now. Multi-tasking and web surfing and television with “57 channels and nothin’ on” and a 24 hour hyped news cycle, and tweets and postings and a virtual community that frantically devours bits of minutia like piranha in a feeding frenzy leaves no time or space for solitude… just a zombie crowd engulfed in a steady numbing drone.

The dialogue on my car radio had lost its sense of real context and seduces the listener to journey to conceptual abstractions. The “world” is the space we live in… that is immediately around us. I cannot describe the world solely as this commute. The discussion of the “world” was a provincial look at a microcosm and reduction of urban America. It certainly was not the universe. It was not the world of medieval burgermeisters, or the Omo tribe in Sudan, or for that matter of a farmer in the Midwest USA.

And “today” is just that… a “moment” that is “here”. It is not eternity… it is not “all of the time”. And yet “now” is all we have… and it is only “here” and it never goes away so it is “eternity”. A Roman gladiator only had “now”, a mugging victim only has “now”, a runaway slave only had, or because it still exists somewhere on the planet and probably in more than one place, they only have “nows”.

Sure we have memories and we have goals and plans but these too are abstracts. They change according to the now. The humiliating moment last summer when a co-worker accidently walked into the bathroom you were using becomes the funniest story at the office Christmas party. The righteous argument you had in college with the dorky disheveled and disorganized weird kid because of how much space he was taking and the noise he was making in the library becomes patty and sickening when you found out he jumped off a bridge later that day. The happy goal of buying that house suddenly becomes a burden when you’ve be laid off and your home mortgage is under water. And the lay off becomes the best thing that ever happened to your career because it created the opportunity where you stumbled into your dream job.

Practice Aikido to develop penetrating awareness… to find your place in space and time… to guard your maai… and to see the openings… to stay in the now… in big things and little things… like maybe I shouldn’t be texting this while I’m driving!

Robert A. Whelan
Shodokan

There once was a vain young prince, who’s most proud possession was the greatest tea master in the land.

The old tea master lived a joyous and natural life in the prices’ hereditary castle, much what you would expect from a master of his great stature. Just one thing however was unusual. And that was that in all his life and training, he had never once stepped foot outside of his lords castle gates.

One day the prince was invited to a neighboring castle, and decided to show off his tea master. He began preparations for the visit and sent a servant to the tea master, requiring his attendance. The tea master immediately sought out his prince, pleading not to have to leave the safety of the castle. “My lord, I beg you not to take me, I know something awful will happen if I accompany you tomorrow.” The master could not imagine actually stepping foot outside the gates, never mind traveling a great distance to some unknown castle. But the price refused to take no for an answer. The tea master was mortified. He hardly slept a wink.

The next day, as they were about to leave the safety of his beloved castle, the tea master said, “My lord, last night I had a most terrible dream. I know that utter disaster and misfortune awaits me outside these gates. I beg you to let me stay.” But there was no changing his mind, and off they went.

As the humble master entered the gates of the neighboring castle, he turned his head to look back at the heavily fortified doors closing him in, when he bumped right into the most vicious mean looking samurai he had ever met. “Oh, pardon me, I am so sorry.” said the tea master.

The brutish samurai glared down at him saying, “You little fuck, who do you think you are. I’m going to cut your shrimpy head off for that!” “Oh no please, it was foolish of me not to look where I was going. Please forgive me.,” said the tea master with his nose in the dirt. But the huge samurai picked him up by the scruff of the neck with one hand and declared, “Tomorrow you meet at the river, crack of dawn. Bring your katana!”

Later that day the prince introduced his tea master to the neighboring lord, who in turn introduced him to his trusted majordomo. The officer could see the troubled countenance of the tea master and took him aside to inquire. When the warrior learned of the impending duel, he put his hand on the old mans shoulder, and then said a very wise thing, “This calls for tea”.

An hour later the majordomo bowed low as he entered the small tearoom, which had been meticulously prepared by the tea master. They bowed to each other and soon the great warrior was humbled to the bone at the mastery, the beauty, and the utter power in simplicity of each and every breath and gesture he observed and shared, in what would be the final tea ceremony. Then as the master offered the cup in a movement that was one with his mind, his spirit and body, his eyes held the majordomos, and the warrior was awestruck.

After finishing a few sips of the green brew, he looked at the tea master and said, “tomorrow, you have nothing to worry about. Take my sword, and when the samurai comes to you at the river, raise the katana, just as you raise this cup. Hold it over your head, and just look into his eyes.”

The next morning at dawn the tea master waited next to the river, and when he saw the muscled samurai coming, he grasped the katana with two hands and raised it above his head, focusing his whole being on the big samurai before him. Not a hair moved, he breathed the natural breath of a sleeping baby. His whole being was as one.

And the samurai instantly knew he could step no closer. He stopped and bristled, eyeing the tea master in front of him. “Mmmmmm, you are not the same man I met yesterday. I do not think it is wise for us to continue. I forgive you.”

Bob Toabe
MIT Aikido Club

As ideas migrate they change as they stay the same. This seems to happen in much the same way that people pass on genetic characteristics. If one tribe with black hair intermarries with another tribe that has blonde hair then occasionally a recessive gene expresses itself and an atypical physical attribute expresses itself… but although this particular child may look different then the others s/he is still a member of the same tribe and the tribe retains its basic culture and identity.

The concept of Budo is the result of a similar process of migration as an idea that starts in India, travels and transmutes through Asia, until it eventually arrives in Japan to be influenced by a Samurai world view.

It seems to have begun when a man (Siddhartha Gautama/Shakyamuni) somewhere in Nepal decided to sit under a tree until he found “an end to suffering” (enlightenment). Legend says that this practice was carried to China by Bodhidharma where it intermingled with Taoism and where sitting is called Ch’an. Tradition stipulates that Bodhidharma sat facing a wall in a cave near a Shaolin Monastery for nine years. Although he was silent he left behind an iron chest with two texts. The first text disappeared but the second text, “The Muscle Change Classic”, became the guarded treasure of the monks who incorporated it into their martial arts practice.

This association of Bodhidharma with the idea that spiritual, intellectual, and physical excellence are an indivisible whole necessary for enlightenment, proved highly attractive to the Samurai class in Japan. As the idea crosses the sea from the continent to the islands Japanese pronunciation transforms “Tao” to “Do” and “Ch’an” to “Zen”.

As a warrior class Samurai were constantly aware of their mortality, a human condition that often leads to questioning the meaning of existence. They were particularly drawn to the Rinzai School of Zen because it was reputed to remove all fear of death via direct experiential transformation of consciousness. For a Samurai, fear of death was naturally a great obstacle, so such Zen practice had practical applications and became the philosophical basis of bushido. Bushido demands the willingness to face death. According to Zen principles, fear can only be truly conquered by eliminating the notion of self. It is from here that the migrating idea of the Buddha becomes the Japanese concept of Budo.

The sword is known as the “soul of the Samurai”, and in Japanese mythology it was one of the three sacred gifts given to the emperor by the Sun Goddess. A Samurai’s sword was believed to be imbued with certain spiritual qualities of its owner. The forging of the blade itself was considered a religious ceremony, swathed in ritual, passed down in secret from father to son for generations. The ceremony was consistent, precise, unvaried, and beautiful — in action, dress, and color. Forging was often done at night and temperatures were set by holding the blade to the color of the morning sun. The exact hue was transmitted from master to apprentice down through centuries.

The sword forging process itself became a metaphor for character development and many of the metallurgical processes parallel the tasks required for shaping the spirit. The concept of “tanren” is central to this theme.

Tanren means to forge in the same way that a sword blade is forged, with hard work, and sweat, and many hours of dedication, folding together the hard and soft elements in the body, mind, and movement just as the sword gains its strength out of hard and soft steel.

This is followed by “Renshu”. Ren means to polish, to perfect by continued practice. It also means to polish the spirit and character through the requirements of detail and interpretation. To demonstrate a compassionate nature that can pass on knowledge without egotistical pride and arrogance. Miyamoto Musashi, the legendary 16th century Japanese sword master, states in his “Book of Five Rings” that it takes 1,000 days to forge the spirit and 10,000 to polish it.

So it came to be in more modern times (in Japan this could be seen as starting with the Meiji Reformation) that a primary goal of Budo was to develop character. The physical practice of Budo transcends the notion of sport. It transcends the idea of competition. It views self-defense in a much more sophisticated way.

Because of such a great promise there are high expectations. Wherever there is a great height there is the danger of a great fall. This is as true with abstract ideals as it is with concrete reality. There is the “talk” about the ideals of Budo and the “walk” of the path. Disappointments and errors occur along the journey and the fall is accompanied by sadness and doubt.

But part of the training in Budo is to learn how to fall and arise from the throw ready to continue. Consequently one must remember that there is “no escape” and readjust the keikogi and return to “fight the good fight”. This doesn’t mean that the experience hasn’t left feelings of doubt and discouragement. These are the challenges (physical and psychological) to training and living. They are the heat and the hammering that represents the forging of character.

This is the difficulty of living with integrity in the “real world” and the hardships experienced along the way. These are the requirements for forging a blade that “never bends, never breaks, cuts clean”.

R. A. Whelan
Godan, Shidoin
Shodokan

After training in the CAF for a number of years, I moved to North Carolina for a work opportunity and Kawahara Sensei asked me to study with a USAF dojo. I have now been a student of Steve Kaufmann at Open Sky Aikikai since 2004. I wrote a piece on my blog about Kawahara Sensei, and Kaufman Sensei has encouraged me submit this for others to see. It begins as follows:

Yukio Kawahara Shihan, 8th dan, the technical director of the Canadian Aikido Federation, a direct student of O Sensei and a very gifted, very generous and gracious man, passed away late on June 2nd. According to the shidoin who phoned me, he was surrounded by his students.

To continue reading the blog post, click here

John Hillson
Open Sky Aikikai

It’s only been 4 years since I started learning your Aikido. Aikido has been one of the best things that have happened to me in my life.

My earliest memory of Aikido came from, of all places, Sesame Street. There was a very short video clip of an aikido demonstration performed by two kids. I was already mesmerized by the miracles of the television. This little video stayed engrained in me.

So, here I am many, many years later. I’ve grown to adulthood and have a family of my own. What do I run into but Aikido. What a blessing it has been! Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t a pretty start. My very first attempt at Aikido was terrible. I entered the dojo and went to a few classes. Things just didn’t go right at first. I couldn’t do rolls without getting very dizzy. I became so ill that I could not continue my aikido training at that time.

A few years later, I ran into a cousin, who was studying Aikido as well. This peeked my interest once again, so much so that when I got home I looked up the local Aikido Dojo and signed up.

I feel very lucky to have met the instructors of this dojo (Southern Maryland Aikido Center). They are the nicest couple. Yes, they are a husband and wife team of Aikido Instructors. They made all my past Aikido issues go away; leaving only the pure joy of Aikido. Donna and Darrell are teaching us (my fellow Aikido students and me) the beauty and power of Aikido. They are the best of examples for our young dojo. The future of Aikido in our little part of the world is safe.

So, as I was saying I’m very new to Aikido. I attend Aikido classes almost every day the dojo is open. I’ve also been able to attend some of the local seminars. Aikido makes me feel great inside. I have a yearning to learn more as I progress. I see the beauty of Aikido; the graceful movements of uke and nage blending.

I thank O-Sensei for sharing his creation with us. He has changed countless lives and now my life can be added to that list as well.

Domo arigato gozaimasu, O-Sensei.

Rey N. Robles
Southern Maryland Aikido Center
July 2011

I didn’t see it coming. I extended my arm to take a roll and my ankle started firing pain bullets at my petrified brain in the intensity of the Kalashnikov latest model. I felt a crack in my neck as it hit the mat, and gasped for air. My chest responded with an unnerving spasm. As the lungs expanded, I felt a sharp tingle in my back. Damn, it hurt!
A little disoriented, I quickly gathered my aching body and looked at my partner. “Oh my God! You tripped over my hakama,” she whispered covering her mouth with her small, freckled palm. “Are you okay?” she asked. I stood up. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I smiled to make the lie more convincing. I felt a wave of pain spreading throughout my body, but I was able to move. I could even finish the class. I wanted to believe everything was in perfect order. It took several hours to realize otherwise.

A sharp pain woke me at 3 a.m. As four green capsules of Advil were reassuringly dissolving in my stomach, I “googled” upper back muscles. The trouble was coming from my trapezius, a large muscle connecting my spine, shoulder and head. “Maybe it will go away by the time I have to get up,” I thought as I was finally falling back to sleep. But it didn’t. Big beads of sweat covered my forehead when I tried to practice the next day. I couldn’t lift my right arm for any of the techniques. Suddenly, it dawned on me. Perhaps, it was time to take a break… Wait a minute… How could a thought that ridiculous pop in my head?

I recalled a beautiful sunny day in May of 2007. I was going to the Columbia University Dodge Fitness Center for my daily swim, when I saw dozens of white paper sheets with the word “aikido” written on them in thick, black ink. The pages covered all nearby trees and buildings. Intrigued, I stopped at the gym. “Excuse me,” I said to a guy in a Hawaiian shirt who was watching strangely dressed people making counterintuitive moves. “Do you know what this is all about?” He explained aikido in one sentence, and I found myself twisted in what I later learned was shihonage. “I’m thinking of doing karate,” I said when he released me from his iron grip. “There is a major difference between aikido and karate,” the guy in the Hawaiian shirt looked intensively into my eyes. “Basically, in karate I could kill you right now. In aikido, why would I bother? By the way, my name is Rick, Rick Stickles.” He explained the event I was witnessing was a seminar by a famous teacher named Chiba Sensei. “Remember that,” Rick said. “You will think about it later, once you get settled into your practice.” He wrote something down on a piece of paper and handed it to me. “Here,” he said, “this is the address of the New York Aikikai. You will love it.”

I really did. For the first few months, I had goose bumps every time I walked into the dojo. The idea of learning something as foreign as martial arts excited and overwhelmed me. My inability to get any of the moves right, left me hungry for more. Some things appeared funny, like bowing to paper portraits of dead people or kneeling for a teacher seemed a little overboard. But I slowly began to embrace the beautiful, circular movement and understand its power and culture. I realized I was incredibly lucky to start my training at the New York Aikikai, with its accommodating training schedule and variety of excellent teachers. I wondered whether it would appear freakish if I came to practice every day. Then I just did it, anyway.

One day, I found myself explaining a technique to my partner, and, surprised, I realized I actually knew what I was doing. Some other day, a person asked me to start a group exercise, because I was the most senior around. “How did this happen?” I scratched my head.

I began to think of all the reasons I practiced aikido. Coming from the European country of Poland, I had nothing in common with Japanese culture, and no connection to the martial arts world, except for one time when I was six years old and a friend tried his Bruce Lee moves on me and broke my left arm. To gather some answers, I went to train for two weeks at the source, the Hombu dojo in Japan.

On my first day of training, after class, I was watching one of the Hombu dojo teachers, Yoshiaki Yokota, testing white belts. Suddenly, he jumped from seiza position, hitched his dark blue hakama and trotted across the bright canvas mat. The main training room was spacious, but it took Yokota Sensei just a blink of an eye to get from one end to the other, and reach me. He came so close that I could see every wrinkle on his weary face. My heart sank. Yokota Sensei opened his purple and otherwise quite beautiful lips, and started screaming his lungs out. I watched his round face turning bright red as he yelled in Japanese pointing his right index finger directly at me. Still screaming, he turned around to make sure other people in the room heard, and then he pointed at me one again. After a cavalcade of sounds I didn’t understand, Yokota sensei turned around and trotted back to his spot. He sat and continued examining kyu grade students as if nothing happened, as if my heart wasn’t shattered. One of Yokota Sensei’s assistants, Suzuki, turned towards me and whispered in imperfect English. “No sitting cross-legged. Sit in seiza. Now!”

I blinked in disbelief realizing my big offense, but I was grateful Suzuki spoke a language I could understand. Not many Japanese at the dojo shared this ability. It turned out to be a blessing. The only way for me to communicate with the majority of the Hombu dojo students was through the language of ikkyo, nikkyo and ukemi. Two weeks later, after many more classes and much nicer encounters, I went back to New York relieved. The Hombu dojo experience was extraordinary, but New York Aikikai was home. There was room for everyone, for every individual style and it didn’t matter where I kept my feet off the mat, as long as I put effort into everything I was doing on the mat. I realized I practiced aikido simply because it felt good. I liked the space between me and my partner, the touch, connection, and the flow. I enjoyed the energy. I noticed how aikido made me more compassionate, empowered and assertive. It sharpened my senses, intuition, and enhanced empathy. I liked how it allowed me to express myself to people who didn’t speak the same language.

But I was getting bored. Endless repetition of movements, meeting the same people at the same place every day, and talking about one thing predominantly, suddenly seemed very monotonous. It didn’t help that I hovered at the back of the training hall, away from the bad kids, who used to fascinate me. I didn’t allow myself to be challenged.

One day, I snapped at someone who threw me harder and didn’t seem to care. Another day, I resented a teacher whose techniques I thought wouldn’t work in reality. I fussed about smelly gi’s and dirty feet. I didn’t like how beginner male students were telling me what to do just because I was a girl with a white belt. I enjoyed training, but didn’t have as much fun as I used to when I first had started. I was still coming to the dojo every day, out of habit, but my initial excitement puffed into thin air. I wondered how this could have happened. Aikido felt like an old lover whom I was taking for granted… Then I hurt my back.

“From down dog, extend and lift your right leg and flip your belly towards the ceiling… yeah… that’s right,” a yoga teacher at the New York Sports Club was cruising between colorful mats adjusting stretched bodies. “Bravo,” she said reassuringly. “Now flip back.” All I could think about was “shut up!” I was two weeks into my one month break from aikido, and I just couldn’t take it anymore. I swam, jogged and took yoga classes, but all of this just wasn’t doing it for me. In a cumulative effort to emerge myself in things different than aikido, I went to all the exhibits, plays and parties I could think of in the hours I would normally spend on the mat, and… nothing. My mind wandered to the silent training hall, the circular, repetitious movement, my friends and our endless discussions about one thing, predominantly. I counted days until I could step back on the mat. Once my feet hit it, I understood I just came through a natural learning cycle. I was curious about aikido again because I gave myself time and space to miss it. There was so much more to learn, and I was determined to be the best student I can.

Aleksandra Michalska
New York Aikikai