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Voice of the Fox
The Newsletter of the Martial Arts Training Service

Comforting Words to Ignore
by Aaron Starr
Spring 1996

There is a lot written about fear, anger, and frustration in the practice of the martial arts, and about aikido in particular. But there is a fourth horseman in this group, one that isn't obvious like pain or fear, or ever-present like frustration. It creeps around in the background until given an opening, then pounces all at once: Adversity. It follows on the wake of misfortune, and magnifies troubles. And, once it finds you, it stays. Then it leaves as quietly as it lurked, until one day it's gone.

Case in point: December 13th, 1995. I remember this class distinctly. I rarely reach the level of focus I had that night in kendo. The bogu (protective armor) had lost the uncomfortable, top-heavy feel it often had. The steel bars of the headgear didn't distract and interfere with depth perception like they always had. As I moved about, my breathing slowed and deepened, rather than becoming ragged and uneven. As I moved through the class, I saw my own mistakes and errors as they occurred and worked to correct them.

In the last few minutes, I remember one particular strike that seemed as perfect as I knew how to make it. Then, a few seconds later, a quick jump back, a small twist, a loud pop, and I was off the mat for almost two months from a dislocated knee.

Training, to me, is more than how you perform in the dojo. It begins with how you feel and what you think, even while at work or at home. The enthusiasm and drive to continue training is what propels us out the door and to the dojo in the first place. That first night after my accident brought that home to me. Too soon to tell what the damage was, I considered some dark scenarios, such as never doing any martial arts again, limping for the rest of my life, or never being able to run again.

Adversity. Suddenly, here it was. Forget the physical damage for a moment. I wasn't going anywhere for a while. But thinking about it that first night … it is the sort of night that has ended many martial arts careers, I'm sure. With no particular reason to feel you can continue, why muster the energy to do so? Not just in aikido, or jujitsu, or kendo, but in anything. Why continue? This is the basic question posed by all adversity.

But, listen carefully: No particular reason to feel you can continue. Yet not absolutely telling you you can't. It's an invitation to step down from the plate, to back away from the challenge of just getting back to where you were. It's tempting, let me tell you.

It was a temptation I had to fight. Sensei came to see me the very next day. I returned to the dojo a week or so afterward to begin watching classes. I realized that keeping myself mentally in tune with what I'd enjoyed about aikido training, and keeping in mind the idea of an eventual return, would slow the erosion of my enthusiasm. And erode it would. Boredom, pain and the complete disruption of my entire schedule, both on and off the mat, threatened to overtake any lingering anticipation of returning.

And then, finally, I was back on the mat. Going to stretch out -- be careful! What, practice a few rolls? Okay. Oh -- you can't! Class is beginning. Quick! Line up! Goodness, you can't sit seiza either?

Back to the basics. Tenkan. No, no, like this now. Irimi … careful! Keep those feet straight! Small changes, alterations of the basics. Suddenly, the building blocks of my techniques have new shapes. The confidence I had was gone. How could I concentrate like this? Check your knees, watch those feet, don't overextend. Hand changes suffering? Of course, I'm too concerned about the feet. Am I wasting the time of the advanced students? Seems likely. Am I a poor example of proper technique for the newer students? Probably. Why am I even here, limping through these techniques? Am I enjoying this? Why put myself through this? I should just stop.

Adversity again. The progress I'd felt in the stages from bed to crutches, crutches to brace, brace to mat, all worked to counter the mental adversity I faced in continuing my training. But now the physical difficulties of actually practicing and adjusting had made me lose sight of another incarnation of adversity: the emotional. The dull reality of having to slowly climb back up to where I'd been was different than I'd pictured it. I hadn't imagined actually not enjoying training. I'd anticipated frustrations, and adjustments in technique, but actually living it was another story.

It was a subtle, inexorable wearing down of my drive to push myself. Adversity again, this time in the form of decreased ability lowering my desire. I had to change what my desire was to recapture the same urge to practice. I had to make the smallest improvement, the most minor adjustment my next goal.

So looking back, I feel that the experience of recovery might do my training some good. I've learned a lot about knees, certainly. I've gained a new perspective on what motivates me to train as I do, and taken a hard look at my techniques as they become possible to perform once more. But I've gained the greatest insight into what holds me back, what takes away from my enjoyment of something. It's not, for me, fear or frustration. It's always one step removed. Ironically, it's when the fear is gone, when I have an easy way to back down, to avoid what frustrates me. That's the end of learning. That's true adversity.

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