I remember George Leonard as tall, kind, and extremely sweaty. My hands would always slip
\noff his thick wrists as we practiced, him with a tattered brown belt, and me an enthusiastic
\n4th kyu. He usually trained under another sensei in our dojo, but started showing up at my
\nsensei’s classes in preparation for his shodan test. I had no idea what he was going through at
\nthe time. It was years later, after reading his wonderful essay entitled “On getting My Black Belt
\nat Age 52” that I began to glimpse the context. But in those early days, the rank of shodan was
\nunimaginable. Even though sensei would say “just keep coming to class” and “all in good time,”
\nit never occurred to me just how far “all in good time” could be, and just how much my
\nperceptions could change along the way. <\/p>\n
After all, when I was in my early twenties, the adults in hakama seemed capable of feats well
\nbeyond most natural abilities, and it wasn’t obvious how such a metamorphosis could occur.
\nFor example, one hot summer day as we sat in seiza listening to our sensei (an early uchideshi
\nof Saito Sensei and renowned for his weapon skills) a large housefly began lazily buzzing across
\nthe dojo. After the second or third pass, sensei paused to remark about it, casually gesturing in
\nthe air with the boken he held at his side. As he resumed his lecture I noticed the fly lying still
\non the mat a few feet away. Although I was one of the more junior in the class, I was often uke
\nfor his demonstrations and felt some responsibility. “Sensei!,” I interrupted, pointing to the
\ncasualty, and then knee-walking over to retrieve the debris. The fly had undoubtedly been
\nstruck precisely by the tip of the sword my teacher so distractedly waved. I had just witnesses
\nno-mind in action; and yet the class resumed as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.<\/p>\n
And yudansha wizardry was more than physical. My very first sensei was a hugh obsidian
\nmountain of a man, taciturn and brooding, whose dojo was on the top floor of a community
\nbuilding in the Mission District. As an accomplished actor, his intensity might have been
\nperformance, but the respect he commanded as a teacher was unassailable. I was terrified of
\nhim. One day, as he and I sat knee to knee for kokyu dosa, I marshalled my will to grab his
\nmassive wrists and center my breathing. After a momentary pause, he suddenly thrust his face
\ntoward mine, our noses almost touching. Instantly I flew backward onto the mat in reaction to
\nhis piercing gaze. Smiling to himself he rose and walked away, lessen over.<\/p>\n
Almost a decade later, after changing jobs and moving across the Bay, I was training in Berkeley
\nwhen I had the privilege of sitting in on the shodan test of a young woman who was at least
\neight months pregnant. She had been preparing diligently for years, and it was obvious that if
\nshe didn’t achieve her rank now she would have to wait until her responsibilities as Mom
\nallowed that opportunity again. Our sensei decided that she should test, as long as she, and
\nespecially her ukes, were careful. No suwariwaza or hanmi handachi. No falls. And no errant
\nstrikes during randori, please.<\/p>\n
Her test was wonderful, and she moved with a grace and intensity that belied her girth. As the
\ntechniques became increasingly vigorous, the entire dojo was tense and silent, poised on the
\nknife edge between success and failure, literally between the possibilities of life and death. As
\nsensei shouted “yamei” at the end of her randori, the dojo erupted in tremendous cheering and
\napplause, borne both of relief for her safety and pride for her obvious success in risking
\neverything in her dedication to our art.<\/p>\n
I myself hated testing. After my early tests I recall being mostly sore in my shoulders: not from
\nthe techniques, but from the stress! Sensei’s commands would begin to sound like martian, and
\nmy techniques (hardly the word) would rapidly disintegrate into a tunnel of nervous myopia.
\nTwo or three times I worked my way almost to 3rd kyu, and each time I would move houses
\nor jobs and find myself, years later, starting over in a different dojo with a slightly different style.
\nI was getting nowhere, slowly.<\/p>\n
About ten years ago, in looking for a swimming pool for my family, I found a nearby health club
\nthat also offered aikido, a satellite of a larger Iwama-style dojo in the area, two nights a week.
\nIt was great to be on the mat again and I trained religiously, though advancement still came at a
\nsnail’s pace. I finally reached 3rd kyu at age 52 (hardly anything to write about), and by 2nd kyu
\nwas dismayed to realize that, in terms of cumulative practice hours, I was still only half way to
\ndan rank. And, it had only taken 28 years.<\/p>\n
Around this time, I found myself yearning for the milestone of shodan. I wanted my technique
\nto be validated, and I wanted to prove that something I set my mind on could, against the odds
\nof age and awkward nervousness, be achieved by force of will. But most of all, I wanted to
\nattain the rank of shodan because of my son.<\/p>\n
Soon after I left home at 19, my parents separated, and my mom, who had always been a
\nhousewife and mother, went to work to support her two younger children. Nearing 50 she
\nfirst got a job in a bakery, studied for and then finally became a real estate agent. Within a few
\nshort years she went from home-maker to salesperson of the year in one of Marin County’s
\nlargest firms. That was a powerful lesson to me: growing older need never be an impediment
\nto growth. I wanted my son to learn that same simple truth, not by anything that I could say to
\nhim, but simply by his participation in our lives together.<\/p>\n
Because my dojo only held classes two nights a week, I started supplementing my training at
\nour parent dojo, and then at a third Iwama-ryu dojo in the area, with another of Saito Sensei’s
\nuchideshi. I alternated between feeling that I was progressing and feeling basically incompetent.
\nSometimes it seemed my techniques were actually getting worse (though sensei would explain
\nthat my perceptions were becoming more discriminating).<\/p>\n
But, the more often I practiced, the more energized I became, the faster I progressed, and the
\nless prone I was to injury. But I struggled between the need for regular training, and the desire
\nto be home with my family, helping with homework and piano practice. One day, while
\nsearching online, I became aware of a Aikikai dojo with noon classes not ten minutes from my
\nplace of work. I joined the next day, and was soon training seven times a week.<\/p>\n
The hours were accumulating swiftly now, and I anticipated having the number required for
\ntesting sometime in early February. But as winter came and went, and spring turned to
\nsummer, I imagined my sensei was thwarting me. I trained harder, visiting dojos wherever I
\ntravelled, attending seminars, and keeping notes on details and variations. Amazingly, as my test
\ndate was set first for June, then October, and finally mid-November, I went from confident and
\nimpatient to unsure and self-deprecating; from a desire to prove myself, to a deeper trust in
\nand submission to the process.<\/p>\n
In Iwama dojos there is a particular structure to the run-up to any test. The candidate is
\nexpected to seek a higher ranking student who will agree to serve as mentor, helping fine-tune
\nthe techniques in the months before, and to serve as uke during, the actual test. This pre-test
\nperiod is a kind of intense tempering by fire. In many way, both uke and nage are put on the
\nline, since it falls to the Uke to forge the blade of the student for the next rank, and the
\ncandidate is expected to be completely immersed in the flame of exhausting practice and study.
\nDuring class the candidate is singled out and put through the gauntlet, criticised relentlessly,
\npushed to the limits of endurance in randori and jiyuwaza. And, it’s a lot to ask of uke too,
\nsince many nights and weekends training outside of class are required.<\/p>\n
My sensei suggested that I again begin training at our parent dojo in an effort to find a sempai
\nthere who would agree to mentor me. But by now I had been training for over a year at my
\nother dojo, and felt at home and committed there. The idea of giving up that time to train at a
\nthird location was troubling. Finally, my teacher agreed to allow me to ask a senior student
\nfrom there to serve as my uke, as long as their sensei also agreed. Amazingly, everyone
\nconsented. A nidan from Alameda began training twice a week at my dojo, while we spent
\nweekends practicing on the mat at his. This was unprecedented. But finally, I was beginning
\nto grasp what George Leonard had been going through.<\/p>\n
My test occurred on a beautiful sunny day in my dojo with its panoramic Bay Area views. My
\nsensei called the test, as his sensei sat next to him and observed. Unexpectedly, the sensei of
\nmy other dojo also showed up to watch! There were students from three dojos present,
\nfriends and family, and the test went well (even though at one point, as my breathing became
\nstrenuous, I wondered if that was what fibrillation felt like: just like George Leonard
\ndescribed, I realized later).<\/p>\n
I have always been told that shodan is simply a serious beginner, regardless of how magical it
\nhad once appeared. That was now obvious: I felt nothing like the masters I had observed, but
\nrather like the newest most inexperienced baby in the class. Kohai would expect guidance
\nfrom me that I was incapable of providing; and sempai were probably wondering when I’d get
\nover it and just train. But I began to notice another subtle shift in my understanding that I
\nnever anticipated: it was also a bit like becoming a father.<\/p>\n
Prior to the birth of my son, my life was mine, and centered around my development and my
\nexperiences. But the minute little Sean was born a kind of genetic switch was thrown.
\nSuddenly, I became a kind of husk as my existence and survival became reincarnated into my
\noffspring. My life was now about my son’s development and experiences. In the dojo, my goal
\nhad always been to perfect and expand my technique. But now, students might look at me,
\nwearing a black belt, and think that what I was doing was aikido. Therefore, I came to realize, I
\nneeded to expand and perfect my technique not so much for me, but to better serve as the
\nbest example for others of our philosophy and discipline. That’s a much more important, and
\nhumbling, responsibility. And something I now hope to achieve all in good time.<\/p>\n
When, so long ago, I heard that phrase, “All in good time,” I assumed the meaning was in the
\nfirst word. As if, sooner or later “All” would be accomplished. Years later I’ve come to
\nappreciate that the meaning has more to do with the “good time” that the “all” occurs in.
\nFrankly, shodan is hardly a destination; It’s barely a small milestone near the beginning of a very
\nlong path that’s all about practice, not result. But it’s precisely within all those hours of
\npractice, from the very first until some endless, and unattainable ideal, that the “good time” will
\nbe found.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I remember George Leonard as tall, kind, and extremely sweaty. My hands would always slip off his thick wrists as we practiced, him with a tattered brown belt, and me an enthusiastic 4th kyu. He usually trained under another sensei in our dojo, but started showing up at my sensei’s classes in preparation for his… Continue reading