Spring has finally come to the Northeast after a very bad winter. Next week is the traditional date for Buddha's birthday (April 8), so I find myself reflecting on a few stories that I think are helpful for budo practice. Here's one:
The Buddha was meditating by the side of a lake (or a stream; I forget which). At one point in his meditation, he reached into the water, and pulled out his reflection. The reflection, as it is pulled out, takes on physical form and they stare at each other. Many years ago, when I first started training, one of the sempai warned me that some time in the first six months of practice I would be faced with a dilemma that would make me want to quit. He said it always seemed to happen - people who lasted through the first six months were likely to last much longer, but most people would quit short of six months. He could not say what might happen to make me rethink my decision to start training, he just knew it would happen. And he was right. Something did happen which made me rethink my decision, and I decided to stay on. Now, 28 years later, I am happy with my decision, though there have been times when I have doubted it.
Since then, I have seen many students come to the same point. I remember one in particular, an actor and fight choreographer, who was quite talented. For about the first four months he was enthusiastic and advanced very well. But after that, I could sense his unease. I talked with him about it. Since he was an actor and "movement person," he was able to acutely observe what everyone was doing during practice. He was especially good at being able to observe the quality of his own movement. He knew, probably better than anyone else I ever trained, the difference between what he was observing of the senior students, and what he himself was doing. Somehow he felt he was never going to get past whatever limitations he could see in himself, and he found it very frustrating. In spite of my offered encouragement, he eventually decided he did not have enough time to devote to what he felt he needed in order to perfect his technique, and moved on. (Many years later, he invited me to a production of a Shakespeare play he had directed and choreographed. I was really pleased, not just to see him, but to see some very theatrically satisfying fight choreography. Even though it was not "budo" in the literal sense, he had made the best of what he had learned, and he was proud to show it to me.)
The thing about the Buddha gazing at his own reflection to the point where it was real enough to pull out of the water, I think, is this: not many people want to really look at themselves. We glimpse reflections of ourselves in shop windows, bathroom mirrors, fitting rooms. In the case of any kind of movement practice, we often use the studio mirrors - is my posture correct, are those annoying habits sensei pointed out starting to disappear? But we don't often really look. Being able to truly look at how I truly am - a middle aged person who could stand to lose some weight, who has made some good choices, and more dubious ones, who sometimes chooses to let the elevator door close rather than hold it open for someone else (as one example) - well, you get the idea.
Some people never look, of course. Or if they see limitations, they have excuses - I'm too busy, my spouse doesn't want me to pursue this, my kids need to be shuttled around, my parents need financial help - or they blame other people - family members, bosses - for their inadequacies. As my teacher used to say, "If you want to do [something], you will do it. You will find a way."
It's not comfortable to look at oneself. Very often the picture is not that pretty, but I would be wrong, as well, to see only the limitations and faults. In a way, that's as false as not seeing anything wrong. Sensei used to say that in addition to examining oneself, one had to forgive oneself for making stupid mistakes, and forgive others for whatever slights (or downright evil) they might have done. One time, at a prayer service, the priest chanted a prayer that wished everyone to be "well, peaceful, and happy." After going through the list of family, friends, and others I might have expected (including countrymen in general, as well as political leaders), the prayer became more challenging. Towards the end, the priest included the words, "may my enemies be well, peaceful and happy." Especially at that time, I had a hell of a time accepting that part of the prayer. But I didn't forget it. Certainly, I have friends who can make a cosmic argument in favor of forgiveness, but the fact is that it's the only way to heal oneself; and it's a tall order. Like many people, I enjoy a good wallow in self-pity; but it's no way to live.
We constantly hear the mantra of "self-improvement" as a goal of budo practice. As I have said before, there are many paths up the mountain to self-improvement. But in budo, like everything else, realizing both gifts and limitations is the first step to attaining the freedom to improve.
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