Every now and then, someone in my sphere of acquaintances asks if I would ever be interested in teaching (or why I never have taught) a class just for women. I bring this up because another colleague gave me a book of essays by martial arts teachers on teaching which I have just started to read. The first essay was by a male teacher, describing his arc of learning and eventually becoming a teacher; of dealing with the disappointment of students who first learn, and then leave, and how he came to realize that whatever way he touched the lives of his students was beneficial, both for him and for them.
The next essay, by a female teacher, described her experience teaching at a martial arts academy that was solely for women and children. The essay was filled with warm fuzzy stuff about teaching as an expression of love, and a harkening back to some ancient group of female priestesses who are somehow women's forbears in the martial arts.
The woman was the better of the two writers, which is probably why my reaction to the second essay was stronger than the first. But of course it was the content of the second essay that was so concerning to me as a teacher and practitioner. The female author described, at the start, being approached by some beginning instructors about a problem they were having with some students. The students were questioning the authenticity of the teachers' methods and opining about them to others in the class. Our author had agreed to teach one of the classes, in the hope of assessing the problem and trying to determine how to help her junior instructors resolve it (after all, it was their class). Great. But by the end of the essay, she never tells us how the problem was resolved. Instead we are treated to a long ramble on love, and women's martial solidarity through history, all of which had me gritting my teeth as I read. While the first essay was sort of predictable, the second one was more dissatisfying.
However, this essay, annoying as it was, brings me to the crux of the problem of women in the martial arts, at least in the US (I don't know about other places). The author began by expressing her concern with her beginning instructors' class, then embarked on a long ramble about women's empowerment and how they have tried to structure their academy to be non-hierarchical. Fine, as far as it goes. Hell knows everyone brings their own political stuff to what they do - some people are just more pronounced about it than others. But all groups, no matter how non-hierarchical they aspire to be, must deal with issues of power and how it is used (or abused). There is simply no remedy for it. In my other life, I used to belong to a (non-martial arts) group that does not specifically exclude men, but has very few involved. The women who occupy the senior positions in this group would do Machiavelli (or maybe the Borgias) proud. The violence does not consist in being punched in the face during a grudge match after regular training; instead, it's all psychological. And it's devastating. Of course, on the surface, everything is lovely. Needless to say, after years of trying to negotiate a path through the highly political currents of the group, I left, as many others have done before me, and continue to do now.
So spare me your universal love thing. Everyone who teaches martial arts should repeat this mantra: It's the technique, stupid. Teach the technique. If a student decides for some reason that your approach is somehow inauthentic or does not suit her in some other way, politely suggest she look elsewhere. It's a free country. And defend your instructors! Always.
As for me and the all-female thing, if I was invited to teach a seminar for an all-women's group, I would not hesitate to take part (in fact, I have already done this at least once). But I would never teach an all-women's class on a regular basis. I have no interest in attempting to create a "safe" bubble for women to practice. A bubble is a bubble - what good will the bubble do you once you emerge from it to go home? Moreover, and more importantly to me, nearly all of my teachers have been male. They could have made it extremely difficult for me to learn, but instead they welcomed my interest (I can't say the same for some of my male, American colleagues, but that is another, and rather tiring, story). I would consider it a betrayal to my teachers if I arbitrarily excluded men from my class and hid in the all-female bubble. My teacher, Otani Sensei, once told me, "If you can play with the boys, you can do anything!" something I always used to take as being brave, stepping up, and doing what needs to be done.
I do wonder about the women and children's academy, though. What do they tell the boys when they get to be 16 (or is it 18)? Yeah, this dojo has been your martial arts home since you were five years old, now go elsewhere? Maybe it's just tough love (or tough luck).
Monday, June 27, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Cleopatra
I have just finished reading Stacy Schiff's Cleopatra: A Life (2010, Little, Brown and Company). Of the publications I have written, and occasionally still write for, not a one would be interested in a review by me of this book. It is not about the martial arts, for one thing, and is about Central, rather than East, Asia. Most importantly, the subject defies easy characterization - think of Cleopatra and we think of Elizabeth Taylor in her coal black wig, a figure whose most compelling decision of the day seems to be which stunning ensemble to wear (no offense to the late, great Ms. Taylor - I loved the film).
As many reviewers have pointed out, Schiff assesses the same sources that other historians have, but comes to a different set of conclusions. To take one obvious example, Cleopatra VII did not become the lover of two of the most powerful men in the ancient world because she was stunningly beautiful, or (seriously!) a witch. Schiff instead suggests that she was not even a great beauty (in the few images we can reliably identify, she has rather a large nose). What she did have, apparently, was a superb education, high social status (at a time when well-born women of the Rome had no such thing), royal presence, and a very, very quick wit.
She also had an important requirement for getting, and keeping, power: a strong stomach for ruthless acts. She had both her first brother-husband and her sister - contenders for the throne - murdered in order to secure her position as ruler. Lest we consider this unsettling, Schiff provides numerous examples to illustrate that Egyptian rulers undertook such actions for centuries. She also notes that Cleopatra's family members would have done the same to her, given the chance.
Cleopatra reminds us of the difficulty of getting credit where it is due. Her achievements, which included reclaiming some of her empire's lost prizes and (however briefly) reestablishing its glory, were eclipsed, even during her lifetime, by her personal relationships. Over and over again, Schiff skewers historians and contemporary commentators for their mischaracterizations. Schiff's barbs, lobbed in the full historical context of ancient Egypt, make the book very gratifying to read. If you are (a) female, (b) charged with responsibilities, and (c) never recognized for the heroic things you do every day, you will find some sisterly commiseration with the Queen of Egypt, even if you never seriously considered killing off your siblings.
In the end, of course, Cleopatra loses - her life and her kingdom. Both she and Marc Antony were summarily excised from the official histories, lest the winners be embarrassed by her wealth and power, or Marc Antony's widow suffer embarrassment (an intriguing character in her own right, Octavia - Antony's wife and the sister of Caesar Augustus - raised Cleopatra's children with Antony as her own). But the story, or more properly, the legend, refused to die. Schiff has peeled off the layers of hyperbole and given us back an image of Cleopatra as a person, at last, in her own right.
As many reviewers have pointed out, Schiff assesses the same sources that other historians have, but comes to a different set of conclusions. To take one obvious example, Cleopatra VII did not become the lover of two of the most powerful men in the ancient world because she was stunningly beautiful, or (seriously!) a witch. Schiff instead suggests that she was not even a great beauty (in the few images we can reliably identify, she has rather a large nose). What she did have, apparently, was a superb education, high social status (at a time when well-born women of the Rome had no such thing), royal presence, and a very, very quick wit.
She also had an important requirement for getting, and keeping, power: a strong stomach for ruthless acts. She had both her first brother-husband and her sister - contenders for the throne - murdered in order to secure her position as ruler. Lest we consider this unsettling, Schiff provides numerous examples to illustrate that Egyptian rulers undertook such actions for centuries. She also notes that Cleopatra's family members would have done the same to her, given the chance.
Cleopatra reminds us of the difficulty of getting credit where it is due. Her achievements, which included reclaiming some of her empire's lost prizes and (however briefly) reestablishing its glory, were eclipsed, even during her lifetime, by her personal relationships. Over and over again, Schiff skewers historians and contemporary commentators for their mischaracterizations. Schiff's barbs, lobbed in the full historical context of ancient Egypt, make the book very gratifying to read. If you are (a) female, (b) charged with responsibilities, and (c) never recognized for the heroic things you do every day, you will find some sisterly commiseration with the Queen of Egypt, even if you never seriously considered killing off your siblings.
In the end, of course, Cleopatra loses - her life and her kingdom. Both she and Marc Antony were summarily excised from the official histories, lest the winners be embarrassed by her wealth and power, or Marc Antony's widow suffer embarrassment (an intriguing character in her own right, Octavia - Antony's wife and the sister of Caesar Augustus - raised Cleopatra's children with Antony as her own). But the story, or more properly, the legend, refused to die. Schiff has peeled off the layers of hyperbole and given us back an image of Cleopatra as a person, at last, in her own right.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Rendering unto Caesar
Last week I met an eminent martial artist for the first time. He is a prominent karate teacher who has been teaching for many years. Prior to this, I had only spoken with him over the phone. Incredibly, the stars aligned and we had lunch together, however briefly.
At one point, the discussion turned to politics. I mentioned that one of my teachers kicks our butts when we see him in Japan, which is wonderful and just what we need. When I saw him late last year, he was gracious enough to take the afternoon off from his job and we had a long, long practice that covered points of technique at a very high level. When one of my students was able to go to Japan for a month, my teacher also worked with him in the same way. However, when he comes to the US to teach a seminar with his American students, he allows them to take shortcuts and generally does not correct them on the same level that he did even with my beginning student. Yet the the teacher of the group he conducted the seminar with has been made the permanent head of the US organization, even though their practice is lacking. Why was that, I wondered?
The karate teacher said, simply, that the difference between me and my students and the other group was what we each wanted from our practice. Our group wants to acquire a skill, perhaps some philosophical insight, an aesthetic and/or historical experience. The other group is interested in power and control. If you have power, he explained, you don't need skill (except, I suppose, skill in maintaining power). He said that we were the more fortunate group, because the Japanese teacher was taking us more seriously as students. The other group wanted to control everything, and he was giving them what they wanted. Just keep practicing, the karate teacher said - you get what you want for your students, and the other group gets what it wants as well.
On a certain level, it made sense, but I was still troubled. It wasn't right, I said, that the mediocre group gets to call the shots for the rest of us in terms of how the organization of American students was run. Of course not, he said, it's a double standard, but that is how it is. If we want to study with the teacher, we should simply ignore the membership organization and its leadership and maintain a direct relationship with the dojo in Japan.
And with that, lunch was over, and I had to go back to work. I am still thinking about our discussion, and pondering if helping my teacher maintain a double standard is really a good idea.
At one point, the discussion turned to politics. I mentioned that one of my teachers kicks our butts when we see him in Japan, which is wonderful and just what we need. When I saw him late last year, he was gracious enough to take the afternoon off from his job and we had a long, long practice that covered points of technique at a very high level. When one of my students was able to go to Japan for a month, my teacher also worked with him in the same way. However, when he comes to the US to teach a seminar with his American students, he allows them to take shortcuts and generally does not correct them on the same level that he did even with my beginning student. Yet the the teacher of the group he conducted the seminar with has been made the permanent head of the US organization, even though their practice is lacking. Why was that, I wondered?
The karate teacher said, simply, that the difference between me and my students and the other group was what we each wanted from our practice. Our group wants to acquire a skill, perhaps some philosophical insight, an aesthetic and/or historical experience. The other group is interested in power and control. If you have power, he explained, you don't need skill (except, I suppose, skill in maintaining power). He said that we were the more fortunate group, because the Japanese teacher was taking us more seriously as students. The other group wanted to control everything, and he was giving them what they wanted. Just keep practicing, the karate teacher said - you get what you want for your students, and the other group gets what it wants as well.
On a certain level, it made sense, but I was still troubled. It wasn't right, I said, that the mediocre group gets to call the shots for the rest of us in terms of how the organization of American students was run. Of course not, he said, it's a double standard, but that is how it is. If we want to study with the teacher, we should simply ignore the membership organization and its leadership and maintain a direct relationship with the dojo in Japan.
And with that, lunch was over, and I had to go back to work. I am still thinking about our discussion, and pondering if helping my teacher maintain a double standard is really a good idea.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Are you in this or not?
Last night I was working with one of my budo students. I like this guy; he's talented and is one of the few people who almost never misses a practice. However, like a lot of people, he puts his own interests first.
Why is this a problem? In most cases, it isn't, especially in America. We value individualism, laud the person who rises through her own initiative. For my part, when I was a teenager, my cousin, who was a dyed-in-the-wool conservative, could not understand my highly individualistic sense of style paired with a socializtic sense of common good. "You seem to value your personal freedom so much," he told me, "how can you believe that government should be expanded for the common good?" I'll never understand why I was friends with my cousin.
Anyway, as some writers familiar with koryu (old style) budo traditions have pointed out, the difference between the modern stuff and the traditional stuff is that in modern budo (think karate or judo), the practitioner can adapt the art to himself. In koryu budo, the practitioner adapts herself to the art instead. I have mentioned this idea to a number of people, both in and out of budo, and not many of them get it.
As an analogy, let's consider classical ballet. The practitioner spends years practicing, with a sense of commitment that for the best dancers is all-consuming. The discipline is exacting. But if all ballerinas (including the corps) are moving like automatons, there is no art there. They might just as well be automatons. The thrill of ballet comes from seeing a group of highly trained dancers transcend the technique into dance. Some people can never do it. Some people can do it only briefly (especially in ballet, which by its demanding nature belongs to younger people). The enjoyment of watching a corps de ballet is that individuals have adapted themselves to the technique, in spite of their differences. It's uncanny when it works well. And it's sorta cool.
Or take art. My husband and I have this discussion all the time. He is a painter who does work that could be described, I suppose, as abstract with twists of magical realism. (I never try to describe his work except to say that it's his.) But in order to get to that point, he studied life drawing and art history; he studied paint - from its chemical composition to how to manipulate its effects on canvas. If he did not have that background, he could not produce his work in the way he does.
Same with koryu budo. We study technique, seeking to perfect it, even if perfection is an abstract concept that will never be obtained. We adapt ourselves to it; it reshapes our bodies and (hopefully - ideally) our minds. We don't change the form. We learn the form. And maybe, eventually, we can surpass it, keeping the form intact while expressing ourselves through it.
That's why I wish my student's attitude was different. He wants everything to be his own way. In the rest of his life, he gets that he will have to make his own way, and in our society, he has the potential to do just that. Only in this practice, his indiviualism will make the path more difficult to discern. I worry that he will get bored, but in the end, koryu budo will not be adapted. It is what it is; and we either adapt to it or move on.
Why is this a problem? In most cases, it isn't, especially in America. We value individualism, laud the person who rises through her own initiative. For my part, when I was a teenager, my cousin, who was a dyed-in-the-wool conservative, could not understand my highly individualistic sense of style paired with a socializtic sense of common good. "You seem to value your personal freedom so much," he told me, "how can you believe that government should be expanded for the common good?" I'll never understand why I was friends with my cousin.
Anyway, as some writers familiar with koryu (old style) budo traditions have pointed out, the difference between the modern stuff and the traditional stuff is that in modern budo (think karate or judo), the practitioner can adapt the art to himself. In koryu budo, the practitioner adapts herself to the art instead. I have mentioned this idea to a number of people, both in and out of budo, and not many of them get it.
As an analogy, let's consider classical ballet. The practitioner spends years practicing, with a sense of commitment that for the best dancers is all-consuming. The discipline is exacting. But if all ballerinas (including the corps) are moving like automatons, there is no art there. They might just as well be automatons. The thrill of ballet comes from seeing a group of highly trained dancers transcend the technique into dance. Some people can never do it. Some people can do it only briefly (especially in ballet, which by its demanding nature belongs to younger people). The enjoyment of watching a corps de ballet is that individuals have adapted themselves to the technique, in spite of their differences. It's uncanny when it works well. And it's sorta cool.
Or take art. My husband and I have this discussion all the time. He is a painter who does work that could be described, I suppose, as abstract with twists of magical realism. (I never try to describe his work except to say that it's his.) But in order to get to that point, he studied life drawing and art history; he studied paint - from its chemical composition to how to manipulate its effects on canvas. If he did not have that background, he could not produce his work in the way he does.
Same with koryu budo. We study technique, seeking to perfect it, even if perfection is an abstract concept that will never be obtained. We adapt ourselves to it; it reshapes our bodies and (hopefully - ideally) our minds. We don't change the form. We learn the form. And maybe, eventually, we can surpass it, keeping the form intact while expressing ourselves through it.
That's why I wish my student's attitude was different. He wants everything to be his own way. In the rest of his life, he gets that he will have to make his own way, and in our society, he has the potential to do just that. Only in this practice, his indiviualism will make the path more difficult to discern. I worry that he will get bored, but in the end, koryu budo will not be adapted. It is what it is; and we either adapt to it or move on.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Martial arts and violence
Once again, the country (and the planet) has been shocked by a mass killing, and, as I have done in the past, I waited to hear whether or not the shooter had some sort of involvement in "the martial arts." It has happened before - the "DC Sniper" reportedly indoctrinated his young accomplice with a disciplined lifestyle that included "karate;" and Slate recently ran a story that concluded that young men who killed with swords seemingly belonged to some sort of geek netherworld of Japanese manga and role-playing games. Add to this the constant bombardment of images of hand-to-hand or traditional weapons fighting (with liberal buckets of stage blood) in films, video games and television, along with the occasional loudmouth bully martial artist swaggering on UTube, and it's small wonder that people look at me funny when I say I practice budo. Small wonder also that I downplay my interest from time to time, depending on who's asking.
The most common reaction I get is that people say I don't look like a thug or a badass. I then usually counter that iai is more like taiji than karate. Then they figure I'm some old lady with a New Agey interest in auras and crystals. Usually, at that point, I just change the subject.
But last night, as the narrative continued to unwind, and details about the shooting in Tucson emerged, and were endlessly spun in various directions, I found myself thinking about where my practice fits in to the culture of violence (or not). It really is oxymoronic to say that a practice that includes using real swords and cutting targets from time to time is not violent. In fact, iai is probably the most violent budo out there. It has no inherent sporting element. Iai kata are, as a rule, very brief, owing to the fact that one or two strokes with a surgically-sharp blade is all you need to dispatch an opponent. Some people make excuses by saying that iai kata are defensive; i.e., they are a response to an aggressive gesture from an imaginary opponent, but anyone who has gone beyond basic techniques practices other kata that are more aggressive. A kata in which the scenario depicts someone advancing on a retreating opponent, cutting him down, can't be spun as defensive, pretty much no matter what.
However (and here's the paradox), because of its violent nature, iai is always practiced in an extremely polite atmosphere, with maximum care taken by practitioners to keep their emotions in check at all times. It is not enough to control one's temper; in iai practice one seeks to cultivate a calm state of mind. At the beginning of practice, we make gestures towards each other that indicate respect. We bow in the practice space to set off the time from outside intrusions so people can practice in peace. Even though tempers can flare in martial arts dojo from time to time, in an iai dojo, such outbursts can never be tolerated (in fact, if you ever visit a sword dojo where tempers are in evidence, I strongly suggest not coming back).
We do not carry swords around with us anymore (at least, the non-geeks among us don't). And as my teacher once famously said in class, "If I want to kill someone, I don't use this stupid thing, I'll go buy a gun." What is left to the modern practitioner is to cultivate that respectful and peaceful state of mind, then take that sensibility and use it to deal with the world. It may not be as exciting as the movies, but it works in life a whole lot better.
The most common reaction I get is that people say I don't look like a thug or a badass. I then usually counter that iai is more like taiji than karate. Then they figure I'm some old lady with a New Agey interest in auras and crystals. Usually, at that point, I just change the subject.
But last night, as the narrative continued to unwind, and details about the shooting in Tucson emerged, and were endlessly spun in various directions, I found myself thinking about where my practice fits in to the culture of violence (or not). It really is oxymoronic to say that a practice that includes using real swords and cutting targets from time to time is not violent. In fact, iai is probably the most violent budo out there. It has no inherent sporting element. Iai kata are, as a rule, very brief, owing to the fact that one or two strokes with a surgically-sharp blade is all you need to dispatch an opponent. Some people make excuses by saying that iai kata are defensive; i.e., they are a response to an aggressive gesture from an imaginary opponent, but anyone who has gone beyond basic techniques practices other kata that are more aggressive. A kata in which the scenario depicts someone advancing on a retreating opponent, cutting him down, can't be spun as defensive, pretty much no matter what.
However (and here's the paradox), because of its violent nature, iai is always practiced in an extremely polite atmosphere, with maximum care taken by practitioners to keep their emotions in check at all times. It is not enough to control one's temper; in iai practice one seeks to cultivate a calm state of mind. At the beginning of practice, we make gestures towards each other that indicate respect. We bow in the practice space to set off the time from outside intrusions so people can practice in peace. Even though tempers can flare in martial arts dojo from time to time, in an iai dojo, such outbursts can never be tolerated (in fact, if you ever visit a sword dojo where tempers are in evidence, I strongly suggest not coming back).
We do not carry swords around with us anymore (at least, the non-geeks among us don't). And as my teacher once famously said in class, "If I want to kill someone, I don't use this stupid thing, I'll go buy a gun." What is left to the modern practitioner is to cultivate that respectful and peaceful state of mind, then take that sensibility and use it to deal with the world. It may not be as exciting as the movies, but it works in life a whole lot better.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Teaching (a series)
Last week, I had a meeting with some of my senior students. I am very fond of my students (and also very proud of them) - they are dedicated and work hard. The problem is that there are not many of them. And since the majority of them are actually college students, I see them mostly during the summer and on breaks (like winter break right now). The meeting was held to discuss how we could come up with more students.
You could say that iai is a niche martial art. It is not very well-known, and, (though there are a *lot* of poseurs) there are not many qualified teachers. Iai has been miscast as a part of the US martial arts scene - we don't compete, except for kata, and then only occasionally. There is no free-sparing. The closest we ever get to free movement is cutting targets - usually rolled straw mats of different thicknesses. One teacher I know compared watching iai to watching paint dry, and that is not far off.
In Japan, iai is more associated with professional-type people, some of whom are descendants of samurai-class families. Rather than a hobby or a sport, iai and other types of traditional budo come closer to being considered a part of someone's identity. It's not just that they are more serious, they don't know how to not be serious. This image contrasts sharply with with the popular US-oriented vision of a martial artist being either (1) a kid; (2) a thugly tough guy; (3) would-be samurai types, whether influenced by movies, video games or some combination thereof; or (4) an actor who does computer-enhanced, impossible stunts for the camera.
The foregoing makes iai a difficult art to promote properly, especially when the class is led by (I'm gonna say it) a woman. In Japan, I have encountered little, if any remark about being female in the dojo. In fact, one of the seminars where I recently trained included numerous women who had menkyo (a license to teach). True, most of the teachers and students were men, but there was a better representation of women there than you will normally see in a US dojo. This is really too bad, for as Dianne Skoss noted a number of years ago, weapon arts are well-suited to female practitioners, since a weapon counterbalances our general lack of brute strength. Acquisition of skill in traditional budo really is - skill, and it can be acquired by any reasonably able-bodied person.
In any case, iai is somewhat self-selecting. It takes years to learn; in fact, one can truthfully say the learning curve never stops. You never "get" iai - there is always some other level, or layer or aspect of practice that reveals itself. It's great for keeping you going, but can also be really frustrating. Realizing that, I know the number of students I continue to entertain will be small. However, it would be nice if there were just a few more of them.
You could say that iai is a niche martial art. It is not very well-known, and, (though there are a *lot* of poseurs) there are not many qualified teachers. Iai has been miscast as a part of the US martial arts scene - we don't compete, except for kata, and then only occasionally. There is no free-sparing. The closest we ever get to free movement is cutting targets - usually rolled straw mats of different thicknesses. One teacher I know compared watching iai to watching paint dry, and that is not far off.
In Japan, iai is more associated with professional-type people, some of whom are descendants of samurai-class families. Rather than a hobby or a sport, iai and other types of traditional budo come closer to being considered a part of someone's identity. It's not just that they are more serious, they don't know how to not be serious. This image contrasts sharply with with the popular US-oriented vision of a martial artist being either (1) a kid; (2) a thugly tough guy; (3) would-be samurai types, whether influenced by movies, video games or some combination thereof; or (4) an actor who does computer-enhanced, impossible stunts for the camera.
The foregoing makes iai a difficult art to promote properly, especially when the class is led by (I'm gonna say it) a woman. In Japan, I have encountered little, if any remark about being female in the dojo. In fact, one of the seminars where I recently trained included numerous women who had menkyo (a license to teach). True, most of the teachers and students were men, but there was a better representation of women there than you will normally see in a US dojo. This is really too bad, for as Dianne Skoss noted a number of years ago, weapon arts are well-suited to female practitioners, since a weapon counterbalances our general lack of brute strength. Acquisition of skill in traditional budo really is - skill, and it can be acquired by any reasonably able-bodied person.
In any case, iai is somewhat self-selecting. It takes years to learn; in fact, one can truthfully say the learning curve never stops. You never "get" iai - there is always some other level, or layer or aspect of practice that reveals itself. It's great for keeping you going, but can also be really frustrating. Realizing that, I know the number of students I continue to entertain will be small. However, it would be nice if there were just a few more of them.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Solo iai practice
This is a well-worn subject with me, but it still surprises me how little my students practice on their own. As my husband is fond of saying, "Not everyone is a crazy as you are," but one of the great things about Japanese sword practice is that it is 80% solo kata. And it's not nearly as dull as walking a treadmill while watching TV.
Iai, as this type of budo is called, involves kata wherein the practitioner draws a sword, uses it in some predetermined way, and then sheathes it. I am not sure how many styles of iai still exist; certainly at some point there may have been thousands of them. I am familiar with three styles and have seen or attended workshops featuring many others. For safety, iai includes solo kata and partner kata, where the participants enact kata together with wooden swords. There is no free-sparring whatsoever. Technically, iai has no sporting element, though kata competition has become popular.
When my mother was dying a number of years ago, I gave up many things that made me happy, or that required me to be in a good mood. It was just too difficult. But I never gave up going to the dojo in all that time. I gave the studio phone number to my family members and explained that if they needed to reach me on certain evenings during the week, they could find me there. I am not the only one; a colleague whose father was dying told me that he felt like he had to come and practice. Somehow it was more than just endorphins - the meditative aspects of iai practice produced a calming effect in us both, even though our backgrounds, personality, religion and ethnicity were different.
Solo iai practice seems to magnify the effect, even if, unlike some practices, I am not "trying" to meditate. It just happens anyway. And like a number of trance effects, not only does one get better with practice, one comes to crave the experience from time to time. I may tell people that it's because I need to work privately on technique (which is always true anyway), but the calming effect and the sense of rationality tends to produce a sense of satisfaction that lasts until the next day.
And lately I have not had much time for that, which in some ways is good, because not having a choice but to practice alone can produce quite the opposite of a calming effect. But we all should take a moment to act alone, calm down and reflect on what we are doing and why.
Iai, as this type of budo is called, involves kata wherein the practitioner draws a sword, uses it in some predetermined way, and then sheathes it. I am not sure how many styles of iai still exist; certainly at some point there may have been thousands of them. I am familiar with three styles and have seen or attended workshops featuring many others. For safety, iai includes solo kata and partner kata, where the participants enact kata together with wooden swords. There is no free-sparring whatsoever. Technically, iai has no sporting element, though kata competition has become popular.
When my mother was dying a number of years ago, I gave up many things that made me happy, or that required me to be in a good mood. It was just too difficult. But I never gave up going to the dojo in all that time. I gave the studio phone number to my family members and explained that if they needed to reach me on certain evenings during the week, they could find me there. I am not the only one; a colleague whose father was dying told me that he felt like he had to come and practice. Somehow it was more than just endorphins - the meditative aspects of iai practice produced a calming effect in us both, even though our backgrounds, personality, religion and ethnicity were different.
Solo iai practice seems to magnify the effect, even if, unlike some practices, I am not "trying" to meditate. It just happens anyway. And like a number of trance effects, not only does one get better with practice, one comes to crave the experience from time to time. I may tell people that it's because I need to work privately on technique (which is always true anyway), but the calming effect and the sense of rationality tends to produce a sense of satisfaction that lasts until the next day.
And lately I have not had much time for that, which in some ways is good, because not having a choice but to practice alone can produce quite the opposite of a calming effect. But we all should take a moment to act alone, calm down and reflect on what we are doing and why.
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