Hiring

During line-up to conclude class, Sensei brought up something I asked him a while back. Referring to one of his favorite phrases, he looked at me with a smile and inquired, "Are you practicing the aikido that cannot be seen?"

Caught in a deer-in-headlights moment, I answered with a timid, "Umm--maybe...?"

"Still not sure, huh?" he asked, laughing.

"Still figuring it out, Sensei," I replied.

He never directly told me what he meant by "the aikido that cannot be seen," and while I spent at least a good half hour and two blog entries musing about its meaning, I couldn't give him a straight answer, guarded by the voice in the back of my head that nags, "What if I'm wrong?"

One thing I'm pretty sure it alludes to is how applicable aikido is in my everyday life. For the past three months, I've been trying to hire an additional person for my meager department of two. It's been quite a experience of seemingly endless resume-browsing, phone-screening, and on-site interviewing (x2); trying to achieve committee consensus on one candidate from a stock pile of nearly 200 resumes has been no easy feat. This is especially a challenge as I'm new to the hiring/managerial responsibilities, hoping to grow in my role.

It's true aikido teaches you combat skills, but it also teaches you the ways to conflict resolution. Today, after a second interview with a candidate I'm hoping to hire, I faced my boss as he presented me with his opinions of the candidate's strengths and weaknesses. I am tired of trying to hire, ready to start training a new team member. I assessed the openings in my boss's arguments, decided to blend with him, riding that common wave created by our merging energies, and to go for the approach that took the least amount of effort to yield the desired results. I tried not to let my insecurities show despite being new at this, having less hiring experience than he did. I made my point and stood firm; I didn't let my will power waver. And in the end, he yielded, perhaps detecting in my iron resolve my ability to handle the situation and embrace my responsibilities. Even if it turns out I may be wrong about certain things, I'd have the passion and desire to correct my mistakes in the long run. We all start somewhere, and by seeking perfection to begin with, we may lose the chance at a good candidate who projects enthusiasm and is eager to learn. I am ready to face him, ready to say, "Onegai-shimasu," let the training begin.

"Are you practicing the aikido that cannot be seen?" The next time Sensei asks, I will have a concrete example to look back upon. Then I can answer, "Hai, Sensei. At least I try to, every single day."

San Shou

The way of the "free hand" is full-contact and consists of kicks, punches, grappling, and throws. Fast, furious, and direct, this form of kickboxing aims to take down an opponent in the least amount of time. Compared to aikido, these arts seem like polar opposites. Flow and harmony are replaced with quick-paced, in-your-face action; soft rolls and sit falls are replaced with the jarring impact of a direct take-down; the respectful ma-ai (distance) between training partners gets closed up, the space between two bodies nonexistent during instances of kneeing and ground-grappling. The terminology of basic martial concepts change--instead of "training partner," the person facing you is your "opponent"; where one art stresses the absence of competition, the other is directly competitive.

I kick-box not to nullify my aikido training, but to enhance it. I get to know the feeling of five long, long minutes of pushing forward with punches, kicks, and blocks; not backing down, closing up the distance, not forgetting to shield my face with my 12-ounce gloves that become heavier and heavier as the minutes drag on to 10, 15, 20. Aikido techniques open up like a blooming flower, embracing the attack, redirecting its force to work to your advantage. Kickboxing tightens up like a turtle in its shell, staying focused, hard, protected. My defensive and centered hanmi stance becomes a squared offensive stance, staying alive on the balls of my feet, inching up to strike the kicking pads.

Jab-jab, cross, hook, knee-knee, roundhouse. The pattern becomes a rhythm in my head, orchestrating the movements of my body as I push forward, exhaling in quick puffs with each strike. The impact on my gloved hands and bare shins jolts my body to the the core, seems to send my brain smashing against its protective skull. Endurance. Focus. Precision. If I let my guard down, allow gravity to lull my aching arms a fraction below where they should be near my face, I get a hook with the kicking pads to the side of my head. "Don't be lazy; no cheating." Sweat pours down my back, running into my eyes, and with my hands gloved, I can't wipe it off. I blink away the sting and keep going, me against the clock for the ultimate test of my will power.

Afterwards, I slip out of my gloves and catch my breath. My thumbs are shaking, and I couldn't even grip the cap of the water bottle well enough to twist it open. My shins are bruised, my knees are red, and my triceps come alive, protesting this rude awakening from their comfortable dormancy. Is it so different, this wonderful feeling of accomplishment after a hard training session? Is it so foreign, that trickle of ki burning from my center, fueling my aching body with a divine will to push on? I am both defensive and offensive, soft and hard, tranquil and turbulent, water and steel.

Ki

Ki. Chi. Life force. And elusive concept, it is sometimes given the analogy, "what makes up the red parts in your palm." In martial arts practice, we learn to harness this energy in our movements, direct it outwards to back our attacks and throws with vitality. It is the essence of us, the iron core of our spirits, the well from which we draw strength when our endurance runs low, feeding us with the will to continue when we feel we've got nothing left to give. It makes up our "ki-ai's,"--the battle cries that regulate our breathing and are the extensions of our strikes. Martial arts make us aware of our ki and how we can use it; we learn to hone it like an essential tool, shaping it as, over the years, we also whet our spirit and character.

The first time I saw weapons being demonstrated at my dojo, I was blown away. The class was sitting in line-up, and Sensei had out his bokken (wooden sword). One minute he stood in front of the class with a senior student, lecturing on how the paired practice should be performed. "Like this," he said, and then he launched into quick, precise moves with loud ki-ai's to enhance his thrusts. Clack-clack! The impact of wood on wood rang through the air, harmonizing with Sensei's battle cries like percussion to a thunder song, and in three moves, the student helping to demo was against the wall, forced backwards by the onslaught, barely timing it correctly to parry the blows. My jaw dropped open; riveted to my seat, I forgot to breathe. I had never worked with a weapon before. My Sensei is slight in frame, not much taller than me, and almost appears wizened with age. But the way he handled that wooden sword, with dexterity and utmost precision in his attacks, made me crave that skill and long to learn.

This morning, almost seven months later, I face my training partner with my jo, a wooden stick slightly shorter and narrower than a bo staff. Concentrated, aware of his slightest movements of attack before I initiate my own defense, I seek to find harmony in our paired practice. I am more aware of lines--the center line connecting us, how we step off to the left to parry, meet down at the center again to strike, and step off to the right to set up another attack. I learn how foot and hip movements are used to exert maximum force with minimum effort. And our wooden weapons continue to sing their song through the sun-lit dojo.

Going home this morning, I begin to feel it--the callouses starting to form on my soft hands where I was gripping the weapon tight to put power behind each thrust. I bring my palms in front of my face and see the redness pool in a concentrated spot underneath the white of my flesh. Warmed from practice, strengthened by executing and taking wrist grabs, there is now more red than white swirling on the surface of my hands. I take the satisfaction of this feeling home with me, seeking still to find my ki, but knowing that I am that much closer.

"The Aikido that Cannot be Seen"

One of my Senseis has a favorite saying that he sometimes uses to conclude class: "Practice the aikido that cannot be seen." After the first few times I heard him say it, I pondered over the meaning, wondering what philosophical lesson I was supposed to get from it. There is a spiritual aspect to aikido, deeply rooted in religious lessons and aphorisms from where the founder, Morehei Ueshiba, gleaned inspiration for the martial art.

One night, I approached my Sensei and asked what he meant by "the aikido that cannot be seen." Instead of giving me a straight answer, he thought for a moment, and then he launched into a story about being in a restaurant when the waitress set down a cup of cream that started hydroplaning across the table's surface, only to be caught by my Sensei before it skidded off the edge. The waitress, perplexed at the speed of which everything happened, asked my Sensei how he caught it so fast, to which he responded, "I was waiting for it."

Sensei saw my still-quizzical expression, so he told another story of when he took the longer path to where he needed to go by walking around some band members practicing instead of cutting directly through them, "to avoid conflict," he added. I was sitting there, thinking about how I had accidentally punched a bee smack across the body that afternoon at lunch because it had caught me by surprise, suddenly buzzing loudly near my ear before I had a chance to react otherwise. I wondered if that counted as "the aikido that cannot be seen."

Driving home after practice, I thought more about Sensei's saying. Perhaps I had trouble understanding it, as he had trouble articulating it, because it has more than one meaning and was intended to teach multiple lessons. Aikido is not waiting for things to happen, but anticipating what is to come and blending with it, flowing with it. Aikido is conflict-resolution before a conflict even takes place. Aikido takes understanding, produces harmony, makes you one with your surroundings. Aikido is a privilege to practice. It is a traditional art that embraces the ancient ways, a code of ethics, a warrior's creed; it nestles in between the physical contact between training partners and everyone's individual interpretations of its spiritual lessons. At once constant and ethereal, it cannot be seen, but makes you a believer based on how it can make you feel.

4th Kyu

It used to be fun, because it used to be short. A few techniques demonstrated in both front and rear styles, some ukemi skills to show I can take a fall or go into a roll, some memorized vocabulary to make sure I knew the names of certain attacks. But on my 4th-kyu test, after which I would lose the white from my belt, I felt for the first time a sense of apprehension. It's not the usual anxiety, the normal butterflies-in-stomach release of adrenaline before a test; it's the fear of miscalculation, the paranoia that I'd forget how to perform a certain technique, the doubt in my own endurance.

After the first few techniques had been called out for me to demonstrate, I moved on to the third. Kihon waza: step in to stop the technique before the partner's strike is completed. Ki no nagare: "flowing technique" where the partner's striking momentum is purposefully drawn out, to be used to your advantage as you turn it into your own attack. Ki no nagare has always come more natural to me, and my body defaults to it instinctively. So when Sensei called kihon waza, I took a second to recall the hand and foot movements. When I stepped right into what I was supposed to do, I was so thrilled over getting it right that I forgot what I needed to do for the meat of the technique: shihonage. I froze, my mind coated with panic. I was hyperventilating, not breathing enough, not supplying my desperate body with much-needed oxygen. And then my brain just shut itself off, and my body took over to do the rest. There were a few rough spots during the rest of my test, but nothing quite as dramatic as that. And when it was over and the other students had their chance at their own tests, I found a new blue belt waiting for me, along with my Senseis' feedback for how I could improve my form for the future.

I felt like I had gotten rid of all the white on my belt, but not in my mind. My aikido is far from flawless. I still need to work on taking balance. Not compromising my own posture for an opponent who is taller or bigger or stronger than me. Step in evenly toe-to-toe, and not move so far back. Use my hips to move with power and not rely on my arm strength. Ki'ai and breathe. Relax and loosen up. Kept it steady, keep it strong.

Now I am approaching the more arduous part of the path, the rougher terrain in the road. There's more to learn, more to memorize. There will be more rigid criticism on the mistakes in my techniques, more attention to detail. There are the doubts, and anxiety, and nervousness, and fear. And then there is learning how to conquer these things, like everything else in life worth reaching for.

Gi, Revisited

Few women may remember the outfit they were wearing when they first met their spouse or significant other. I can clearly recall mine. Almost 10 years ago, I was in all white--wearing my martial arts gi with my white belt when Tung grabbed my wrist for the first time and sealed our fate as a couple with a potent kotegaeshi.

Tonight, changing out of that very same gi after my current aikido class, I noticed the beginnings of a threadbare rip across the knee area of one of the pant legs. Seems like it's time to retire this one and see about the purchase of a new gi; after all, few outfits can boast an almost 10-year residency in anyone's closet. But throwing out this gi does not come with some regrets. Though Japanese martial arts stress a kempt uniform to foster a "clean" training spirit, I've also heard stories about how students go to great lengths to patch up worn out, torn, or threadbare spots on their training uniforms. Even high-ranking practitioners and instructors sometimes wear these apparel battle scars as a symbol of pride for the hard work and training that they've been through. A black belt frayed at the edges or turning back to white from years and years of use is representative of the painstaking, yet exhilarating and worthy journey one has taken to achieve a level of martial aptitude. Like any important path in life, it speaks of the symbolic arc of who were were before we transform into who we become--through discipline, dedication, sweat, and sometimes tears and blood.

Yes, it's time to throw out my very first gi that has shaped one of the biggest and best parts of me: my aikido training, which has helped me both find and understand love, which has cultured my spirit, refined my body, and brought an indescribable sense of peace to my soul. Over the years and through my two dojos, it has molded itself to my training style: frayed at high-impact areas, crinkled from grappling and kneeling, creased at fold seams. It reflects new lessons and recent changes: my name now sits on the left sleeve in black iron-on letters; the sleeves are folded back to accommodate wrist grabs; and the pant legs have recently been rolled up to be hidden under my new hakama.

In our consumer society, materialism is so much a part of our culture that we often lose track of the meaning behind things like a simple article of clothing. This gi helped me find myself in an art that I've come to love. It waited patiently for years in the dark closet when I lost myself to a new world of career choices and corporate rules. And now it's time to let it go...but not before it helped me rediscover an essential part of myself through aikido again.

Locks of Love

Every time I cut my hair short, my boyfriend has a coronary. Never mind that when it's long, the strands sometimes accidentally thwack him across the face or whip him in the eye. Never mind that it takes shampoo and conditioner bought in max packs and giganormous sizes to maintain it everyday, or that the fine ends knot themselves up, or create enough drag when I'm swimming in the pool to count for resistance exercise. He likes it long, likes to run his hands through the liquid silk, likes to lightly pull on my ponytail for fun.

I've only cut it (in what he considers) dramatically short one other time since the 10 years that I've known him: to do my first Locks of Love donation and help financially-disadvantaged children who suffer from hair loss due to various illnesses such as alopecia areata or cancer. Especially for young girls, facing their peers and society without hair can be difficult and demoralizing. The organization collects real hair (since artificial wigs can sometimes cause allergic reactions to sensitive scalps) and produces hairpieces for the children, helping them regain their self-esteem.




It takes 10 hair donations (with a minimum length of 10 inches) to make one hair prosthetic. This week, I will send in my second donation. Of all the charities I have been involved in, this one feels the most to me like a labor of love. It's more than donating a few weekend hours to sort canned food for the hungry, collecting school supplies for underprivileged children going back to school, or writing a check to financially provide for some organization. It has taken me about a year-and-a-half to grow my hair out for the foot-long donation, and this severed ponytail will become part of something tangible that a child can use.




I enlisted the help of Tung's aunt, who is a hair stylist, to cut off the ponytail for the donation. As the family gathered around to watch the progress of my new style, someone asked, "Are you regretting it? Will you miss it?"

When I brought the ziploc bag home containing my donation, I spent some time alone with it before I will mail it off. I ran my hands through the silky strands, through the cool softness, and sympathized with why Tung has such a problem letting it go. There was a Ranma 1/2 anime episode I watched once, entitled "A Girl's Hair is Her Life." It was about a playful sword duel where one of the main characters, Akane, gets her long hair accidentally hacked off in the fray. She ends up with a cute little bob, but her new appearance initially shocks her peers and causes her to cry over the loss. Throughout history and in literature, a new haircut or style can be symbolic of so many things: the shedding of innocence and childhood, the readiness to head a family, the alteration of one's personality, the desire for change, the need to make an emphatic point.

I like to wear my hair long, and yes, I always regret cutting it off after it has taken me years to grow. Yes, I will miss it. But to me, sacrifice is part of a worthy charitable cause. And I choose to do it because I want to give one of the best parts of me, hoping that it will make a big difference in someone's life.