Ura Waza

Most aikido techniques are performed either to the front of the training partner--"omote"--or to the rear--"ura." Both aim to break balance for the take-down and pin. Ura has always felt more powerful to me as a technique, more concentrated on the circular and spiral movements characteristic of aikido. When it's being done to me, there is a brief feeling of being off-balance, followed quickly by an out-of-control spinning where my training partner is the center axis and I am the spoke of the wheel.

Like what William Butler Yeats calls the "widening gyre" in his poem "The Second Coming," the centripetal speed begins at a concentrated point of power and spirals outward, gaining momentum as it becomes a bigger and bigger circle. There is a moment when my mind is gripped by the fear of the body losing control, and I have to make a conscious effort to breathe and allow myself to go with the flow. Arms akimbo, body flailing, and legs losing traction, I fly like I've just lost grip on the merry-go-around on the playground during it's maximum speed, and the room flashes by in a blur, and then I am on the ground, often bruised on my way down as my flesh impacts the mat after gathering velocity.

Ura waza is much like life when it spirals out of control; you can feel it coming, can even brace for it, but in the end, you will be swept along with the tide, watching things spinning from their logical, stationary position until they pass by in a blur, until they no longer make sense. This is what happens when "the centre cannot hold," when "things fall apart."

Yonkyo

When that dull, throbbing pain took hold like someone had taken a sledgehammer to my arm, I forgot to breathe. The sensation shot up to my brain like electricity and shut it down; I couldn't think, didn't even register that my eyes were squeezed shut and my jaws were clenched closed until I heard, "Relax. It'll hurt less if you don't stiffen up." Then my training partner let go of his grip, and everything came rushing back to my senses: the sound of my own blood pumping in my ears, the whoosh of air flooding into my lungs, the smell of the dojo, the sight of dust streaks on the training mat on which I lay.

Sensei said, "There is a nerve in the arm, about a palm's width up from the wrist and near the outer bone." This is yonkyo, and finding the nerve can be tricky because its placement on individuals can vary depending on the size of their palm. Once it's found, though, applying pressure to it in the right way can make for a potent submission take-down. When it's yonkyo day at the dojo, I cringe; and I'm fairly certain that I'm not entirely alone in that reaction. I hadn't realized that a simple nerve in the arm can paralyze the entire body. Like a strike to a pressure point, it could cut off the breath and cloud the vision. It leaves bruises 3 inches across on the length of the forearm. It gives people the paranoia that they've gotten permanent nerve damage. It instills power to give, is painful to receive--and one day I'll get it right and execute a perfect yonkyo on every try.

Obi

On the week after my aikido belt changed from yellow-stripe to blue stripe, I tried on my new one before class started. Freshly freed from the flimsy paper bands that tied it, the belt uncoiled, stiff as cardboard, still bearing the crease marks of its packaging.

My two Sensei came over to comment. "Now you can recycle the old belt," one said to the other.

A look of protest crossed my face before my other Sensei responded, "They usually want to keep them, though. Daisy, you want to keep your old belt?"

"Yes, Sensei," I responded enthusiastically. "Please."

My first Sensei smiled good-naturedly as she walked away. "I don't know why you'd want them to pile up for."

I wanted to say, "But, Sensei--it means something to me." Where I used to practice aikido at SJSU, we didn't rank. I took those fitness classes over and over, long after my Human Performance units had been fulfilled, impossibly drawn to the art. My belt stayed white for the two-and-a-half years I first trained in aikido.

There are mixed feelings about rank in the aikido community. Some feel it goes against the non-competitive nature of this martial art; others think it's a good way to measure self progress, or for instructors and senior students to gauge skill level when working with a new student. I came in neutral to these arguments, simply accepting that different dojos do things in different ways, and as long as I still had fun and fueled my passion to train, it really didn't matter.

As the other students filtered in, putting on their gi and adjusting their garments in preparation for training, I wrapped the stiff new blue-striped belt around my abdomen, looping it neatly around itself and tying the double knot from years of muscle memory. I looked back on the white days. I looked forward to the days of solid blue and brown and black. I thought about how my basic movements had refined over time, wondered about the techniques and kata I have yet to learn. Lining up in seiza, the obi tight around my center to push my posture straight, I thought about my newly-earned color, and how I'd train going forward to deserve it.

Back to Basics

Once upon a time, I used to be able to do the basic-blend technique of tai-no-henko, a normal warm-up exercise often performed in pairs at the beginning of class to get students into the mindset of aikido's movements. Palm face-up and held near the abdomen; hand pivots on an invisible vertical line; forward foot slides in deep; body blends, and both arms end palm-up. Now, I couldn't control the shape of my hands, or slide deep enough, or take my opponent's balance, or end up quite right.

Re-entering aikido is like going through physical rehab after a major accident has robbed you of the ability to walk. You remember how it's done, and yet it is with the greatest of efforts that, with support and guidance, you begin the painstaking journey of learning how to put one foot in front of the other again. It's painful to see fluidity all around you but not yet attain it. Hard to relax when you're so preoccupied with finding the flow. But I do hope to find my aikido again, dormant within me, rusty from years of neglect. Because when I watch the smoothly-flowing aikido of two senior-rank students during practice, it is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen in my life--it is an execution of art, like perfect penmanship across lined white paper, or the foam at the peak of the ocean waves before they break and rush in to meet the sand. It fills me with a sense of inner tranquility even as I seek to unravel the secret behind such perfection, and a feeling wells up from deep within me, akin to love.

This journey strewn with obstacles comes with its little, occasional rewards: hearing the click-clack sound of wooden jo's clanging against each other during weapons practice, executing a perfect pin, and getting that odd sensation of the 20 hot bodies in the room just disappearing so that all that remains is your training partner, you, and the moment. Once in a while, a training partner attuned to my body's movements, or an instructor who was standing by observing, would say to me, "You've done aikido before, haven't you?"

"Yes," I answer them. "Once upon a time."

Gi

For five years, it sat in a dark corner of my closet. When I pulled it out of the bag, it still looked the same--crisp and white, stiff at the seams, crinkled in areas bent over and over from years of use. When I tried it on, it still felt the same--cottony cool and loose for easy mobility, with a belt tied tight around the abdomen to remind me of correct posture, good etiquette, and decorum.

In reality, my body and its limitations become my inhibitions, but in my dreams, I remember how to fly. I am weightless as air, malleable as water, flowing easily over wrist locks and joint holds, taking tumbles and executing standing rolls with barely a skip in my heartbeat. My breathing is rhythmic and not labored as I train--moving in perfect circles, landing soft, lost in the rhythms of my own body, and the techniques come to me as second-nature as the speakings of my own soul.

Now I start at a different school and don a new gi. My belt is white, my mind an empty cup as it seeks to learn again, from the start. Everything in these initial stages feels awkward, awkward; my body struggles to remember how to move, limbs akimbo as they seek the right positions to start off, to end up.

I know the kanji is different, but I can't help interpreting the first character of "aikido" to mean "love." Five years put on hold as I worked toward my graduate degree and gauged the terrain of the corporate world. Now I go back to one of my first loves. Draping the new uniform over my shoulders, tying the vest in place left-over-right, cinching the belt so the knot sits right above my "hara" center energy, I start to remember why this martial art is built upon the foundation of love. The first time I wore my uniform again, it was as intimate as if I was taking off the layers, not putting them on; I got butterflies in my stomach for all the potential that is to be, and that is love. Meeting a stranger and working that closely with his or her body, taking care to learn in the process an not inflict hurt--that is love. Studying how the body moves and achieving confluence and harmony so that my mind feels linked with all the essence of the universe, that is love. Even the trail of bruises along my forearms and knees from take-downs and blocking shomen uchi strikes, which remind me about enjoying life as a mortal, and that everything worth having comes with a least a little pain . . . that is love.


In real life, I struggle against gravity and resistant forces, but in my dreams, I float on air. My passion fueled once again, I will work to re-learn buoyancy, weightlessness, and flow. This is my "ai," and I will "hajime"--begin again.

Vestiges

When night's shadows slink in and I am lulled to that place between sleep and dreams, I feel I can reach out and touch the memories. They are close by, like strangers on motorbikes sidled up against the side of my vehicle. Suddenly, I am back in a place illuminated by light, the late-afternoon sun embracing me in a cocoon of warmth, shining on my bare arms as I sit at the corner of a tiny metal table on a little plastic chair. The lilting song of the Vietnamese language swims through my ears as all around me, the customers having lunch at Tung's aunt's noodle shop carry on a casual conversation of their simple plans for the day: visiting family, shopping for dinner ingredients, cooking a special meal out of the blue.

An old lady with a poofy white perm and diamonds in her ears leans in to talk to a young lady with a jade bracelet encircling her slender wrist, both of them wearing a simple, light, satiny outfit to keep cool in the humid heat. The ever-present smoky tinge in the air is mixed with the deep scent of broth from two huge vats simmering rich yellow liquid; onions browning in a pan of oil tease my taste buds and make my stomach rumble. A scent of sweet fruits warmed by the sun rides a soft breeze and wafts past my nostrils; I can taste the goods from the nearby market, a memory ingrained at the back of my throat. Distant motorbikes honk, coupled with the jingly tune of a delivery truck put in reverse. I reach my arms up to the blue sky in a stretch, my cotton spaghetti-strap tanktop moving easily with my body.

I blink, and I am alone, once again waiting at an intersection for the light to turn green. The neat, wide lanes are slicked with rain, the road reflecting the soft glow of the traffic lights above. I am wearing slacks and a long-sleeve, button-up shirt, the collar sitting stiff against my neck. I am once again a tech writer leaving work for the day, a young woman set on ambitions of furthering my career, climbing the corporate ladder, testing out new software, saving up to buy a house and start a family. The sense of responsibility once again weighs heavily on my mind, and the carefree euphoria of a simple life in a village or the freedom of riding waves in a salty sea dissipate like fog.

The light changes color, and I take my foot from the brake and ease on to the accelerator, blinking away vivid visions of warm days and warmer company. The heart remembers what it loves, retaining vestiges of memories long after they fade from the fickle mind. I steer the car down the last few blocks, going back to my house while thinking about my once-upon-a-time journey "home."

A Re-Cap of Things I Learned In and About Viet Nam

1. The fanny pack is a lifesaver. I wore it everywhere. We were fortunate enough not to encounter any incidents of theft, but it's like they say: "Out of sight, out of mind."
2. Not toting your camera around makes you appear more like a native and, therefore, allows you to command more bargaining leverage.
3. Swimming a few times in the ocean gives you a good tan that makes you appear more like a native and, therefore, allows you to command more bargaining leverage.
4. $30,000 dong for a pack of postcards is a rip-off.
5. The taxi drivers sign to each other as they pass on opposite ends of the road. They have a system of alerting each other to the presence of cops, which tells them to buckle up or slow down.
6. "Mang cau xiem" are not edible without sugar. "Chuoi xiem" are the best bananas in the world. I could live off them for breakfast.
7. Phan Rang has good chicken rice meals.
8. Phan Thiet is known for producing dragon fruit and salt.
9. Can Giuoc is a great place to eat the "vu sua" fruit.
10. Nha Trang has awesome, fresh seafood, such as crab.
11. Da Lat has awesome weather and a great "historical village" called "Su Quan" that specializes in the making and sale of silk-screen embroidery.
12. Viet Nam has large "fire ants" that pack a mean bite. Their mosquitos aren't too shabby, either.
13. Viet Nam cockroaches are the size of beetles and can fly.
14. Viet Nam mice are the size of armadillos. They don't seem scared coming out at night and take their precious time moseying around. River rats are even bigger.
15. Snakes like to hang their skins on tree branches when they shed.
16. To mentally convert the exchange rate of approximately $17,000 Viet Nam dong to $1 U.S. dollar, it's best to divide by 20.
17. For three weeks, I got to be a millionnaire.
18. Viet Nam vans have musical tunes when put in reverse. This is apparently a popular add-on option when buying a mini-van.
19. In most open-air markets, there is no such thing as a "trash can." They'll laugh if you ask for one.
20. U.S. bills that are torn, have been written on, or have been folded across the president's face are de-valued. You get less dong for them when exchanging currency. Torn Vietnamese dong are not acceptable currency on the street.