Rediscovering my Practice

Moving On

By the time I arrived in Japan, I had quit aikido. Back in the U.S. I was training nearly every day, but in the time it had taken me to secure a job and get on a plane I was disillusioned with the art.

I had been training in a softer style on the West Coast, and though I enjoyed the movement and refined my ukemi to a high degree, I found something lacking in the practice. The people I trained with were lovely, but I didn’t trust that what we were doing would work on anyone but a complicit attacker in a dojo setting.

We were discouraged from using force, which is wise, but we weren’t provided a means for neutralizing an attack in a way that left me confident to manage real aggression. Day after day my partners would fall down for me and I’d fall down for them, but inside I knew something was missing.

I was still interested in studying martial arts, so I moved to Japan with a uniform and a white belt, leaving my hakama and black belt back in the States. I planned to try judo and maybe explore some other styles, but I didn’t think aikido would be one of them.

When I arrived at the school where I’d be teaching English in the Japanese countryside, it turned out that the father of one of my colleagues was a 5th dan and an instructor at the local aikido dojo in town. My colleague, Ms. Naka, encouraged me to go to a class when she found out that I had trained back in the U.S. I wasn’t interested, but I didn’t want to be rude. I figured that starting a new job in a new country, it wouldn’t hurt to meet some new people (plus, she was cute!).

Something New

I went. I trained. Everyone was kind and welcoming, but compared to my previous training their technique seemed a bit sloppy. At times it felt more like an old boy’s club than a place of serious practice. I decided I’d train for a while and leave when I found something better. I went back a few more times without much enthusiasm, though glad to get some exercise and meet new people.

Then, on this one day, I noticed a new black belt training at the back of the dojo. He was in his mid-50s, and the others seemed to treat him differently. During class, I kludged together what Japanese I could and asked one of my partners who he was. They said he was Mr. Takahashi and that he was from another dojo nearby.

At the end of class, it was common for people to practice with each other informally—atogeiko, they called it. After we bowed out, a group of curious students gathered around Mr. Takahashi, who seemed happy to show them a few things. I trained with someone else for a bit, watching the others out of the corner of my eye. When we finished up, I began folding my hakama, continuing to look over at what was going on.

Soon enough, Mr. Takahashi saw me and gestured for me to come. I made my way over, and he stuck out his arm saying, Morote motte. Shikkari motte . . . Chau de, shikkari ya de. “Here, grab my wrist with both hands,” he said. “No, harder. As hard as you can,” he said.

At my previous dojo, I would have been scolded for grabbing like this, so it felt strange. But hell, I was 22, fit, and happy to oblige. I grabbed with all my strength. He moved somehow, and the next thing I knew I was on my back looking up at the ceiling completely dumbfounded.

Pulling myself together, I got up again to grab. Shikkari ya de. “Hold on tight!” he egged me on. I doubled down, grabbing with all my might, and again found myself staring at the ceiling.

After easily throwing me a few more times he grew bored and called over the instructor who had just taught the class, one of the senior students at the dojo. Having previously learned about Japanese hierarchy, dojo etiquette, and the importance of saving face in public, I wasn’t sure what to expect.

Shikkari motte, he said. The instructor somewhat reluctantly grabbed and soon went down himself. What kind of a loose cannon is this guy, I thought.

To my bewilderment, he then grabbed the instructor and looked at him like, ‘Here, you try!’ The instructor, probably a 5th or 6th dan, could do absolutely nothing. He struggled, he strained, but in the end he couldn’t budge Mr. Takahashi an inch.

Dashite. Motto dashite. Asoko ya de. “Extend your ki. More, even more. Over there,” he scolded the man to no avail.

Had Mr. Takahashi no manners whatsoever? This would have been overstepping bounds in the U.S., but here in Japan it seemed unthinkable. (I soon came to get used to these sorts of antics. And no, people don’t appreciate being made a fool in any country!)

Beginning Again

It was that day I realized aikido still had more to offer. I continued to practice in the town dojo where I lived but soon found my way to training at Mr. Takahashi’s home dojo as well. The chief instructor, Mr. Hashimoto, was a tall, kind gentleman with tremendous hands from his years as a mikan (mandarin orange) farmer. He was gracious and even spoke serviceable English—which was great because Mr. Takahashi spoke such a thick dialect that even some locals struggled to understand him.

I continued to train with them for the remainder of my three years in Japan, though by that point they were Takahashi Sensei and Hashimoto Sensei, both shihan (master instructors) in their own right. My wife happens to be from the same town their dojo is in, so even after returning to the States I’ve been able to train with them whenever we go back to visit.

You may be wondering, can I now throw people to the ground leaving them baffled at what just happened? Sometimes. Not like Takahashi Sensei, but he opened my eyes to a new aspect of aikido which I have continued to pursue for nearly two decades since meeting him.

The study of aikido is a long and winding path. Though at some points I lost my way, with hindsight I am grateful for everything I have learned, even when I wasn’t convinced of its efficacy. Today, I train as intensely as ever. What keeps me coming back is that sense of wonder I experienced when I met Takahashi Sensei and the recognition that I’m taking part in something with depth beyond what I can fathom.