by Dave Lowry
An aikido seminar I attended last fall coincided with the worst November cold snap in memory. The dojo (training hall), located in rural southwest Missouri, was miles outside the nearest city. I passed ponds with steam rising off of them, and on one hillside the ground vegetation was blossoming with little swirls of delicate ice called “frost flowers.”
There was little relief from the cold once I arrived at the dojo. Recently erected, it resembled one of the many aluminum-sided barns in that part of the United States. Instead of livestock, though, I found it full of aikido practitioners. What it was not full of was heat, except that which was being pumped in from a lonely kerosene heater placed strategically between the dressing rooms. I dressed quickly, hopping around to avoid a wet spot on the floor in the changing room-the result of a roof that hadn’t yet been completely sealed.
Everyone was shivering during the warm-up session, but the chill of the dojo was quickly replaced by the heat we generated. In spite of the fact we could see our breath, perspiration was soon soaking our gi (uniforms).
The seminar was led by a teacher from the Northwest. He demonstrated a technique, described the points he wanted us to work on, and we went at it with our partners. There was little explanation.
At least five different schools were represented at the seminar, and many of the practitioners had never met before. It is interesting to meet someone for the first time, bow to him, and begin practicing with him. I would not say you learn more about a person that way than you would by sitting and talking with him, but you certainly get to know a person differently by throwing him and being thrown by him.
Under those circumstances-the cold and four hours of training interrupted only for draughts of water-one also learns about the limitations of the human body. It wasn’t long before certain physical needs had to be met, and the dojo lacked plumbing. The toilet was of the portable variety, and was located several yards away from the dojo-a very long way in that weather. Practitioners would hold out for as long as possible before bowing out, going to the rear of the dojo to untie their hakama (traditional divided skirt), then ducking into the dressing room for a coat. They would step outside reluctantly, and moments later, the door would burst open, and they would come flying in, shivering around the heater while getting back into their hakama. It was funny to watch, but you knew your time would come.
As I was training, it occurred to me that Morihei Uyeshiba, the founder of aikido– while he might have had some sharp words for the caliber of our techniques– would probably have been happy with all of this. We were training out in the country, in accordance with his fervent belief that the budo (warrior ways) were fundamentally an expression of our harmony with nature. I think– and personally am ashamed I can’t say this more often– that the founders of all the budo would have been happy with those of us attending that practice.
Nobody there was trying to make a buck. There were no great “masters” exercising their egos. The senior practitioners were perspiring as much as the beginners, and while the teacher leading the session was highly ranked, he wasn’t out to impress anyone, or hit on any of the female practitioners, or peddle his videotapes, or anything else of that nature. He told me, in fact, that after flying into the area the night before, he’d spent the evening helping the rest of the host club do some finishing construction work on the new dojo.
That’s what it’s all about: people who care about budo, not because they perceive it as a ticket to film stardom, or physical indomitability, or wealth, but because they love it. They travel the “way” for the rewards of the journey, not to reach some destination. Driving back to the city, tired as I was, I was already looking forward to the next time I could train under such circumstances.
August 1992
