Ripples

By Andy Fisher

Let's conduct a Frankensteinesque experiment on two of Winnie the Pooh's favourite companions! Let's take Eyore's mind and Tigger's body and stitch the two together. Tigger inherits the heavy, grey, depressive mental bulk of Eyore while Eyore finds himself encased in fur, stripes and an excess of frenetic energy! Then, let's sit back and watch how this hybrid monster might behave in our freakish laboratory of the imagination...

What we have created is an impossible tension that must be resolved. Either the striped spine will slump and the tail sag as the mind of Eyore gains dominance or the bounce in the body will transform the mind housed within it. Why? Because we do not have a body and a mind, we simply have a body-mind; a unified system, indistinct, that resonates in intimate relationship.

The mass of medical research conducted in the last fifty years speaks for itself. The placebo effect. The link between depressive personalities and disabling physical conditions such as arthritis and obesity. The impact of self-directed autogenic training on controlling asthma, migraines and epilepsy and of course the recognition of the role stress plays on general health and well being all support and echo the importance of the Greek ideal of 'a sound mind in a sound body'.

Many martial arts schools pay lip service to the role of the mind in training. There seems to be a divide between those 'reality-combat' disciplines that limit themselves to overcoming the debilitating toxicity of adrenal dump, while other more 'integrative' practices emphasize their art as a path towards spiritual emancipation rather than as an effective means of self defence. However, there would seem to be a gulf between these two extremes. If the mind-body link is so readily apparent, there must surely be a highly practical approach to training which, at the same time, catalyses loftier ideals. Is it not possible to train for 'real' situations while at the same time following a path that honours the moral and spiritual dimension? Such a question has preoccupied my thinking for some time. I roamed far and wide, both physically and intellectually in search of an answer and of course, it has only been when I have settled back to my centre that answers have started to reveal themselves.

It was a tuesday night. My sensei had taken us through a rigorous warm up and we were now practising tai sabaki and stance work. I was finding it harder than usual to concentrate for it was not the easiest of times. My days are spent as a secondary school teacher of English literature; a profession which I consider myself blessed to be involved with. However, in recent weeks I had felt frustrated with my classroom efforts. Nothing quite had the same sparkle. The students seemed less motivated and I found myself more and more resentful of the piles of marking and extra curricular activities. My partner and I were having a tough time of it too. The usual stuff, conflicts with parents-in-law, being too tired to spend real quality time, and unresolved differences of opinion had lead to an uncomfortable distance settling between us. Finances weren't great, my body was complaining of various aches and pains and..

"You're not committing yourself in your stances"

"Sorry?" I snapped back to the present moment to find my sensei staring down intently at my posture.

"When you move from one stance to another, you are moving your foot into place first and then you are bringing your centre over the forward leg afterwards. It makes you vulnerable".

I wasn't sure I quite understood. Wasn't it better to test the ground before committing one's weight? I asked the question and soon became aware of the flaw in my thinking. As I made a movement towards my sensei at his request, his foot snaked out and clipped the inside of my shin. He seemed to know instinctivly the very moment when I was about to transfer my weight into the extended leg and I fell, sprawling to the floor in an undignified heap.

Helping me up, he continued,

"You see, by not committing to the movement you are neither in your back or front foot but somewhere in between and that is not a safe place to be".

My sensei had me repeat the movement but this time I was to ensure that my centre and foot arrived at the same time so that my weight remained down and forwards. The same foot snaked out to counter my movement but this time my intention was not disrupted and instead I remained upright and rooted. "Good!", and my sensei continued to count as I and my fellow karate-ka travelled across the polished floor boards of the dojo, dripping sweat and travelling further along the endless path that is karate-do.

Later, I reflected upon how my sensei had read me like a book. He knew the precise moment to sweep my foot, not as a result of some sixth sense but because he had observed not only my movements, but through them, my attitude in training. I had been toying with technique but had not committed myself to it and karate does not court dabblers. How many students of martial paths I wonder, have dipped their toes in their chosen discipline only to prematurely reject it because 'it didn't work' or 'it wasn't practical' when in reality the fault lay not in the art but the artist? I broadened my awareness to explore my past as a jack of all trades, master of none. A partial artist, flitting from one style to another but never settling.

There was the kumite technician, full of questions but unwilling to try something new for fear of appearing less than perfect. There was the accumulating speed merchant, intent on completing the syllabus in record time but bored by the demanding refinement of technique. There was the push hands contestant, more intent on winning by force rather than softening and investing in the lesson offered in defeat and there was the automaton, going through the motions year after year with no sense of personal creativity or growing understanding. And here was I, all too familiar with all these ghosts, each one a kinetic signature, unique as a fingerprint and loaded with information about my attitudes, beliefs, hopes and fears.

Of course there's nothing profound in this observation. Man has survived precisely by this ability to 'read the signs', whether they be the attack signals of predators, the tell tale indications of a coming storm or the glimmer of treachery in the eyes of a stranger. In short, natural selection has ensured that we are all experts at seeing danger coming in all its guises. The practice of martial arts is founded not only upon the forging of our weapons but in the refining of our perceptions so that we might avoid conflict before we have no choice but to face it.

As we hone our combat skills, we are improving our ability to read the language of aggression and potential violence, becoming sensitive to our environment but also, as we test our bodies and minds in the crucible of training, we are transforming our physique and attitudes so that we come to hold oursleves in readiness and with confidence. Such a combination is reason enough for a potential mugger or street brawler to think twice before picking us as their next victim. It may well be that most fights we have won have occured without our conscious awareness as potential assailants have receded back into shadows in the hope of easier prey to follow.

I am reminded of the legend the old master of the tea ceremony who incurs the wrath of a hot headed young ronin. The ronin demands satisfaction, refusing all offers of apology and the old man is forced to accept as a point of honour. In the certain knowledge of his imminent death, the old man seeks out a bladesmaster to instruct him how he might die with honour. Impressed with the old man's clarity of spirit, the swordsman teaches one technique which will precipitate the certain death of both parties and armed with that knowledge, the tea master meets the ronin at the appointed place and time and centres himself in preparation for the inevitable outcome. The ronin, full of arrogant bravado, squares up to the old man only to see his own certain death staring back at him. There is no opening or wavering; the tea master is resolute and after some time the ronin falls to his knees and begs forgiveness which is, of course, granted.

Note that the master did not posture or rant but his authenticity was reflected, even in stillness. His body and mind were perfect reflections of one another and, because he didn't court victory, victory was assured. It is not enough to swagger and act the part of an accomplished warrior. It must echo in every cell of our bodies for only then can our mind and body be congruent and generate authentic power.

As the months passed, I became more comfortable with committing my centre as I moved from one stance to another and came to know for certain that such a refinement was echoing throughout my karate and not just in relation to the stability of my stances, for all things are ultimately connected. The redistributed balance of physical pressures seemed to release certain physiological blockages and the aches and pains that I had been complaining about seemed to recede. My money problems were not resolved quite so easily but I found myself more equipt to take decisive, committed action in responding to them. My partner and I began to really communicate again, remembering why we were so much in love with eachother and something just seemed to click again in the classroom.

It was almost as if, by adjusting my body and expressing myself with physical clarity, a set of ripples had issued forth into all aspects of the world around me.

But surely such a statement is ludicrous? After all, it would seem to imply that martial art bears some connection with sympathetic magic. That the microcosm not only reflects but can transform the macrocosm. It seems almost as absurd as the notion that the beating of a butterfly's wings could change weather patterns on the other side of the world. It would mean that we are punching and kicking our way through a storm of quantum potentials, literally creating our reality from the inside out. Is it possible that something as simple as a shift of body weight could carry such profound implications? Somewhere, in the depths of my mind, I hear Eyore and Tigger, chuckling quietly to themselves.
 

Andy Fisher

Treasurer, Jundokan United Kingdom

Andy.Fisher@jundokan.org.uk