After a returning, refreshed and happy, to New England, I quickly moved out to Ipswich, MA for my next job as an endangered bird technician at a popular beach reserve. While searching for good training opportunities in my new locale (this should, and probably will, be described in a post at some point soon) I caught myself waxing philosophical on a prominent question often asked amongst martial artists, and one which I think I had never truly addressed until called into question by a friend.
I was struck by the idea when I received a phone call in the midst of scouring websites for martial arts schools on the North Shore. Sun-burnt and exhausted from eight hours and more than 10 miles of walking up and down the beach, I answered a simple "What's up" with a grumbling rant about how there were no "real martial arts schools" anymore and good training was just too hard to find "these days".
First of all, "these days"? Nearly a decade of training or not, what do I know about the historical quality of martial arts in the United States or anywhere else? Here I was parroting the stuffy growling of beloved yet ornery sempai in former schools at which I'd trained--from old New England construction workers to gray-haired cowboys in Central Florida who said a prayer to the Lord before every practice--yet had I actually had the experience of being disappointed and disillusioned with "modern" schools? In truth, not really. I have visited a few schools, trained with a couple students, and attended a couple seminars by which I was not impressed, or perhaps even a little concerned, by the quality of the material being taught. I have seen techniques practiced badly, some poor attitudes being taught, and false concepts being sustained by egotistical collusion, but never have I been witness to any clear evidence of the universal decline in training quality bemoaned by many of my elders. For the most part, I have been impressed by the majority of schools I have visited. So, from where did this notion arise? Apparently, my sempai and other senior students. And where did they get it? From their sempai and senior students, and so on and so forth, as far back as martial arts or fighting styles may go. A sour yet ever-present trend in the martial arts tends toward the idea that there is only one right answer, and that those practicing a given "way" are the only ones who've got it. We'll return to this wild digression later.
What's more important is the way my friend (an "outsider" of the subject in that she had never practiced a martial art) logically skewered me with a simple and crippling question. "Okay, so what is real martial art?"
"Well...!" I huffed with a time-buying glance out the window, pursing my lips as my heart gave a nervous flutter. Here I was, a self proclaimed martial arts enthusiast, unable to explain what exactly martial art was. I felt idiotic. Fortunately, she couldn't see the perspiration beading on my forehead. There was a long pause then, which in truth was probably more useful and illustrative than the bumbling, rambling, and grammatically clumsy answer which followed as I simultaneously ran my mouth and fumbled pitifully for a smart-sounding answer.
We eventually dismissed the subject, likely more out of boredom with my nervous blabbing than in satisfaction at a point well established, and moved on to everything from graduate programs to recipes for fried rice, but--somewhat predictably--it was the question of defining martial arts which stayed with me long after I hung up the phone.
I spent the next few days ruminating the subject as I intermittently roared across the beach in an ATV, watched plovers courting and mating, and trudged up and down sand dunes in search of nests. Fortunately, I have always found time in the outdoors profoundly therapeutic and conducive to thought, and it was not long before my own perspectives on the subject began to truly take form.
Throughout my journey in the martial arts I have encountered a great number ways to define them. Readily apparent is the "common knowledge" answer to the question, derived from public perception alone, which generally associates martial arts only with East-Asian origins, mysticism, and usually a fair amount of screaming (see the dictionary definition. By this definition, things like fencing and boxing are not martial arts. Perhaps more agreeable and well thought-out was Keith Vargo's definition in his article "Why Wrestling is Not a Martial Art", in which he explains that a martial art, in being a martial art and not some sort of martial sport, must have artistic characteristics; these include, but are not limited to, things like the strife for perfection of form and pursuit of personal development and beauty. Former Air Force Major Forrest E. Morgan, in his book Living the Martial Way (a solid read which I hope to review in a later entry) distinguished martial arts as all those which adhere to a "warrior" code of ethics and have technical and cultural roots in past warrior disciplines (e.g. samurai, hwarang, pankration). According to Morgan, those disciplines that don't, many of them competitive sports like "Ultimate Fighting", kickboxing, and wrestling, are simply "games" that are "played".
Morgan's rather harsh opinion on the subject (which he explains to be a toned-down version of the definition put forth by famed founder of hoplology Donn Draeger), while it does draw a distinct and not entirely arbitrary line, is the perfect example of what I believe makes this question so difficult to answer. The problem is not a dearth of solutions, but a monumental and overwhelming number of suggestions which delineate and dissect the martial arts into so many classifications and doctrinal camps that artists in different schools and associations practically exist in separate universes.The same pattern is evident in the rampant proliferation of martial arts styles and associations in the past fifty years.
Considering the multitude of definitions and delineations and panoply of people, all practicing completely different disciplines, who all insist that they are practicing "real" martial arts while those that do differently are not, I think attempting to create my own "unique" answer to this problem would defeat the purpose; I would only be adding to the jumble, contributing to the general confusion around the issue. Instead, I'd prefer to address the core of the problem. Why is it, then, that martial artists tend to be "splitters" rather than "lumpers"? Why does everyone need to differentiate themselves from the rest of the crowd, and insist that others are doing something illegitimate? What makes mixed martial artists scoff at the baroque techniques of Wushu practitioners, or makes karateka rant about the lack of realism in rule-based Ultimate fighting?
I see two possible (but not necessarily mutually exclusive) answers to this question. The first and somewhat less offensive is the need to market one's art. Since their move into the Western world (and honestly probably before that), martial artists have needed to commercialize their teachings to make them a viable source of economic support. In order to succeed as a business venue (a notoriously hard task in the martial arts), a school must establish a "niche", a particular sales pitch which can distinguish it from the competition. By splitting off, starting new associations, styles, or even "styles of a style" (the various "styles" of Aikido which developed after Ueshiba's death come to mind), school heads strive to make themselves a unique and irreplaceable resource for a potential student (or customer) base.
This search for uniqueness may have another, somewhat more troubling motivation, which is one fueled by the need for self-worth. Training at a number of schools and in a number of different arts, I have noticed a pattern among martial artists to place great emphasis not on what is similar between their school or style and others, but what is different, and often with the inherent implication that what they practice is both unique and often better than that to which it is being compared. Practitioners become ingrained in their style of training and the accompanying mindset, and develop a sort of martial myopia which prevents them from exploring ideas beyond their particular doctrine. MMA fighters insist that one can learn to fight only through competition and full contact, denouncing the use of forms and katas as exotic mumbo jumbo, while traditional practitioners insist that the use of rules and regulations teaches competitive fighters an unrealistic and dangerously careless approach toward fighting which would result in fatal errors on the street. Sadly, these two sides--and a number of other well-established camps of belief--coexist only through mutual avoidance and ignorance, each unwilling to meet the other in a constructive or cooperative medium.
I can understand how such an attitude can develop. The martial arts appeal to a very basic part of human (or perhaps animal) nature, notably that associated with violence. For men especially, this is tied on some subconscious level to the ego. Thus, the quality of one's art or doctrine reflects upon their ego, and if another is right, they must be wrong, and that is unacceptable. This feeling may be especially strong among martial artists because of the type of people attracted to the martial arts. From the 300 pound tough guys eager to smash heads in the octagon to the five-foot weaklings hoping to defend against high school bullies, nearly everyone comes to the martial arts seeking a solution to a problem, most often self esteem. The ability to fight, to control or prevail in a violent conflict, is a psychologically powerful one indeed, in some ways perhaps more influential than the creative arts. Ironically, the martial arts are consequently saturated with fragile egos who, rather than seeking to progress the field through cooperation and sharing of knowledge, have been taught that only one doctrine can be right, and that must be theirs. Truth seems to lose all its relativity in martial art; this is what makes even the identity of the arts themselves subject to endless debate, and cripples progress to a grinding halt.
My approach to this issue--I would not call it a solution--is to put a stop to the line-drawing and splitting, and instead smudge, blur, or perhaps even erase a few lines. The warrior traditions which gave rise to many, if not all of today's martial arts and combat sports stressed above all a self-sufficient ego, an attitude of confidence, aplomb, and noble bearing unmarred by selfishness, self consciousness and small-mindedness. This was purely for practical reasons; such weaknesses of the mind and spirit would get a warrior killed on the battlefield. It is a shame, then, to let arguments over details interfere with the development of modern martial arts and jealous separation to keep vital insights from separate camps. As was written in the Japanese samurai classic Hagakure, "It is bad when one thing becomes two". In defining martial arts, we, as martial artists, should not seek to differentiate ourselves as somehow greater or superior to our peers; we are all on similar paths, we are all learning about combat and warriorship in one way or another. The martial arts are a beautiful and noble pursuit as they are, and there should be no need to embellish them further.
So how should one define martial arts? If you ask me, as broadly as possible. As far as I'm concerned, any martial art, discipline, or combat sport, any physical activity derived from martial traditions, or intended to prepare practitioners in some way for a combative situation, is a martial art. Yes, I understand, some of these are not "arts", but the term has already stuck, and just as all tissues are not Kleenex we may have to tolerate popular nomenclature despite its erroneousness; the benefits of sharing a commonality between disparate groups far outweigh the costs. As a largely traditional martial artist, I am at times uncomfortable being associated with tattoo'd juggernauts pounding one another's faces to mush before screaming fans, and I'm sure more than a few competitive fighters are at times equally unnerved to be associated with navel-gazing spiritualists and their ancient warrior codes. If martial artists cannot begin to unify and continue the trajectory of improvement that founders started decades, centuries, even millenia ago, then our beloved arts will fade in the progression of time, split between glorified human cockfights and sword-swinging museum pieces. By building upon the past, I think martial arts can retain their utility and relevance to a changing world and continue a long history of profoundly and positively affecting the human experience.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Mountain Training Part 2: Aikido Kenkyu Dantai
Originally composed 3/26/2012
My second dojo visit in Montana was at the Aikido Kenkyu Dantai, an independent Aikido study group based in Kalispell. This was one of two schools that Sensei Murray of JBJ dojo recommended I visit in my time in California, the other being the Sawbuck Dojang (a Soo Bahk Do school) in Whitefish, which I missed the opportunity to visit due to the short duration of my stay. With only enough time to visit one of the two recommended schools, I opted for the first time in a while to try what was familiar to me.
Thus, on Monday the 26th, I borrowed my uncle’s truck and pitted my atrocious navigation skills against the deceptively simple roads around Kalispell, and by 7:15pm, arrived safely at the dojo. Though the first class was not set to start until about 8pm, I wanted to leave ample time for all the necessary introductions and formalities necessitated by my unexpected visit. I was promptly greeted by Ken McCaskill, the assistant instructor, who was immediately loquacious and welcoming, even offering to let me borrow a loaner Gi so that I wouldn’t have to submit my fellow students to my garish, improvised workout clothes. It was about time I returned my uncle’s “save the wolves” T-shirt, anyhow.
The dojo was a small, tidy, and well-organized space in a large business building, complete with a well-kept changing room, bathroom, and a generous portion of spotless mat space. After filling out the appropriate paperwork and release forms, I eagerly bowed onto the mat to start warming up, knees still stiff and sore from my shiko practice at JBJ dojo. With a full half-hour to stretch and warm up, I took my time, and seized the opportunity to chat with Ken about the dojo, and, specifically, head instructor Walter von Krenner.
From this discussion and a thorough perusal of the dojo’s website, I learned that von Krenner Sensei had over 50 years of experience in Aikido, and had achieved the rank of 8th dan in USMA American Aikido. To my surprise, Ken informed me that von Krenner sensei, unlike other instructors of his rank, taught classes with great regularity at the Aikido Kenkyu Dantai, and would, in fact, be teaching tonight’s class. Given that this, too, was the only class available before my departure to Boston the following Thursday, I felt incredibly fortunate and was grateful for the opportunity.
Above all, I was excited to gain a new perspective on a discipline in which I have spent a great portion of my time in the martial arts. As I realized earlier this year, though I have traveled to a great variety of schools and tried many styles that were new to me, I have done little exploring of the Aikido community. This was partially a result of my being in high school when I began training, and thus having restricted travelling options, and later, as a college student, being unable to afford the time or money necessary to travel at length for a seminar. Overall, I had put little effort into visiting new Aikido schools. My reluctance centered on the fear that I would learn either bad habits or ideas that would run counter to my training at Shobu (my alma mater of the martial arts).
Though this had initially been a concern when I began joining other martial arts associations in college, I had eventually dismissed this fear for two reasons: first, I separated the different arts I studied and their teachings, thus viewing each in its own unique light and decidedly not concerning myself with comparison or weighing “good" and "bad". Second, as I advanced in both arts, I learned that their surface discrepancies were entirely superficial, and that at the root principles (and most advanced levels of practice), they shared all the same teachings. This pattern of thinking extended gradually into Chinese boxing, Jiujitsu, Muay Thai, Tai Chi, and nearly every other art in which I trained or tried my hand. But would this be the case in approaching a single style through different perspectives? Would I have issues with too many cooks in the proverbial kitchen?
As the start of class approached, more students trickled in—both children and adults—and my anticipation grew. I caught myself glancing outside every few minutes, searching for the santa-claus-like figure whose picture I had seen on the dojo’s website. As 8pm rolled around, Ken started the class, and after the normal bowing and clapping, began a lengthy and thorough warmup routine. It began with breathing exercises, wrist and hand stretches, and some exercises in grip strength, then moved on into lower body stretches, some yoga-like strengthening postures, and enormous amounts of rolling and falling. I was immediately struck by the amount of time spent on physical conditioning for Aikido practice, often neglected for more spiritual exercises favored by Aikido practitioners. This is likely because, due to the nonviolent and in some ways metaphysical nature of the discipline, many practitioners don't see the need for physical conditioning or physical strength (indeed, the goal is to need neither for effective self defense). Students are left to practice conditioning on their own time, or else assumed to develop it through steady training. I would be quick to argue, however, that physical conditioning is a key part of training, at least at the beginner level, and has no business being neglected by any serious school, regardless of style. To see such attention paid to these details was refreshing, not to mention necessary, given how long it had been since my last time on an Aikido mat.
By this time, I was beginning to realize that given my injuries I had retained only a remnant of the conditioning needed for the hard Aikido practice to which I had become accustomed in years prior. Rolling and falling up and down that mat, I felt my knees begin to grow weak and wobbly, and had to politely bow off the mat for a handful of desperate, self-loathing breaks. It was while sucking wind and wincing at the throbbing of my knees that I caught sight of von Krenner Sensei, who had apparently arrived moments before and was already changed into his dogi and hakama.
He was a tall, impressive man with white hair and a full, smartly-trimmed beard which matched the crisp white of his gi and—I noted moments later, still further impressed—his belt. Whether von Krenner sensei had forgotten his black-belt that evening or not I can’t be sure, as he made no mention of it, but showed me quite well the humility of a real martial artist. It is that lack of attachment to rank, title, or recognition, which I truly respect in other martial artists; as a teacher of mine once said, it’s not the guys with the high level black belt rankings that should be respected, but the ones who, despite having such high ranks, aren’t afraid to step onto a mat (familiar or otherwise) and throw on a white belt.
Sensei von Krenner’s ruddy face was frequently split by a wide and heavily bearded grin as he chatted casually with Ken and whatever students happened by, offering both points of advice and witty jabs at every opportunity. He soon caught sight of me, at which point I approached and introduced myself, bowing as formally and deferentially as possible. My gestures were returned, though Sensei seemed far more comfortable and relaxed than myself, immediately—and rather nonchalantly—interviewing me about where I had come from, how my flights had been, what I did for work, and so on. He spoke softly and clearly with a light German accent, adding a sort of sing-song quality to his overall warmth and cheerfulness. He had some interesting insight for me at every turn, and my nervousness was immediately dispelled by the engaging conversation and his easy way of talking. Before I knew it, the rest of the class was ready to begin, and I was standing there still chatting with Sensei. Whether he was too polite to tell me to go sit down or not I’m not sure, but when I discovered the situation I dove back onto the mat with an apologetic bow, and he wasted no time getting the class started.
Sensei began the class with munetsuki kotegaishe, a technique in which the nage, faced with a punch toward the solar plexus, applies a wrist lock to lead the attacker off balance and throw them. I was immediately struck by the smoothness and simplicity of the movement, and watched, transfixed, as my doubts about Aikido training at other schools flew out the nearest window and into the icy Montana air of the parking lot. The technique here looked different, yes; but just as with other styles, it was only on the surface. The core ideas were the same. Irimi before tenkan; don’t let your partner recover his balance; it's not about throwing, it's about releasing; maintain awareness (zanshin) even after the technique is finished; and on it went. Before I had even begun to digest these new outward forms of what had been very familiar techniques, I was in the thick of training; rolling, falling, throwing, attacking full force without an ounce of hesitation, yet being handled skillfully and calmly by the more advanced students of the group. I eventually had the pleasure of taking ukemi for Sensei and didn’t bother holding anything back. I struck out at him with all the speed and might I could muster, and was easily dismissed and pinned while he casually, jovially explained the logic of his movements. I was delighted not only by the quality of his technique, but the ease and candidness with which he conveyed it; bright blue eyes shone with a sort of vivacious sincerity with every explanation, making me immediately both comfortable and wholly inspired, while a happy grin, framed with ivory whiskers, seemed nearly ever present.
The rest of the students reflected these qualities (with the exception of the facial hair) as well. The attitude toward training was sincere and committed, but there was a casual, playful aspect to the training; a student could push themselves as hard as they wanted, but could take it easy if need be. I started by pushing as hard as I possibly could, having been off the Aikido mat for months, but after thoroughly exhausting myself in the first hour (I'm not half the Aikidoka I used to be), was perfectly content with a more relaxed pace of practice in which I could focus more on detail. Before long, I was learning aspects and applications of techniques I had never before considered, and thoroughly enjoying the test of taking ukemi for unfamiliar and talented nage.
von Krenner sensei made ample use of sword analogies in his explanations and demonstrations of techniques; a style of teaching and training that I have been taught is an integral part of “real” Aikido. Because Aikido was designed by refining the movements of Jiujutsu with the advanced principles of Japanese swordsmanship, Aikido training without an understanding or conscious awareness of sword movements and principles lacks some of the reality and precision important for maintaining the efficacy of a non-competitive martial art. As my teacher expressed repeatedly to me in training, the study of sword keeps Aikido from falling into fantasy which, without competition, would otherwise be imminent; it roots Aikido in a grounded reality and prevents the sort of collusion which can lead to overly floral and ineffective martial arts. There was no fantasy at the Aikido Kenkyu Dantai; von Krenner sensei demonstrated techniques with huge, open movements yet with perfect timing, spacing, and control; all principles illustrated and taught by sword practice. In his lectures on sword and empty-handed movement I heard echoes of Morihei Ueshiba ("O-Sensei” or “Great Teacher”), the founder of Aikido, whose words I have read and contemplated in dozens of books. This shouldn’t have been a surprise, given that von Krenner sensei apparently trained under O-sensei for some time, but it was nonetheless thrilling for me to witness.
The class continued with a very “external” focus, primarily centered around footwork, proper form, spacing, timing, and just about every other point on form that I have always wanted to work on in greater detail. There was little slow or “kotai” practice, focused on feeling one's way through the movement, but instead mostly dynamic, rapid practice which moved at a pace too fast to let conscious thought get in the way of good movement. It was a gratifying style of training. Throughout it all, von Krenner sensei prowled the mat with a good-hearted smile, catching the most minute mistakes and errors and correcting them with solid advice and demonstration. He was incredibly informal and friendly in his speech and presentation, yet each technique was performed without an ounce of slack; there was a keen martial awareness beneath that approachable exterior that kept me thoroughly on guard. I was surprised at the amount of personal attention individual students received; von Krenner sensei would spend as long as it took to get a point across to a student, and would not be satisfied unless the lesson was well learned. This sort of careful teaching is a key advantage of such small classes. In this sense, the Aikido Kenkyu Dantai was a rarity in both the small, intimate size of the classes and the high rank of the instructor; the two rarely go hand in hand for under a thousand dollars a class.
Before I knew it, the class was drawing to a close, we were bowing to the shomen, and students were beginning to fold up their hakama. Still reeling from my first vigorous Aikido practice in more than half a year, I stumbled off the mat, changed, and returned to find sensei still engaged in happy conversation with a few students. I joined in and found myself laughing heartily at his quick humor and wit, despite being the butt of several jokes regarding Ornithology and biologists (it comes with the career, I think). As at JBJ Dojo, I was treated with incredible hospitality, and had to repeatedly insist on paying a mat fee, before finally persuading them to accept a donation. After saying my goodbyes, I left very satisfied.
After two hours of hard practice, I found my fears about the rest of the Aikido world assuaged. Though I had repeatedly seen techniques in an entirely different and unfamiliar light, I was, as after beginning my training in entirely new martial arts, unquestionably benefitted by an increased breadth of experience and perspective. I would encourage readers to not only learn from practitioners of other styles, but also to seek contact with those who see their own style in a different way. Though it may be initially unsettling to have some of what you've learned called into question, this is precisely how techniques and training maintain their rigor and effectiveness. Without the input of many minds and the polite dissidence of disagreeing viewpoints, the martial arts would lose their flexibility and thus their practicality as combative systems. Thus, in broadening their knowledge and experience throughout their martial journey, I urge readers to explore not only new disciplines but also different perspectives on their own discipline. It will certainly hit close to home, but the rewards are distinctive as they are great.
If ever a reader finds his or herself in Kalispell, Montana, they should not fear a dearth of good training despite the remoteness and ruralness of the area. The training I found there was high quality and matched by a serious, open, and welcoming attitude which made visiting and training at those schools highly enjoyable. My biggest regret is not having the time to train more intensively or for a longer period of time.
My second dojo visit in Montana was at the Aikido Kenkyu Dantai, an independent Aikido study group based in Kalispell. This was one of two schools that Sensei Murray of JBJ dojo recommended I visit in my time in California, the other being the Sawbuck Dojang (a Soo Bahk Do school) in Whitefish, which I missed the opportunity to visit due to the short duration of my stay. With only enough time to visit one of the two recommended schools, I opted for the first time in a while to try what was familiar to me.
Thus, on Monday the 26th, I borrowed my uncle’s truck and pitted my atrocious navigation skills against the deceptively simple roads around Kalispell, and by 7:15pm, arrived safely at the dojo. Though the first class was not set to start until about 8pm, I wanted to leave ample time for all the necessary introductions and formalities necessitated by my unexpected visit. I was promptly greeted by Ken McCaskill, the assistant instructor, who was immediately loquacious and welcoming, even offering to let me borrow a loaner Gi so that I wouldn’t have to submit my fellow students to my garish, improvised workout clothes. It was about time I returned my uncle’s “save the wolves” T-shirt, anyhow.
The dojo was a small, tidy, and well-organized space in a large business building, complete with a well-kept changing room, bathroom, and a generous portion of spotless mat space. After filling out the appropriate paperwork and release forms, I eagerly bowed onto the mat to start warming up, knees still stiff and sore from my shiko practice at JBJ dojo. With a full half-hour to stretch and warm up, I took my time, and seized the opportunity to chat with Ken about the dojo, and, specifically, head instructor Walter von Krenner.
From this discussion and a thorough perusal of the dojo’s website, I learned that von Krenner Sensei had over 50 years of experience in Aikido, and had achieved the rank of 8th dan in USMA American Aikido. To my surprise, Ken informed me that von Krenner sensei, unlike other instructors of his rank, taught classes with great regularity at the Aikido Kenkyu Dantai, and would, in fact, be teaching tonight’s class. Given that this, too, was the only class available before my departure to Boston the following Thursday, I felt incredibly fortunate and was grateful for the opportunity.
Above all, I was excited to gain a new perspective on a discipline in which I have spent a great portion of my time in the martial arts. As I realized earlier this year, though I have traveled to a great variety of schools and tried many styles that were new to me, I have done little exploring of the Aikido community. This was partially a result of my being in high school when I began training, and thus having restricted travelling options, and later, as a college student, being unable to afford the time or money necessary to travel at length for a seminar. Overall, I had put little effort into visiting new Aikido schools. My reluctance centered on the fear that I would learn either bad habits or ideas that would run counter to my training at Shobu (my alma mater of the martial arts).
Though this had initially been a concern when I began joining other martial arts associations in college, I had eventually dismissed this fear for two reasons: first, I separated the different arts I studied and their teachings, thus viewing each in its own unique light and decidedly not concerning myself with comparison or weighing “good" and "bad". Second, as I advanced in both arts, I learned that their surface discrepancies were entirely superficial, and that at the root principles (and most advanced levels of practice), they shared all the same teachings. This pattern of thinking extended gradually into Chinese boxing, Jiujitsu, Muay Thai, Tai Chi, and nearly every other art in which I trained or tried my hand. But would this be the case in approaching a single style through different perspectives? Would I have issues with too many cooks in the proverbial kitchen?
As the start of class approached, more students trickled in—both children and adults—and my anticipation grew. I caught myself glancing outside every few minutes, searching for the santa-claus-like figure whose picture I had seen on the dojo’s website. As 8pm rolled around, Ken started the class, and after the normal bowing and clapping, began a lengthy and thorough warmup routine. It began with breathing exercises, wrist and hand stretches, and some exercises in grip strength, then moved on into lower body stretches, some yoga-like strengthening postures, and enormous amounts of rolling and falling. I was immediately struck by the amount of time spent on physical conditioning for Aikido practice, often neglected for more spiritual exercises favored by Aikido practitioners. This is likely because, due to the nonviolent and in some ways metaphysical nature of the discipline, many practitioners don't see the need for physical conditioning or physical strength (indeed, the goal is to need neither for effective self defense). Students are left to practice conditioning on their own time, or else assumed to develop it through steady training. I would be quick to argue, however, that physical conditioning is a key part of training, at least at the beginner level, and has no business being neglected by any serious school, regardless of style. To see such attention paid to these details was refreshing, not to mention necessary, given how long it had been since my last time on an Aikido mat.
By this time, I was beginning to realize that given my injuries I had retained only a remnant of the conditioning needed for the hard Aikido practice to which I had become accustomed in years prior. Rolling and falling up and down that mat, I felt my knees begin to grow weak and wobbly, and had to politely bow off the mat for a handful of desperate, self-loathing breaks. It was while sucking wind and wincing at the throbbing of my knees that I caught sight of von Krenner Sensei, who had apparently arrived moments before and was already changed into his dogi and hakama.
He was a tall, impressive man with white hair and a full, smartly-trimmed beard which matched the crisp white of his gi and—I noted moments later, still further impressed—his belt. Whether von Krenner sensei had forgotten his black-belt that evening or not I can’t be sure, as he made no mention of it, but showed me quite well the humility of a real martial artist. It is that lack of attachment to rank, title, or recognition, which I truly respect in other martial artists; as a teacher of mine once said, it’s not the guys with the high level black belt rankings that should be respected, but the ones who, despite having such high ranks, aren’t afraid to step onto a mat (familiar or otherwise) and throw on a white belt.
Sensei von Krenner’s ruddy face was frequently split by a wide and heavily bearded grin as he chatted casually with Ken and whatever students happened by, offering both points of advice and witty jabs at every opportunity. He soon caught sight of me, at which point I approached and introduced myself, bowing as formally and deferentially as possible. My gestures were returned, though Sensei seemed far more comfortable and relaxed than myself, immediately—and rather nonchalantly—interviewing me about where I had come from, how my flights had been, what I did for work, and so on. He spoke softly and clearly with a light German accent, adding a sort of sing-song quality to his overall warmth and cheerfulness. He had some interesting insight for me at every turn, and my nervousness was immediately dispelled by the engaging conversation and his easy way of talking. Before I knew it, the rest of the class was ready to begin, and I was standing there still chatting with Sensei. Whether he was too polite to tell me to go sit down or not I’m not sure, but when I discovered the situation I dove back onto the mat with an apologetic bow, and he wasted no time getting the class started.
Sensei began the class with munetsuki kotegaishe, a technique in which the nage, faced with a punch toward the solar plexus, applies a wrist lock to lead the attacker off balance and throw them. I was immediately struck by the smoothness and simplicity of the movement, and watched, transfixed, as my doubts about Aikido training at other schools flew out the nearest window and into the icy Montana air of the parking lot. The technique here looked different, yes; but just as with other styles, it was only on the surface. The core ideas were the same. Irimi before tenkan; don’t let your partner recover his balance; it's not about throwing, it's about releasing; maintain awareness (zanshin) even after the technique is finished; and on it went. Before I had even begun to digest these new outward forms of what had been very familiar techniques, I was in the thick of training; rolling, falling, throwing, attacking full force without an ounce of hesitation, yet being handled skillfully and calmly by the more advanced students of the group. I eventually had the pleasure of taking ukemi for Sensei and didn’t bother holding anything back. I struck out at him with all the speed and might I could muster, and was easily dismissed and pinned while he casually, jovially explained the logic of his movements. I was delighted not only by the quality of his technique, but the ease and candidness with which he conveyed it; bright blue eyes shone with a sort of vivacious sincerity with every explanation, making me immediately both comfortable and wholly inspired, while a happy grin, framed with ivory whiskers, seemed nearly ever present.
The rest of the students reflected these qualities (with the exception of the facial hair) as well. The attitude toward training was sincere and committed, but there was a casual, playful aspect to the training; a student could push themselves as hard as they wanted, but could take it easy if need be. I started by pushing as hard as I possibly could, having been off the Aikido mat for months, but after thoroughly exhausting myself in the first hour (I'm not half the Aikidoka I used to be), was perfectly content with a more relaxed pace of practice in which I could focus more on detail. Before long, I was learning aspects and applications of techniques I had never before considered, and thoroughly enjoying the test of taking ukemi for unfamiliar and talented nage.
von Krenner sensei made ample use of sword analogies in his explanations and demonstrations of techniques; a style of teaching and training that I have been taught is an integral part of “real” Aikido. Because Aikido was designed by refining the movements of Jiujutsu with the advanced principles of Japanese swordsmanship, Aikido training without an understanding or conscious awareness of sword movements and principles lacks some of the reality and precision important for maintaining the efficacy of a non-competitive martial art. As my teacher expressed repeatedly to me in training, the study of sword keeps Aikido from falling into fantasy which, without competition, would otherwise be imminent; it roots Aikido in a grounded reality and prevents the sort of collusion which can lead to overly floral and ineffective martial arts. There was no fantasy at the Aikido Kenkyu Dantai; von Krenner sensei demonstrated techniques with huge, open movements yet with perfect timing, spacing, and control; all principles illustrated and taught by sword practice. In his lectures on sword and empty-handed movement I heard echoes of Morihei Ueshiba ("O-Sensei” or “Great Teacher”), the founder of Aikido, whose words I have read and contemplated in dozens of books. This shouldn’t have been a surprise, given that von Krenner sensei apparently trained under O-sensei for some time, but it was nonetheless thrilling for me to witness.
The class continued with a very “external” focus, primarily centered around footwork, proper form, spacing, timing, and just about every other point on form that I have always wanted to work on in greater detail. There was little slow or “kotai” practice, focused on feeling one's way through the movement, but instead mostly dynamic, rapid practice which moved at a pace too fast to let conscious thought get in the way of good movement. It was a gratifying style of training. Throughout it all, von Krenner sensei prowled the mat with a good-hearted smile, catching the most minute mistakes and errors and correcting them with solid advice and demonstration. He was incredibly informal and friendly in his speech and presentation, yet each technique was performed without an ounce of slack; there was a keen martial awareness beneath that approachable exterior that kept me thoroughly on guard. I was surprised at the amount of personal attention individual students received; von Krenner sensei would spend as long as it took to get a point across to a student, and would not be satisfied unless the lesson was well learned. This sort of careful teaching is a key advantage of such small classes. In this sense, the Aikido Kenkyu Dantai was a rarity in both the small, intimate size of the classes and the high rank of the instructor; the two rarely go hand in hand for under a thousand dollars a class.
Before I knew it, the class was drawing to a close, we were bowing to the shomen, and students were beginning to fold up their hakama. Still reeling from my first vigorous Aikido practice in more than half a year, I stumbled off the mat, changed, and returned to find sensei still engaged in happy conversation with a few students. I joined in and found myself laughing heartily at his quick humor and wit, despite being the butt of several jokes regarding Ornithology and biologists (it comes with the career, I think). As at JBJ Dojo, I was treated with incredible hospitality, and had to repeatedly insist on paying a mat fee, before finally persuading them to accept a donation. After saying my goodbyes, I left very satisfied.
After two hours of hard practice, I found my fears about the rest of the Aikido world assuaged. Though I had repeatedly seen techniques in an entirely different and unfamiliar light, I was, as after beginning my training in entirely new martial arts, unquestionably benefitted by an increased breadth of experience and perspective. I would encourage readers to not only learn from practitioners of other styles, but also to seek contact with those who see their own style in a different way. Though it may be initially unsettling to have some of what you've learned called into question, this is precisely how techniques and training maintain their rigor and effectiveness. Without the input of many minds and the polite dissidence of disagreeing viewpoints, the martial arts would lose their flexibility and thus their practicality as combative systems. Thus, in broadening their knowledge and experience throughout their martial journey, I urge readers to explore not only new disciplines but also different perspectives on their own discipline. It will certainly hit close to home, but the rewards are distinctive as they are great.
If ever a reader finds his or herself in Kalispell, Montana, they should not fear a dearth of good training despite the remoteness and ruralness of the area. The training I found there was high quality and matched by a serious, open, and welcoming attitude which made visiting and training at those schools highly enjoyable. My biggest regret is not having the time to train more intensively or for a longer period of time.
Mountain Training Part 1: JBJ Dojo
Originally composed 3/20/12
On my way back from six months of field work in central California, I excitedly made
plans to visit with my aunt and uncle in Kalispell, Montana. While planning for
my trip, my uncle informed me that a friend of his from a local archery range
ran a martial arts school in town, and that I was invited to come train with
him if I was interested. Predictably, I immediately got my flights rescheduled
to spend an extra week in Kalispell and spent my remaining 3 weeks in California
in gathering excitement over the opportunity to train after nearly 8 months off
the mat. It didn’t take me long to track down their website (www.jbjdojo.com) and devour every scrap of
information I could about the school. The more I read, the more excited I
became.
The JBJ dojo is run by Murray J. Jewett, a long-time student
of American Kenpo, Yang style Tai Chi, and self defense with more than forty
years of experience spread among those styles. The school earned my respect
immediately with its focus on teaching “an ethical approach to living through
Martial Arts training”, and a focus on a non-competitive environment while
still maintaining a serious attitude of training. Classes include Oki-ryu
Kenpo, Tai Chi, Chikung (or Qigong), self defense, and personalized private
instruction, and rates were a fraction of most schools I’ve trained at in the
past. I was thrilled.
My trip into Montana ended up a complete disaster, and when I arrived, days late, sleep-deprived, and without the majority of my clothes (my bag had been mistagged by the airlines and banished to Moline, IL), I had to wait anxiously through the weekend before my first class at JBJ. I reached Sensei Murray by phone, and was greeted heartily, told to come by as soon as possible; the best time would be 7:30 the next night for the adult Kenpo class. He didn’t have to tell me twice.
My infinitely tolerant uncle generously accommodated my eagerness to train, and treated me to an early dinner of bison burger and onion rings, which I thankfully had ample time to digest before class. We reached the dojo over an hour early due to my incurable anxiousness and excitement, pulling in amidst a delightful snowstorm (on the first day of spring, no less). The dojo itself was a humble and tidy building, an old Quonset hut constructed of corrugated steel, with a beautiful front lobby and office area added to the front. We entered, removed our shoes, and moved quietly through the front doors, where a clean and nicely decorated seating area faced the mats. A children’s class was just finishing, so I tip-toed in respectfully, offering an apologetic bow of my head toward the middle-aged gentleman running the class, who I could only assume was sensei Murray.
My trip into Montana ended up a complete disaster, and when I arrived, days late, sleep-deprived, and without the majority of my clothes (my bag had been mistagged by the airlines and banished to Moline, IL), I had to wait anxiously through the weekend before my first class at JBJ. I reached Sensei Murray by phone, and was greeted heartily, told to come by as soon as possible; the best time would be 7:30 the next night for the adult Kenpo class. He didn’t have to tell me twice.
My infinitely tolerant uncle generously accommodated my eagerness to train, and treated me to an early dinner of bison burger and onion rings, which I thankfully had ample time to digest before class. We reached the dojo over an hour early due to my incurable anxiousness and excitement, pulling in amidst a delightful snowstorm (on the first day of spring, no less). The dojo itself was a humble and tidy building, an old Quonset hut constructed of corrugated steel, with a beautiful front lobby and office area added to the front. We entered, removed our shoes, and moved quietly through the front doors, where a clean and nicely decorated seating area faced the mats. A children’s class was just finishing, so I tip-toed in respectfully, offering an apologetic bow of my head toward the middle-aged gentleman running the class, who I could only assume was sensei Murray.
Sensei Murray was a solidly built man with the impeccable
posture of a long-time martial artist and the vitality and sort of natural
charisma by which it is often accompanied. His eyes shone with good humor and a
cheerful positivity even as he corrected and occasionally scolded younger
students for transgressions of discipline and minor errors alike. I was
enthralled enough watching the end of the class—rich with an air of sincere
gratitude and reflective meditation throughout rounds of bowing and meditative
breathing—that I was caught entirely by surprise when that man’s powerful gaze
fell upon me, and with a hint of a smile, he asked my last name. Over an hour
early, bundled up in a jacket and sweatshirt twice my size (my bags still
hadn’t arrived), and yet Sensei Murray knew precisely who I was.
I answered with the type of uncertainty one has when faced with a question on differential equations in Swahili, and was greeted by a patient smile and a request to repeat myself, which I granted more confidently the second time around. To my surprise, Sensei Murray announced my rank and training to the class and had them bow and welcome me to the dojo. I could do little more than bow frantically in response, babbling my embarrassed gratitude into the collar of my snow-dusted jacket. With that, Sensei nonchalantly offered that I join in the 6:30 class as well, and I ran into the bathroom and changed as quickly as possible, heart already pounding in excitement. I emerged in a pair of my uncle’s workout sweatpants from college (I believe this was in the late 60’s), the likes of which were made for a man more his height (he stands around 6’4” even in old age), and a “Save the Wolves” tee-shirt also appropriately sized for a goliath. Dressed like an absolute clown, I was welcomed wholeheartedly on the mat by a class of students dressed in crisp black dogi with all the neat patches, nametags, and school emblems typical of an American dojo.
I answered with the type of uncertainty one has when faced with a question on differential equations in Swahili, and was greeted by a patient smile and a request to repeat myself, which I granted more confidently the second time around. To my surprise, Sensei Murray announced my rank and training to the class and had them bow and welcome me to the dojo. I could do little more than bow frantically in response, babbling my embarrassed gratitude into the collar of my snow-dusted jacket. With that, Sensei nonchalantly offered that I join in the 6:30 class as well, and I ran into the bathroom and changed as quickly as possible, heart already pounding in excitement. I emerged in a pair of my uncle’s workout sweatpants from college (I believe this was in the late 60’s), the likes of which were made for a man more his height (he stands around 6’4” even in old age), and a “Save the Wolves” tee-shirt also appropriately sized for a goliath. Dressed like an absolute clown, I was welcomed wholeheartedly on the mat by a class of students dressed in crisp black dogi with all the neat patches, nametags, and school emblems typical of an American dojo.
Training began with hard calisthenics, pushups, leg lifts,
and powerful isometrics for the legs, including horse stance and wall-sits.
What surprised me most, however, was the first real warmup: Shiko. I
initially thought I had misheard the assistant instructor, Sensei Murray’s
wife, when she mentioned the practice, and later suspected that perhaps the
word held different meanings when simplified to English pronunciation, as is
typical of many East-asian languages. Yet, within moments, the students all
around me were kneewalking with various degrees of comfort, practicing fluid
movement and diligently avoiding collision with one another. Overjoyed (though perhaps a
little worried, as I was still recovering from patellofemoral strain at my last
job), I fell in among them, kneewalking as I had been taught from years of shiko-waza
training at Shobu. The teaching was exactly the same, which I found reassuring
and fascinating. I was curious to know how shiko benefits the karateka,
given its rarity as a training form. In fact, up until this point I had not seen
it anywhere but in some Aikido dojo, specifically those in the ASU. If any karateka or kenpoka reading this blog have an insight on the subject, I would love to hear it.
Things soon moved on to pad drills, which were fantastic and
a well-needed challenge for me after months with no contact. We moved quickly
into combinations, but despite the advanced level of the class, techniques
stuck to karate basics: backfist, reverse punch, front kick, round kick, side
kick, spin-side kick. We drilled these extensively, perfecting form (I dropped
my hands with shameful frequency) and power, moving back and forth across the
mat. I greatly respect this emphasis on basics, being one who concurs with
greats like Morihei Ueshiba (the founder of Aikido) and Bruce Lee, who both
made it clear that basics are the key to martial arts, and the pragmatic
solutions are reached simply and without excess.
Much to my surprise, I found my
dedicated independent training while working in California (which was
unfortunately put on hold due to a strained ligament in the left knee) paid off
immensely. My side kicks, especially on the left side, had improved
tremendously from my last bout of karate training, particularly in accuracy,
power, control, and balance. I was blown away at how much such a small amount
of independent, solo practice had contributed to my technique. Without a doubt,
I will continue taking advantage of such opportunities in the future, and would
highly recommend that other martial artists take such “experimental” time
themselves to figure out what best helps them learn. This subject, and my
relevant experiences, will likely be covered in a later, retrospective entry.
Throughout
the class, a blackbelt student would pull students to the side and help them
practice breaks for their next tests. I was understandably selected last, and
by that time the other students had begun practicing forms and other testing
material, which I obviously lacked. I had the chance to practice deep breathing
and a good, loud kiai, smashing through a couple re-breakable boards of
different levels of hardness with both hammerfists and a downward reverse
punch. I’m grateful that my sempai didn’t encourage me to try anything
more difficult; though in the past I had succeeded in a panoply of difficult breaks (most
of which I didn't think I would ever manage) with the Tang Soo Do Mi Guk Kwan,
I was definitely not in the shape or condition to repeat such feats.
After breaking, I stretched and loosened up while the other
students finished their forms, and the whole class (now mostly adults, the
kid’s class had been dismissed, while engrossed in training I hardly noticed)
bowed out to bring the session to a close. Sensei Murray spoke briefly but
poignantly about the need for sincere and self-motivated pursuit of perfection
in practice. He explained that in matters of life and death, 99% is never good
enough, and that a prime focus of the martial arts is to focus to continually
improve one’s self to the utmost. Echoing masters whose words I have read with
unending respect, he explained, “In Karate you are competing only with
yourself. You learn the most by pushing you. The real Sensei is within.” With
those words ringing in our ears, he motioned to the assistant instructor to
begin the formal close of the class.
Again, great care was taken to ensure that each student had
time to both humbly express their gratitude for the training and to quietly
reflect and meditate upon what they had practiced and learned that night. I
greatly enjoyed this attitude, though my recovering knees made sitting in seiza
particularly uncomfortable.
The heartbreak of the evening came moments before, when it
was announced that the school would be closed for the next week due to a spring
break in the public schools. I would be away for the rest of the week pursuing
my other passion—wildlife watching and natural history—and would thus miss the only
other classes held during my time in Montana. Ouch.
After class I greeted sensei for a hearty “thank you” and was greeted with a kind smile and good conversation. He was quick to humbly wave off my questioning about a mat fee, and, when pressed about how I might pay him, he looked at me squarely and said “You already have”.
After class I greeted sensei for a hearty “thank you” and was greeted with a kind smile and good conversation. He was quick to humbly wave off my questioning about a mat fee, and, when pressed about how I might pay him, he looked at me squarely and said “You already have”.
I left amidst a flurry of warm greetings and introductions
from students with whom I had trained, as well as a very well-mannered
pitbull-mix named “Dude”, evidently one of two dojo dogs. There is something
incredibly heartwarming about a pair of canine mascots. My fellow students were
approachable, kind, and interested in where I was coming from and what sort of
training I had done. Beyond that, they were respectful, disciplined, and most
of all serious on the mat, and made the entire experience unquestionably
pleasant and rewarding.
I cannot easily express my gratitude to Sensei Murray and every student I trained with at JBJ dojo for what I hope will not be my only class there. I sincerely recommend JBJ dojo to any martial artists that might find themselves in Kalispell for any length of time. The training at JBJ is high quality, very reasonably priced, and perhaps most of all genuine in its overall attitude, with a group of dedicated, sincere, and hard-working students who understand that mutual respect and sharing of knowledge are a key part of modern martial arts.
I cannot easily express my gratitude to Sensei Murray and every student I trained with at JBJ dojo for what I hope will not be my only class there. I sincerely recommend JBJ dojo to any martial artists that might find themselves in Kalispell for any length of time. The training at JBJ is high quality, very reasonably priced, and perhaps most of all genuine in its overall attitude, with a group of dedicated, sincere, and hard-working students who understand that mutual respect and sharing of knowledge are a key part of modern martial arts.
The First Post
Welcome to "Travels in the Martial Arts", a blog dedicated to the discussion of and reflection upon my travels and experiences in the martial arts, be they international, interpersonal, or internal. In my monthly (and hopefully more frequent) entries, I hope to recount important insights and experiences I have during my personal journey as a martial artist in the hopes of inspiring and inciting conversation with others. Posts will include (but certainly won't be limited to) visits to martial arts schools throughout the United States and the world, reviews of books on the martial arts, and experiences in independent practice. Though I had been sitting on the idea of recording my experiences in a public format for some time, it was not until a recent trip in the Western United States that I began to realize the value of such writing both for myself and the martial arts community.
The martial arts community, as far as I have observed, is an unusually eclectic and divided one, marked not only by stark disagreements on all levels from technical to philosophical, but also by a lack of communication and awareness between groups. While in the biological sciences (the other large community of interest in which I include myself) groups of opposing beliefs most certainly exist, they at least acknowledge one another's existence and may regularly come into contact through conferences, meetings, and articles. By contrast, many martial artists and their schools or communities have a tendency toward parochial viewpoints and an attitude toward outsiders that, if not xenophobic, is at least apathetic. Those who are more open to outside viewpoints still often lack a mode to communicate their perspectives in an open forum and exchange knowledge beyond the rare visit by an outside student. Though this is most certainly a generalization--as my travels have shown me countless times in the past--I believe blogs like this one have a great role in promoting greater exchange between martial artists (and martial arts) and in helping the community become a more cohesive whole.
Thus, I urge readers--especially those with more experience and training than I have--to read and respond to my posts as they please, or, even better, to start their own blogs and give their perspectives that way. Throughout my posts I will make assertions based on my own personal experience and opinions, and hope that readers will feel free to share their own views or answer questions posed throughout.
To start things off, like some sort of cooking-show blog writer, I have two posts prepared earlier so that readers don't have to wait for the finished product to come out of the oven. These two, titled "Mountain Training" parts 1 and 2 were written in late March during my visit with some relatives in Kalispell, Montana. It is my sincere hope that you will enjoy reading these as much as I enjoyed writing them, and I look forward to adding additional posts as time goes on.
Thanks for reading!
Charles
The martial arts community, as far as I have observed, is an unusually eclectic and divided one, marked not only by stark disagreements on all levels from technical to philosophical, but also by a lack of communication and awareness between groups. While in the biological sciences (the other large community of interest in which I include myself) groups of opposing beliefs most certainly exist, they at least acknowledge one another's existence and may regularly come into contact through conferences, meetings, and articles. By contrast, many martial artists and their schools or communities have a tendency toward parochial viewpoints and an attitude toward outsiders that, if not xenophobic, is at least apathetic. Those who are more open to outside viewpoints still often lack a mode to communicate their perspectives in an open forum and exchange knowledge beyond the rare visit by an outside student. Though this is most certainly a generalization--as my travels have shown me countless times in the past--I believe blogs like this one have a great role in promoting greater exchange between martial artists (and martial arts) and in helping the community become a more cohesive whole.
Thus, I urge readers--especially those with more experience and training than I have--to read and respond to my posts as they please, or, even better, to start their own blogs and give their perspectives that way. Throughout my posts I will make assertions based on my own personal experience and opinions, and hope that readers will feel free to share their own views or answer questions posed throughout.
To start things off, like some sort of cooking-show blog writer, I have two posts prepared earlier so that readers don't have to wait for the finished product to come out of the oven. These two, titled "Mountain Training" parts 1 and 2 were written in late March during my visit with some relatives in Kalispell, Montana. It is my sincere hope that you will enjoy reading these as much as I enjoyed writing them, and I look forward to adding additional posts as time goes on.
Thanks for reading!
Charles
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