Aikido In Action: Doing Combat with the Essence of Love

January 28, 2011 at 12:29 am 1 comment

Source: In Context

A story from the late aikido teacher Terry Dobson.

The train clanked and rattled through the suburbs of Tokyo on a drowsy spring afternoon. Our car was comparatively empty—a few housewives with their kids, some old folks going shopping. I gazed absently at the drab houses and dusty hedgerows.

At one station the doors opened, and suddenly the afternoon quiet was shattered by a man bellowing violent, incomprehensible curses. The man staggered into our car. He wore laborer’s clothing, and he was big, drunk, and dirty. Screaming, he swung at a woman holding a baby. The blow sent her spinning into the laps of an elderly couple. It was a miracle that the baby was unharmed.

Terrified, the couple jumped up and scrambled toward the other end of the car. The laborer aimed a kick at the retreating back of the old woman but missed as she scuttled to safety. This so enraged the drunk that he grabbed the metal pole in the center of the car and tried to wrench it out of its stanchion. I could see that one of his hands was cut and bleeding. The train lurched ahead, the passengers frozen with fear. I stood up.

I was young then, some twenty years ago, and in pretty good shape. I’d been putting in a solid eight hours of aikido training nearly every day for the past three years. I liked to throw and grapple. I thought I was tough. Trouble was, my martial skill was untested in actual combat. As students of aikido, we were not allowed to fight.

“Aikido,” my teacher had said again and again, “is the art of reconciliation. Whoever has the mind to fight has broken his connection with the universe. If you try to dominate people, you are already defeated. We study how to resolve conflict, not how to start it.”

I listened to his words, I tried hard. I even went so far as to cross the street to avoid the chimpira, the pinball punks who lounged around the train stations. My forbearance exalted me. I felt both tough and holy. In my heart, however, I wanted an absolutely legitimate opportunity whereby I might save the innocent by destroying the guilty.

This is it! I said to myself as I got to my feet. People are in danger. If I don’t do something fast, somebody will probably get hurt.

Seeing me stand up, the drunk recognized a chance to focus his rage. “Aha!” he roared. “A foreigner! You need a lesson in Japanese manners!”

I held on lightly to the commuter strap overhead and gave him a slow look of disgust and dismissal. I planned to take this turkey apart, but he had to make the first move. I wanted him mad, so l pursed my lips and blew him an insolent kiss. “All right!” he hollered. “You’re gonna get a lesson.” He gathered himself for a rush at me.

A split second before he could move, someone shouted “Hey!” It was earsplitting. I remember the strangely joyous, lilting quality of it – as though you and a friend had been searching diligently for something and he had suddenly stumbled upon it. “Hey!”

I wheeled to my left; the drunk spun to his right. We both stared down at a little old Japanese. He must have been well into his seventies, this tiny gentleman, sitting there immaculate in his kimono. He took no notice of me but beamed delightedly at the laborer, as though he had a most important, most welcome secret to share.

“C’mere,” the old man said in an easy vernacular, beckoning to the drunk. “C’mere and talk with me.” He waved his hand lightly.

The big man followed, as if on a string. He planted his feet belligerently in front of the old gentleman and roared above the clacking wheels, “Why the hell should I talk to you?” The drunk now had his back to me. If his elbow moved so much as a millimeter, I’d drop him in his socks.

The old man continued to beam at the laborer. “What’cha been drinkin’?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with interest. “I been drinkin’ sake,” the laborer bellowed back, “and it’s none of your business!” Flecks of spittle spattered the old man.

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” the old man said, “absolutely wonderful! You see, I love sake too. Every night, me and my wife (she’s 76, you know), we warm up a little bottle of sake and take it out into the garden, and we sit on an old wooden bench. We watch the sun go down, and we look to see how our persimmon tree is doing. My great-grandfather planted that tree, and we worry about whether it will recover from those ice storms we had last winter. Our tree has done better than I expected though, especially when you consider the poor quality of the soil. It is gratifying to watch when we take our sake and go out to enjoy the evening – even when it rains!” He looked up at the laborer, eyes twinkling.

As he struggled to follow the old man’s conversation the drunk’s face began to soften. His fists slowly unclenched. “Yeah,” he said, “I love persimmons too…” His voice trailed off.

“Yes,” said the old man, smiling. “And I’m sure you have a wonderful wife.”

“No,” replied the laborer. “My wife died.” Very gently, swaying with the motion of the train, the big man began to sob. “I don’t got no wife, I don’t got no home, I don’t got no job. I’m so ashamed of myself.” Tears rolled down his cheeks; a spasm of despair rippled through his body.

Now it was my turn. Standing there in my well- scrubbed youthful innocence, my “make this world safe for democracy” righteousness, I suddenly felt dirtier than he was.

Then the train arrived at my stop. As the doors opened, I heard the old man cluck sympathetically. “My, my,” he said. “That is a difficult predicament, indeed. Sit down here and tell me about it.”

I turned my head for one last look. The laborer was sprawled on the seat, his head in the old man’s lap. The old man was softly stroking the filthy, matted hair.

As the train pulled away, I sat down on a bench. What I had wanted to do with muscle had been accomplished with kind words. I had just seen aikido tried in combat, and the essence of it was love. I would have to practice the art with an entirely different spirit. It would be a long time before I could speak about the resolution of conflict.

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Entry filed under: Inspiring.

“Do You Know Who I Am?” Stand Up Guy

1 Comment Add your own

  • 1. edgeofgrace  |  January 28, 2011 at 12:30 am

    A related one:

    Source: Reddit

    I was on a commuter train, reading a book. I was sort of vaguely aware of a woman standing in the exit area of the train, and a guy walking through the train, past the exit, and past the woman. I heard the woman say something but I couldn’t tell what and I suddenly heard the guy yell, in a mildly-to-moderately-drunk voice, ‘WHAT? WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU CALL ME?’ I get up, and there’s this 6′ plus drunk guy staring down at a skinny woman, probably a foot shorter than him, who suddenly looks like she’s realizing she made a mistake.

    As I’m walking over, she says (with him yelling all the time) “Uh, I, I, I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” And he just gets madder, starts yelling, “If you didn’t MEAN it why did you say it?” Neither of them has noticed me at all.

    I’m not big (height-wise or weight-wise) and my martial arts training was at the time 15 years in the past. But, well, I was relatively fit, and I figured that I could take a beating a lot better than she could: she looked like if he hit her once she’d break in two. The two obviously didn’t know each other (I know better than to insert myself into the middle of domestic violence). And the guy didn’t have any obvious weapons. So what the hell.

    So I said, from about 10 feet away, “Hey, dude, haven’t you ever said anything you didn’t really mean? I sure have. Got me fired from a job a couple years ago.” When I started talking he turned to me and opened his mouth to say something, but instead let me finish.

    Unexpectedly, this turned out to be exactly the right thing to say. He immediately stood down, in that total Jekyll-and-Hyde way that drunk people sometimes have. He even apologized to the woman. By the time the train security guy got there (which was really probably under two minutes) we were sitting in facing seats and exchanging stories about how we’d gotten in trouble for saying something that we didn’t actually mean.

    Reply

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