Zayd Abdulla

2-12-1963
Hagukumi Dojo
Essay for shodan exam
June 2005

Being prepared

When I was preparing for my 5th kyu exam several years ago, not realising I already received
that grade from an involvement with Aikido several years before at a different dojo, my
Sensei told me that I should prepare for 4th kyu. 'But I would already be quite happy with a
5th kyu', was my immediate reply. His answer was strict: 'Well you shouldn't be!' To my
answer that I was a slow learner, he replied that it was time for me to stop making a prison of
my thoughts. It has taken me some time to realise the full extent of his remark. During the
exam in question I 'missed' a sotokaitennage and stood there dumbstruck and horrified, which
resulted in a 5th kyu after all. I would have loved to have blamed my Sensei for provoking me
to do more than I thought I was prepared for in the first place, but I sensed this attitude was
incompatible with what we were being taught on the tatami.
During Aikido practice since, I have also regularly heard teachers tell me 'Don't think,
just do!' It was very difficult to grasp how this was possible, since I was convinced that I had
to see what was being done, preferably down to the very last detail, before I could attempt to
copy it. Maybe afterwards I could stop thinking. This thought in itself was yet another brick in
my prison wall, though I was not aware of it at the time. I could only just about grasp the
notion of not making thoughts imprison me, but this notion was still only a label for a
problem. I did not want to fall into the trap of mistaking the label for the solution, and to have
no thoughts at all and just perform a technique as instructed was beyond me.
Occasionally, Bacas Sensei tells us 'You must kill your enemy!' He does this to make
us more aware of certain aspects of a technique or posture and of course we know he isn't
instructing us to literally go out there and start killing people, though I am always curious to
know how a casual first-time visitor would interpret this part of his instruction (and if he
would ever return). He is joking, but only half or probably even less. Even though we are
training and are not in any real danger of being killed by our partners on the tatami - at least
not deliberately - the essence of his command is that real attacks and real-life confrontations
lie at the basis of all Aikido practice, which is something we tend to forget during the
relatively safe and certainly harmonious practice on the tatami. Bacas Sensei's words also
have the unintended but welcome effect of seeing the enemy within oneself, in one's
obstructive thoughts. The killing in this sense is not a reckless and radical obliteration of
thoughts, but an ever-increasing awareness of what is stopping us in our movements, both on
the tatami and elsewhere. I have been fortunate to have been allowed to have my trial
examination before handing in my essay, so I can expand a little more on this stopping.
Although I passed the examination, there were a few moments where the movement
stopped. I remember these moments well, as though I were an onlooker of my own
performance. Why? Because I was 'thinking thoughts'. Afterwards, I was given compliments
by a few people who had seen my gradual progression during the exam from standstill to
slightly more movement, but in a real-life situation I would have been the perfect example of
what Bacas Sensei means when he says, 'Movement stops!' and you are 'Finished!'. I was also
given compliments for two or three things I did but of which I have no recollection at all, such
as carrying out a technique which wasn't asked but which happened to be the more convenient
thing to do at one stage. I did not block out the memory of the things that went well

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deliberately and I also cannot doubt they were talking about me since I was the only one doing
the exam. Most likely I would have put up that barrier, too, if I had been given the chance.
The truth of the matter is that there simply was no 'I' around to observe what my body was
doing when the mind stopped thinking.
During Aikido practice, there is a subtle game some of us sometimes play. It involves
practising a technique seriously as instructed by the teacher while at the same time teasing the
tori, ever so subtly, by resisting the last part of his or her control. A sudden rigidity in the arm,
for instance, or the use of muscle power when the tori least expects it can catch the tori off
balance. It is a friendly way of revealing the tori's mistakes and is a way of checking whether
the tori is mindful of the technique from beginning to end. When this is done to me, I am
literally pushed off my balance because my starting position is often incorrect. Usually this
equivalent of a pin-prick or tickle is acknowledged by the tori with an appreciative smile or
even laughter and results in more concentration and energy. What makes this game play
especially interesting is that no word needs to be uttered and yet there is full communication
taking place, on top of the more familiar wordless communication between tori and uke.
There is not only harmony between tori and uke as we are always being taught and
experiencing, there is also an added harmony between seriousness and playfulness. But
occasionally the tori himself becomes more rigid as if the use of sheer strength as a solution is
what was on the uke's mind. Suddenly, the tori's reaction is completely disproportionate to
what triggered it and the resulting miscommunication - of which the tori, in general, is not
aware - is where the notion of subtle playfulness suddenly disappears and the uke 'resists
resisting', realising the tori is not receptive to playfulness at this stage and the normal training
mode is continued. As a general rule, the more advanced Aikidoists are more receptive.
Although I often initiate this teasing of the tori, my own receptiveness was put to the test
about a year ago during the practising of the first half of a technique (although any aspect of a
technique can be complete in itself, depending on our focus). Both the 'incompleteness' of the
technique and the fact that the uke and I had never teased each other previously caught me off
my balance. Or so I thought. He tried to redirect my final stance with outstretched arms into
the beginning of shihonage, but ended up on the tatami himself after realising he was the uke
of my own shihonage. His pleasant surprise was mine, too! For the first time in my Aikido
experience, I had experienced a glimpse of what my teachers meant by 'Don't think!' I had
always been worried that I wouldn't know what to do in a real-life situation and this was near
enough to real life for me because I wasn't prepared. Now I was instead trying to figure out
who had carried out that shihonage. It certainly wasn't 'me', the me with worries and
preconceived ideas. And yet, despite having experienced 'ego-less Aikido' - a strange notion,
since there definitely was no 'I' with a recollection of the shihonage - I put up another barrier:
'Ah, so this is what it will be like if I continue practising Aikido until I reach old age.' I failed
to fathom that the glimpse, right then, right there, was not a reward or had any meaning other
than what it was. It was not something in the distant future, only to be reserved for those who
have trained hard for at least twenty years. It could already be savoured. I felt I was 'getting
somewhere', as though the loss of conscious self was a target and not realising yet I was
already precisely where I had to be. All I had to do was let go of preconceived thoughts.
A few months ago, when I was first asked to take over a lesson because a teacher was
ill, my immediate reaction was 'No, I'm not ready! I haven't prepared anything!' This reaction
of mine did not feel right and yet I stuck to it because it felt safe. It did not take long for me to
realise I had been hiding, the same way I used to hide from the Sensei's judgment by skipping
his lessons and only following the beginners' lessons. The lazy mind prefers to stay where
everything is familiar and comfortable, especially in a non-competitive environment such as
Aikido. In true Aikido fashion - or so the lazy mind believes - even the slightest suggestion of
outside pressure to do more is side-stepped, similar to how in Aikido we learn to step out of

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the line of attack. The lazy mind is also very selective and hears what it wants to hear. For
instance, when Fujita Sensei tells Bacas Sensei, 'Peter, you must go down' this is immediately
seen as a justification for hiding in the wings: 'If the Sensei's Sensei tells him to do that, why,
then all I have to do to set a good example is not to let any outside pressure affect me.' This
approach prevails in the period leading up to examinations, especially when teachers
themselves put the grading system into perspective by saying that grades are not important.
Besides, since the continuity of one's training schedule is hardly ever affected by the grade
you receive, you can pick up where you left off before your exams. And yet, there is a serious
risk of remaining in limbo if the lazy mind does not free itself from this vicious circle, unable
to discern non-competition from non-activity. After all, it was the same mind that brought you
into the dojo in the first place as opposed to any other martial art or 'sport'. The Sensei sees
right through this tendency to stay in the wings and remain an observer. He cannot cut the
knot for you, but he does see that we sometimes hold back from who we are. It was only after
the Sensei noticed my hiding in the beginners' lessons that I decided to change my schedule
around. The lazy mind had been exposed.
Shortly after having rejected the San's request to take over his lesson, I sent him an e-
mail saying I felt awkward about my earlier reply and that next time I would have to react
differently. His reply was that the knowledge to teach was already there, we just had to find a
way to let it manifest itself. For now, the lesson I had declined to take over was taken over by
another San who did not want the continuity of the lessons to be interrupted. I was prepared to
interrupt the continuity of a lesson but not prepared to take up the responsibility myself. This
was me? The teacher's remark about 'manifestation' was echoed a few weeks later, in April,
when Bueno Sensei from Brazil visited the Hagukumi Dojo. During a guest training he gave,
he briefly interrupted the training and told us 'Don't do Aikido! Just let it manifest itself.' To
show what he meant by 'doing' he then imitated a very flamboyant and macho style, the style
Bacas Sensei refers to as 'demonstration Aikido', which is impressive to watch if you are an
outsider but not what Aikido is about if you don't want to end up 'finished'. We all know this
and yet it seems to be tempting to sometimes exaggerate our movements. Bueno Sensei was
indirectly showing us the perfect technique was already there somewhere, including if this
meant not using the technique you had just been shown to practise if this happened to be
inconvenient. Just let it go. All we had to do was discover the perfection, and this could not be
done by 'doing' Aikido. It did not matter that in our attempts to reach perfection our
techniques looked a bit sloppy now and then, is what he also seemed to convey. After all, we
weren't demonstrating anything.
By the time I was asked the next time to take over a lesson, I was fully prepared. This
was only a few weeks after the first request. How is it then possible that such a radical change
can take place in such a short time? And what, then, does 'being prepared' really mean? Who
is this person deciding and judging whether he is prepared or not? Is that me, too?
Apart from Aikido techniques in the narrow sense, there were three things that kept
me occupied during my very first lesson: keeping an eye on the clock, making sure I kept my
fellow Aikidoists entertained, and keeping the mat in order so that no large gaps would
hamper the training. Because these things were an unexpected experience for me, I afterwards
saw how very different my earlier understanding of teaching had been. Of course I had
prepared for the lesson by thinking a few days in advance which techniques could be used. By
familiarising myself with my own visualisations, I felt quite relaxed about my first lesson. I
wasn't prepared for those other aspects though, and yet they posed no serious problem at all.
They were simply dealt with as they arose. Not being prepared and therefore not being able to
know whether I would be in control, was not the obstacle I probably would have made of
them had I known about them in advance. After only one lesson, teaching turned out to be
radically different from my preconceived ideas. What is more important: it didn't matter! The

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best preparation was being unprepared. It was not just about sharing and teaching Aikido
techniques; in a wider sense it was about steering others, even if it only meant for an hour or
less; even if it only meant from one point in time to another, in the same way you would give
directions to someone who approached you in the street. You do what you can do given what
you know; the notion of 'being prepared' is not at all relevant.
We bring our physical bodies to the dojo each time we practise, but what do we do
with our minds? I see it during children's lessons, the tendency of a few to keep looking at the
clock, as if its hands contain some magic quality. I remember when I used to go to swimming
lessons as a child I had that same tendency. Oblivious of which direction the hands of the
clock even went because I was too young, I nevertheless knew that my release from
swimming was related to that big thing high on the wall. I see the same tendency in some
adults. I still see the tendency in myself. But what do we do before and after these points in
time? Does the steering start and stop? Is it only relevant on the tatami or if it is labelled
'Aikido'? Does one 'become' a teacher whenever it is convenient? Is the Sensei only a Sensei
on the tatami? The answer to all these questions, of course, should be a ki-ai like 'No!' that
would shake the dojo. The question the San had put to me could have been rephrased as 'Are
you ready to steer others?' Then, perhaps, the answer would have been closer to 'me' and
further away from 'I am not prepared'.
The San's request to take over his lesson clearly had triggered a stock response I had
stored for my own convenience. There may be many reasons why one is not able to teach
when asked to do so, but not being prepared is not one of them. It was the fear of being
judged, of having to demonstrate my skills and of being responsible for a lesson that caused
my initial reaction. But the fear itself is already a judgment and reveals that a normal lesson,
one in which you follow the instructions of a teacher as a pupil, was subconsciously seen as a
way of hiding from this judgment. Even during one of my recent lessons as a teacher, I
noticed that I was hiding from my Sensei's judgment by being content that the pupils were
carrying out what I had shown them when he hadn't approached the tatami yet. It gave me a
false sense of comfort, for the Sensei could see through their movements what I had instructed
them. I could not hide even if I wanted to. When I was pleasantly surprised by my own
naiveté and told my Sensei how he could see my mistakes by looking at others, he told me it
was not a matter of 'mistakes'; he was not judging me the same way I was judging myself.
This incident brings me to a recent awareness during aikido practice: if one's aikido is an
expression of one's inner self (quiet, energetic, relaxed, tense etcetera), and it is also true that
this manifestation can be copied by others and certainly seen by the Sensei, it appears to be
obvious that non-Aikido manifestations are also likely to be affected by one's attitude. Of
course it is not impossible to restrict the 'visible' or 'outer' Aikido techniques one has learnt to
the dojo or even only the tatami, but the longer one practises the more natural it feels for the
underlying harmony to encompass all aspects of life. This also has nothing to do with
'mistakes', 'right' or 'wrong'; it is merely a certain kind of natural, harmonious rhythm you
gradually become aware of and over which you do not necessarily have any control. You
don't need the control, there is nothing to control. Furthermore, the effect works both ways:
Aikido practice influences other aspects of life, other aspects influence Aikido. In the long
run, when you have succeeded in getting rid of many the obstacles your ego places before
you, 'being prepared' is not about having sufficient skills or techniques available. And you
realise you do not decide for yourself whether you are ready. The mere request of a San or a
Sensei to do so is already the judgment that you are ready. The lazy mind has no say in this.
The question of one's willingness to teach can then finally be rephrased as 'Are you prepared
to be yourself?' Being a teacher is like the torifune exercises ('rowing the boat'): we are all in
the boat, rowing to the other side. We may never reach the other side. It is not important.
What is important is to be in that boat and simply to row, row, row.

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