remarked. “There is a physical and spiritual connection with your partner. There is no resistance, but there is trust.”
He gripped my hands in the same manner and asked me to extend my arms and lay my palms on his wrists. I felt immediately what he was trying to impart to me. This connective touch, on one level, was the most basic of human interaction, but it seemed also to reach into a higher plane of union that leaped across the physical and I felt I had lost something invaluable when he released my hands.
“In a class, trust is paramount,” Endo-san said. “I trust you not to attack me in a manner we have not agreed upon, and you must trust me not to harm you when I neutralize your attack. Without trust we cannot move and nothing can be achieved.”
“But I feel I have to surrender completely when you perform a throwing technique on me.”
“Precisely. Complete surrender, but not total abandonment of awareness. You must always feel. Feel my technique, feel the direction of the force, how you move through the air and how you are going to meet the ground. Feel, open up, be aware of everything. If anything goes wrong, if my technique is faulty or if I fail you, then at the very least you are in a position to protect yourself and fall safely.”
He threw me a few more times and it began to seem easier. I was not so tense and the movements seemed to flow more naturally.
“In return for surrendering to the throw, you are given the gift of flight,” he said.
It was true. I quickly came to enjoy the exhilarating sensation of being launched into the air, to float unanchored for a few short seconds before curling my body into a sphere and coming to earth again. And I discovered that the harder I attacked him, the more strongly I directed my force against him, the further he could throw me, and so the longer I could remain in blissful flight. I gave up my fear and at the end of each class requested that he throw me continuously until I was exhausted and could do no more.
There was a canvas bag filled with sand that I had to hit and kick, every day, hundreds of times. He demanded strength and speed, and I worked exhaustively to reach the standards he expected. He was strict and unyielding, but he was passionate about what he was teaching, as though he had once taught before and now missed it greatly. I thoroughly enjoyed the lessons. Our spirits would stretch out the way the light of the sun spreads through the sky. Our breaths came out, through our lungs, throats, soles, skin; we exhaled from our tingling fingertips. We breathed; we lived.
“This is where all power originates—the breath, kokyu.” He pointed to a spot below his navel. “The tanden is the center of your being, the center of the universe. At all times connect it to your opponent’s center with your breath and your energy, your ki.”
His eyes glittered, throbbed with a cosmic energy that seemed to reach into mine. They held me immobile, a hare caught by the stare of the tiger. His hands reached out and smacked my shoulder. “And never, ever look directly into an opponent’s eyes. Always remember this.”
It is amazing what one can achieve when one has an excellent teacher. Endo-sensei, that was how I called him during our lessons—teacher. I knew he was pleased with me when he realized I was not treating his classes lightly. He never told me, but I soon learned that he showed it in other ways.
One morning, as I was about to return home after a hard and painful lesson, he stopped me and said, “We have not finished.” He asked me to follow him into his house. Inside, we knelt on the floor before a low wooden table. He opened a box and removed a brush from inside. He spread out a sheet of rice paper and ground an ink-stick in a square stone mortar that had a slight dip in the center, until a small pool of ink covered the indentation. The grinding released
He gripped my hands in the same manner and asked me to extend my arms and lay my palms on his wrists. I felt immediately what he was trying to impart to me. This connective touch, on one level, was the most basic of human interaction, but it seemed also to reach into a higher plane of union that leaped across the physical and I felt I had lost something invaluable when he released my hands.
“In a class, trust is paramount,” Endo-san said. “I trust you not to attack me in a manner we have not agreed upon, and you must trust me not to harm you when I neutralize your attack. Without trust we cannot move and nothing can be achieved.”
“But I feel I have to surrender completely when you perform a throwing technique on me.”
“Precisely. Complete surrender, but not total abandonment of awareness. You must always feel. Feel my technique, feel the direction of the force, how you move through the air and how you are going to meet the ground. Feel, open up, be aware of everything. If anything goes wrong, if my technique is faulty or if I fail you, then at the very least you are in a position to protect yourself and fall safely.”
He threw me a few more times and it began to seem easier. I was not so tense and the movements seemed to flow more naturally.
“In return for surrendering to the throw, you are given the gift of flight,” he said.
It was true. I quickly came to enjoy the exhilarating sensation of being launched into the air, to float unanchored for a few short seconds before curling my body into a sphere and coming to earth again. And I discovered that the harder I attacked him, the more strongly I directed my force against him, the further he could throw me, and so the longer I could remain in blissful flight. I gave up my fear and at the end of each class requested that he throw me continuously until I was exhausted and could do no more.
There was a canvas bag filled with sand that I had to hit and kick, every day, hundreds of times. He demanded strength and speed, and I worked exhaustively to reach the standards he expected. He was strict and unyielding, but he was passionate about what he was teaching, as though he had once taught before and now missed it greatly. I thoroughly enjoyed the lessons. Our spirits would stretch out the way the light of the sun spreads through the sky. Our breaths came out, through our lungs, throats, soles, skin; we exhaled from our tingling fingertips. We breathed; we lived.
“This is where all power originates—the breath, kokyu.” He pointed to a spot below his navel. “The tanden is the center of your being, the center of the universe. At all times connect it to your opponent’s center with your breath and your energy, your ki.”
His eyes glittered, throbbed with a cosmic energy that seemed to reach into mine. They held me immobile, a hare caught by the stare of the tiger. His hands reached out and smacked my shoulder. “And never, ever look directly into an opponent’s eyes. Always remember this.”
It is amazing what one can achieve when one has an excellent teacher. Endo-sensei, that was how I called him during our lessons—teacher. I knew he was pleased with me when he realized I was not treating his classes lightly. He never told me, but I soon learned that he showed it in other ways.
One morning, as I was about to return home after a hard and painful lesson, he stopped me and said, “We have not finished.” He asked me to follow him into his house. Inside, we knelt on the floor before a low wooden table. He opened a box and removed a brush from inside. He spread out a sheet of rice paper and ground an ink-stick in a square stone mortar that had a slight dip in the center, until a small pool of ink covered the indentation. The grinding released
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