Saturday afternoon, I drove up Bundy Drive in Santa Monica for my acupuncture appointment with Dr. Pan. A construction site crane blocked Bundy. “Detour” signs posted up ahead. The “Right Turn Only” signs were prominently visible.
Still, traffic was jammed. Some people failed making left turns or trying to pass the “Detour” sign, instead of following directions to turn right. I waited it out. Eventually, I passed the mad cluster and turned right. I proceeded to the main road, and to Dr. Pan’s on time. Cool.
That utterly stupid traffic jam was fucking unnecessary. No, the people weren’t stupid, the situation was. Apparently, some couldn’t follow directions. Could it be, “I know better”? Or “You can’t tell me what to do”? That being said, the aftermath was still mind-numbing, yet, so very human.
Sometimes, we confuse our freedom of self-expression as “You can’t tell me what to do. I know better,” when others in fact simply do know better. Yeah, I’ve failed in that, too. Although, not so much in my older years as opposed to when I was young and stupid. Just saying.
Surrender to “I don’t know.” “I don’t know” can empower, rather than diminish. I got that in 30 years of Aikido training.
Classic Japanese martial arts, budo, is a traditional hierarchy structure. There’s Sensei, and there’s student. Student listens to Sensei. Sensei asks the student to do something. Student says, “Hai [yes].” You say “Hai” even when you have no fucking clue what’s being asked of you. With the great Senseis, like the late Mizukami Sensei, he or she corrects what you can’t figure out or just didn’t get. That being said, Sensei makes you flounder in the abyss for a defined period of time. That’s the training, the Way.
In Aikido I got the distinction: Surrender. Surrender in the useful sense. Not surrender, “I give up.” I surrendered to “I don’t know.” Whatever I did know or thought I knew was really not very useful in Aikido. The fundamental lesson is humility. Just saying.
Did Sensei know everything? Hell, no. He said, “Make it work (for you).” Sure, Sensei knew way more Aikido, a lifetime’s worth. In theory, I’m supposed to know myself better than Sensei. Not really. Invariably, Sensei knew what I needed, way more than me.
Sensei didn’t know everything. He never said he did. Sensei saw and listened for my greater-than version that I didn’t yet distinguish, what I didn’t know. Sensei didn’t teach, he guided in authentic partnership. What I needed unconcealed in our shared journey together. Just saying. Just grateful.
Sensei never ask me to be like him, be his imitation. I worked inventing my greater version. I surrendered to “I don’t know.” I let go of my self-imposed limitations. Let go of the prejudices of my strengths, of my weaknesses, of my expectations. I started from my Zero, reinventing me.
In surrender to my greater-than version, I listened, I asked questions when I didn’t get it, and I just trained. I put in the work. I excelled. I failed. I learned from my failures, my mistakes. When I fell, I got back up. I practiced my Aikido over, and over, and over again. From childhood, nothing was ever good enough for Dad. Practicing surrender gave me the freedom to be me.
My 25-year partnership with Sensei was meaningful. We became contributing partners. Sensei asked me for advice about Aikido training. Ironically, whatever I had, came from him. Yet, what Sensei sourced, I had made my own.
One morning in Aikido class, Sensei said, “You’re a better teacher than me.” I got it. I was grateful. Nothing, but mad love and respect for Sensei. So did I know more than Sensei? Hell, no. I still have much to learn.
During my time with Sensei, I got his grace, his dedication to service, his love of Aikido. I can always learn something new. I can always be greater. That’s Sensei’s enduring legacy.
I’m not nearly the Sensei, who Mizukami Sensei was for me. Still, I know enough. After all, Sensei taught me. He was the humblest man I know on Planet Earth. He generously brought me up to his level. Nothing, but mad love and respect for Sensei.
If we were talking today, Sensei would say, “What did you learn, Jon? …Just train.” Hai, Sensei. You give me life. I love you, always.
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