Hapo Undo: Facing Too Many Problems

One of my favorite ki exercises is hapo undo: an eight-directional defense.  This exercise is also the core of the first bokken kata.  In it, the practitioner turns to the four walls, then the four corners in time, throwing up defensive hands at each step.  Often, the sensei leading the exercise speeds up progressively throughout.  Sometimes, we switch feet, which is perversely my favorite version.

So, what is the point of this exercise?  Certainly not just to confuse the lower belts who haven't yet figured out the pattern of steps and pivots.  I was taught that to truly master this exercise, one must have full attention on each direction in turn, regardless of how quickly the count is moving.  As soon as you step or pivot, your attention must then shift immediately and fully as well.

I have always found this exercise a great literalization of best work practices.  We live in a multi-tasking society, but study after study reveals that multi-tasking is actually just attention-splitting, and tends to make all of the multi-tasked items less effective.  Perhaps instead of multitasking, we should try to remember hapo undo.  Keep that feeling of intense focus on each task you perform, even if you have to switch between them quickly.  This can help with productivity, even when the work environment necessitates multi-tasking.  Even more ideally, just focus on a single task at once.  Real-life hapo undo may be slowed down a lot - an hour or even a day devoted to each task.  But remember, if you're trying to focus on all eight opponent swordsmen at the same time, you'll get stabbed!

It's Not Too Late: The Art of the Micro-Reset

Last weekend was my first kyu test, and I was extremely happy with it!  I felt like I had the space to really show off my artillery of techniques, I had pretty good form throughout, and I kept smiling.  My freestyle needed some work, but there's always something.  Here's a pic from the test - one of the instructors gave a special request for me to do the "hurricane throw," my perennial favorite and not one usually called for on tests.

What I was most pleased with on my test though, was a single moment.  I doubt the instructors, audience, or uke even noticed.  At some point, I noticed that my blood was pumping, my adrenaline was rushing, I was breathing quickly, and I was feeling a bit overwhelmed by all of the techniques I'd been throwing.  So, I launched uke in a line-throw, and while he was recovering, I took a deep breath and reset.  I was no longer overwhelmed, and I felt my poise return and strengthen.

This is the kind of moment I'd love to feel constantly on the mat, and be better about bringing into life off the mat.  It is so easy to be overwhelmed by life, even when doing things we love.  Whether it is being swallowed up by research or grading (as I often am), having a boss assign 10 tasks with no hint of prioritizing, getting angry at a friend or loved one, trying to deal with one or more cranky children, or any of the other myriad things life attacks us with, stepping back is the key.

In the moment, it can feel like there's no turning back.  Someone just said something infuriating, and there's no way you can't snap.  Your due-dates are impending and you're about to cry.  But, what my test reminded me is that you can always step back.  Whatever your vocabulary, you can "center," "find one-point," "refocus," "get in the zone," or simply breathe.  This doesn't have to be a long process.  All it takes is one breath, and the determination to face the task or person in a more centered, mindful way.  There is always time for that, and you can always start fresh afterwards.  This can lead to more kind interpersonal communication, more focused work, a happier outlook, and of course, better technique.

One sensei of mine wrote a book on centering in which she recounted a story of Ueshiba Sensei, our founder.  When asked how he stayed centered all the time, he responded that he constantly lost center, but regained it to quickly that no one noticed.  This is a goal for life as well as practice, and to me, the quick recovery is the key.  This reset can and should occur at any time, and it is always a way to salvage a situation.

Don't Look!

This week presented me with a perfect parable between dojo and life.  Monday evening at the dojo, we ended practice with kokyu dosa - a practice by which uke takes nage's wrists gently, and nage attempts to break uke's balance using ki and full-body motion alone.  I was practicing with an older gentleman, who is probably twice my weight.  I was doing pretty well - keeping unbendable arm, moving as one, staying relaxed.  But then, my partner said to me, "That's right.  Don't remember that I'm here, because there's a lot of me to move."  Suddenly, I was intensely aware of just how true that was.  All of a sudden, the light partner became a heavy wall, and I felt my arms and lower back tensing when he next took my wrists.  I was finally able to regain my presence and ki by closing my eyes - then, I was simply moving that which touched my wrists, not the larger, higher-level aikidoka before me.

This lesson reminded me of just how important it is to simply react when you need to, without thinking about how insurmountable a task it is.  Such a state of consciousness is crucial to me as a grad student.  Within the next week, I have set a goal to finish drafting my second dissertation chapter.  At times this week, all I could see was my dissertation looming before me - not only the 20 pages or so left in my chapter, but the entire 250-odd page work it will eventually be.  I worried about how I would structure my next semester, my next year, juggle my eventual job search...  At those times, I felt paralyzed.  My mind could not focus on the task at hand, even when it was not writing, and I felt the same physical symptoms of tightness throughout my body as when I lose ki at the dojo.

Finally on Friday, I had a breakthrough.  I had a review session with my writing partner, and we came up with a lot of great ideas for me to build on.  Suddenly, I was filled with thoughts, but none of them were about how to time myself over the next week (or month, semester, year...).  I got home with a couple of hours left before dinner, and I used those to write.  The words flowed through me, and for those hours, I sustained that feeling of perfect connectedness with the world that is so desirable at the dojo.

Like aikido, writing happens most naturally in a state of mu shin - no mind.  This does not mean thoughtlessness, inattention, or lack of scope, but just the opposite.  Instead, it is a state of preternatural thought and attention, but a receptive one.  Rather than forcing things to happen the way we see them, we allow ourselves to follow the flow of ki.  If things happened as I think them possible, I could not move someone twice my size, in kokyu dosa or any other physical attempt.  Instead, I must trust my unbendable arm in the dojo, my unbendable mind at my desk.  As a receiver, I can then redirect myself effectively against any goal, rather than remaining in a state of conflict with the world and my own body.

Mu shin is one of the aikido feelings I have the most trouble pinning down on a daily basis, but for that very elusiveness, I recognize it as one of the most desirable.  I now head to the dojo for my first kyu test, and hope that I can face it by feeling connection to uke's center, rather than looking at him or her.