AKIDO- KIND WORDS The train clanked and rattled through the suburbs of Tokyo on a drowsy spring afternoon. Our car was comparatively empty, a few housewives and their kids, and I gazed absently at the drab houses and dusty hedgerows. At one station the doors opened and suddenly the afternoon quite was shattered by a man bellowing violent incomprehensible curses. The man staggered into our car, he wore laborers clothing and was big, drunk and dirty. Screaming, he swung at a woman holding a baby, and the blow sent her sprawling 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 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 middle of the car and tried to wrench it from its stanchion. I could see that one of his hands was cut and bleeding. And as the train lurched ahead, its passengers frozen with fear, I stood up. I was young then, some 20 years ago, and in pretty good shape. Id been putting in a solid eight hours of Aikido training nearly every day for the past three years. I liked to through and grapple, I thought I was tough. But, my marshal art skill was untested in actual combat. As students of Aikido we were not allowed to fight. I could hear my teachers words, Aikido is the art of reconciliation, he who has the mind to fight has lost 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 the words. I tried hard. I even went so far as to cross the street to avoid the Chimperas, the pinball punks who lounged around the train station. But 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, getting to my feet. People are in danger and if I dont do something fast they will probably get hurt. Seeing me stand up, the drunk recognized his chance to focus his rage. Ah-Ha! A foreigner, you need to learn some Japanese manors! 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 bad, so I pursed my lips and blew him an insolent kiss. All right, youre gonna get a lesson! he said as he gathered himself for a rush at me. A fraction of a second before he could move someone shouted, Hey! It was ear splitting, but I remember the strangely joyous lilting quality of it - as though you and a friend have been searching diligently for something, and he had suddenly stumbled upon it. Hey! I wheeled to my left, and the drunk spun to his right. We both stared down at a little old Japanese man. 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 delightfully at the laborer as though he had a most important, most welcome secret to share. Come here, the old man said in an easy vernacular, beckoning to the drunk. Come here and talk to 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 of the 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, Id drop him in his socks! The old man continued to beam at the laborer. Whatcha been drinking? he asked, his eyes sparkling with interest. I been drinkin Saki, the laborer bellowed back. Speckles of spittle spattered the old man. Oh, thats wonderful, the old man said, absolutely wonderful! You see, I like Saki too. Every night me and my wife, (shes 76, you know) we warm up a little bottle of Saki and take it out into the garden, and we sit on the old wooden bench. We watch the sun go down, and we look to see how our Persimmon tree is doing. My great-grandfather planted the tree, and we worry about whether it will recover from the ice storms we had last winter. Our tree is doing better than I expected, though, especially when you consider the poor quality of the soil. It is gratifying to watch when we take our Saki and go out to enjoy the evening - even when it rains! He looked up at the laborers eyes, his own eyes twinkling merrily. As he struggled to follow the old mans monologue, the drunks face began to soften. His fists began to unclench. Yeah, he said. I love Persimmons too. His voice trailed off. Yes, said the old man, smiling, and Im sure you have a wonderful wife too! No, replies the laborer. My wife died. Very gently, swaying with the motion of the train, the big man began to sob. I dont got no wife, I dont got no home, I dont got no job, Im so ashamed of myself. Tears rolled down his cheeks; a spasm of despair rippled through his big 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 and 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 all about it. I turned my head for one last look as I stepped off the train. The laborer was sprawled on the seat, his head in the old mans 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 used in combat, and the essence of it was love . I would have to practice the art with an entirely different spirit from this day forward. It would be a long time before I could speak about the resolution of combat. True Story by Terry Dobson, the first American Aikido Master trained in Japan
Posted on: Fri, 09 Jan 2015 07:00:23 +0000
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