Karate Talk

Same Dojo, Different Philosophies

The other day I posted about setting a good example, and how things you aren't even aware of can have far-reaching consequences to your fellow karate-ka.  As an example, I used an incident in our dojo several years ago.  I could just as easily have used other examples, that one just lent itself easily to illustrating the ripple effect. 

The example I used has now become in itself a focus of discussion, and although it's a topic that I've dealt with numerous times under various approaches, the last comment has inspired me to address it once again, from the perspective of what happens when you begin training with someone who does not share your background or martial arts philosophy.

Your home dojo, especially the one you began your training in, will more or less set your karate outlook for most of your karate life.  If you start off in a highly competitive or sport-oriented dojo, you will always, to some extent, regard karate as a competitive sport, perhaps more than a martial art.  If you start off in a full contact dojo (whether competitive or not), you will never completely understand why some other people make such a fuss over getting dinged up from time to time.  And if you come from a low contact, philosophical type of dojo, you will always be to some extent appalled by the fact that some people think karate is all about tournaments, and further that they believe it's perfectly fine to beat the crap out of you in regular training!

This would remain an intellectual discussion except that people don't always stay in one place, and when you move, you almost always move to a new dojo.  If that new dojo doesn't have the same approach as your old one, you're all in for a bit of a bumpy ride during the adjustment period.  The people in your new dojo will treat you the way they treat everyone else, and will be surprised and perhaps impatient when you don't respond accordingly.  You, on the other hand, will behave as you've been taught, and might well feel a bit resentful and frustrated when you're told that's not appropriate here.  Eventually, the dust settles, and in almost all cases a fit is achieved in the end, as long as everyone involved wants it that way.  Several essential things must happen along the way, however:

1)  Everyone must pay attention.  This sounds easy but is probably the hardest thing.  People are creatures of habit, particularly after they get a bit tired.  The new guy needs to watch closely and pick up on the general attitude and training style of his new dojo.  Those people, in turn, need to observe the new guy.  If necessary, people may need to modify their normal behavior a bit during the transition, if the gap is really wide.  Be patient while the new person adjusts to a different atmosphere, and try to gently guide them closer to what's expected in their new home.

2)  The new person must be willing to adapt.  Every dojo is different, every sensei is different, every karate-ka is different.  When you train in an unfamiliar place, you generally want to make a good impression.  You also are probably, on some level, clinging to what you've been taught.  If anything in the new dojo goes against that, there is usually resistance, a sort of "my way is better" attitude.  This is natural, because nobody likes having to relearn something they thought they were already good at.  However, it won't make you any friends in your new karate home, with either the sensei or the students.  More importantly, you will be missing out on instruction that could open up some new possibilities for you, if you reject it simply because it's unfamiliar.

3)  The sensei and sempais must assist.  They are the leaders of the dojo.  They should talk to the new person before he ever steps into the dojo proper, learn a bit about his background, and give him a quick rundown on how the new place works.  This can ease the first-day sticker shock and help prevent nasty surprises.  They should also be ready to run interference if things seem to be getting out of hand at any time.

4)  Rank must be respected.  This changes depending on what rank the new guy holds, and how he ranks in the new dojo.  For example, a color belt needs to respect his new sempais, even if they don't do things the way the black belts in his old dojo did, and even if he thinks his old sempais were much better!  In turn, they need to help the new color belt adjust, making corrections as needed but being careful not to pick on him or tell him that what he's learned is "wrong" or "bad".  If the new guy is a high rank, then he might have been dai-sempai of his old dojo.  In the new dojo, he might or might not hold that rank; either way there can be trouble.  If he does hold the rank, he needs to recognize that this new dojo might not work the same way, and that he must follow the lead of his new sensei even if it's unfamiliar.  If he is not the highest rank, he needs to willingly acknowledge those who outrank him, and not try to "prove himself" at their expense (unless of course the dojo encourages such behavior, and he is comfortable with it).

Other things will not, should not change.  The most important is "RESPECT OTHERS".  That means, absolutely, respecting the other guy's philosophy (whether you share it or not) and trying to work with him, and perhaps to gain a mutual understanding and appreciation.  For my part, I take it further and endorse a low contact training environment, unless it is specifically designated to be some type of tournament training with higher contact -- in which case, everyone should be fully padded up.  Even then, the responsible and mature martial artist seeks not to injure or incapacitate their opponent, but to win cleanly and by merit.  And yes, there IS a difference!  And desptie what some people believe, I firmly believe that a win without blood or injury is every bit as meaningful, perhaps even more so.  It takes a far higher skill level to defeat someone without losing your own control.  To take it one step farther, the ultimate stated goal of a true martial artist is to avoid ever having to fight at all!

Whether you are dealing with different philosophies of sparring, slight differences in kata (older vs. newer versions), a different atmosphere in the training hall, or even differences in basics (which we must hope will not be too extreme, especially after a certain rank!), they all require the same open-minded approach on both sides in order for there to be a smooth transition.  This is true even of affiliated dojos in the same style and organization, and vastly more true when someone is coming in from the outside.  However, as long as all parties can avoid the need to be "right" all the time or to prove something, then it's certainly possible to achieve a happy transition.

Setting the Good Example

How often are we told to set a good example?  Older people are told to set good examples for younger ones, people with more experience set the example for people with less experience.  Nowhere is this more true than in the dojo, where lower belts look to senseis and sempais for many reasons:  to see the mechanics of something they are struggling with; for inspiration; for leadership; for guidance.

All higher belts know this, but how many of us restrict this to simply training hard in the dojo, or trying to make sure that our karate is correct, good stances, proper form, no mistakes?  All of that is quite important, but it can go so much further.  In fact, it always does, whether we are consciously aware of it or not.  Those who are looking at us pick up on so very many things, many of them so subtle that we aren't even aware that we are doing them.  In fact, I'd say the overall tone and spirit of a dojo will be set by the higher belts, and the ripple effect will spread to everyone there.

For example, our dojo is generally a less-intense training area than some.  Our classes tend to be recreation and family oriented, rather than hard-core competition oriented.  This is not to say that our upper belts don't train really hard, don't compete, and aren't competitive.  However, for the more intense competition trainings, we generally will go to team trainings at a different dojo.  In our home dojo, we strive to work hard on form, technique, ironing out flaws, and not as much on always going full speed, full power.  And unlike team trainings, which prepare you for competition in part by encouraging you to constantly compare yourself to your training mates and trying to be that little bit sharper, faster, or stronger than they are, my home dojo absolutely does not encourage us to "compete" with each other during the course of regular training.  In that sense, we are all equals.

A few years ago, we had two or three higher belts who started going to team trainings along with me, my husband, and one or two others who had always gone.  These new people came back fired up with enthusiasm, which is great because it raises the energy level of the whole dojo.  Unfortunately, they also came back with the desire to "prove themselves" constantly, and brought a competitive atmosphere into our non-competitive trainings.  For me, in particular, it became a bit of a nightmare since it meant that any time I did a drill with one of them, they were going after me, trying to hit me, be faster, be stronger, etc.  They no longer understood that in our home dojo, we did these drills to work on timing and technique, not for point scoring.  What it meant for me was that I couldn't focus as much on correcting form, and instead had to be in "competition mode" every time I walked into the dojo.  This is, to put it bluntly, exhausting.  It was also disrespectful to me; they didn't go after my husband because he's big and strong and fast, but since I'm smaller and female, they thought they could take me.  For the record, I proved them wrong time and again (I'm quicker than I look!) but I resented the constant need to.

The effects reached much farther than that though.  The attitude of the lower belts in the dojo began to change.  One of the first things I noticed was that they were becoming afraid of the higher belts.  They were frightened to do drills with us, because a few people would always push them too hard -- not to improve the color belt, but to prove that they were better (competition spirit again).  Unlike me, these color belts didn't have the training or experience to handle it, and it had a very bad effect on them.  Some were overwhelmed, a couple actually quit, and a couple became quite belligerent, which in turn led to some very bad discipline problems.  The next thing I noticed was the respect issue.  The color belts began to only respect the strongest, fastest higher belts.  One nidan was being treated with almost open disrespect, a person who is older and stiff and doesn't really have great form, but has over 30 years of experience in Shotokan and has been our most loyal and faithful karate-ka.  Color belts started to try to push me, seeing if they could overpower me.  When the black belts were teaching them, they would question us, and eventually began to argue with us as we tried to correct their form.  The spirit got worse and worse, the atmosphere was combative and disrespectgul.  My husband quit training entirely for a few months, and I, along with at least one other person, seriously considered switching to another dojo.  At that time, it seemed a small price to pay, to drive a half hour or even an hour in exchange for not having to go into a war zone.

This is just one example of what can happen, and how far-reaching something as seemingly minor and relatively harmless (apparently) as one or two people getting competition fever can be.  It developed over the course of months, came to full power after a year and a half or so, and has taken about 3 years to eradicate, and to regain the pleasant and supportive atmosphere that most of us far prefer.  We train hard, we are loyal, we are intense, but we are not in competition with each other.  It is not about being better than the other people in our dojo, it is about making us all into better karate-ka.

At Instructor Training, these subtleties have been pointed out to us more than once.  You control the class with your voice, they tell us; you must have a strong voice, with good support and energy.  You control the count, the timing, you command attention.  Stand up straight, be confident, always have an answer ready right away if you are asked a question.  All of these things command respect from your students.  In judging, who will you respect more, the judge who is alert, sits up straight, pays close attention to their ring and snaps their flag up briskly and immediately with their decision?  Or the one who seems tired, disinterested, whose flags are hesitant or half-hearted? 

In class, you watch the higher belts who seem to know what they're doing, who approach everything with an intensity of spirit and a quiet confidence.  Yes, I know this kata.  Yes, I can handle this strange combination.  Yes, I am totally comfortable doing any sparring drill, against any person, at any speed.  Yes, I trust my fellow karate-ka to respect me and to exercise control.  I train through injuries or illness when I can but don't make a big deal of them if I decide to come to the dojo (no martyrs here, please!), and when I really can't or shouldn't train, I stay home.

Since so much of what we do is subliminal, so much of the example we set is totally unconscious, the only way to really set the good example in karate is to make sure that your own spirit is what it should be.  Don't just go through the motions or pay lip service to it, but really try to understand the more subtle philosophies and embrace them.  Then you will always train with the good heart, and that's the example you will set for others.

Your Training Partner

Every time you train, whether you're in a dojo full of people or alone in your basement, you have a training partner.  That partner is your inner voice.  It is always with you, whether you hear it or not, whether you are listening or not.  It is always giving you opinions and feedback. 

Your inner voice can be your best friend, giving you those "aha!" moments when something finally clicks.  It can also be your worst enemy, telling you that you are having a bad training, or that something is really hard, when perhaps those things are not true.

The problem with the inner voice is that it is subjective, and very much susceptible to your emotional and mental state.  When I go into the dojo full of energy, happy and motivated, I almost always feel like I'm doing well.  If I go in tired, depressed or preoccupied, I almost always come out thinking I've done badly.  An impartial outside observer might not have noticed much difference between the two trainings.  This is not to say that the voice is wrong; after all these years in a dojo, my inner voice sounds an awful lot like the voices of senseis past and present.  I swear it even speaks with an accent on occasion.  And the words coming out of its mouth are words I've heard over and over again from people who know what they're talking about.  At this point I'm pretty happy that it's apparently been paying attention to its lessons!  But that doesn't mean it always reflects accurately on my overall performance on any given day.

Right now I am forcing myself to train carefully, gradually building up speed as my sore leg begins to heal, but having to be careful of that left side.  I still can't do kicks on that leg, still must ease into my stances carefully.  I have several distractions and irritations in my outside life which have made me so tempted to just sit out, just stay home this one night, or that one morning.  Despite all of this, I have made every regular training since I came back from vacation. 

So, I should be happy with this, right?  I have managed to overcome mental, emotional and physical issues enough to get to the dojo, and to try my hardest while I'm there.  My inner voice should be smug with martyrdom and complacency.  Look at me!  So dedicated!  So brave in the face of so much frustration! 

My inner voice is not that cooperative (or that silly!).  Oh, there's definitely been some patting myself on the back, but the other messages don't shut off just because I think I'm being all noble.  The past couple or three weeks have been anything but fun.  They've been frustrating, annoying, exhausting.  That inner voice which compelled me to go and train has been my worst enemy once I get there, ever aware that I am not performing up to my ability.  I'm conscious of how stiff my left leg is.  I'm conscious of the fact that mentally, I just haven't been all there some nights, despite my best efforts.  I come home exhausted and sore and discouraged, hoping nobody was watching me. 

I'm glad to hear those messages though.  I'm glad that I don't let myself off easy, don't make too many excuses for myself.  It's great that I can sometimes come out of a training feeling like I'm all that plus a bag of chips, but in the long run it's better for my karate that I am aware of my shortcomings, and dissatisfied with them.  My inner voice keeps me honest.  It may be overly harsh at times, but I'd still rather hear that than messages of false encouragement.  It's not that I want to feel bad about my karate all the time, it's just that I want to be self-aware to the extent that I realize if my stance is off, or that one elbow has a tendency to escape, or that my shoulders still roll forward and up sometimes.  If I'm not aware of such things, how will I ever feel the difference when I finally do it right?

So despite the fact that my inner voice has been one extended whine of criticism for the past month, I never tried to hush it or to ignore it, although I do sometimes apply a filter when I can't take any more abuse!  And tonight, I was rewarded.  I am tired and sore.  My leg hurts.  I wasn't shifting properly in one drill, and my second kata really needs work (the timing was off in at least three places, really badly).  However, I done good.  Not only did I show up and try hard, but I did some solid karate while I was there.  My first kata was actually pretty darn good.

How do I know?  That's easy.  My inner voice told me so.

Cause and Effect; or Proving Chaos Theory in My Life

There's some old poem about a horse losing a nail in its shoe, and England ending up losing the war.  I think it was intended to remind you that little things can make a big difference.

This poem was reincarnated in the late 1980's as something called Chaos Theory, and sold a bazillion or so books to science geeks worldwide.  In this incarnation, a butterfly was to blame:  a butterfly flaps its wings, and later, across the globe, there's a typhoon. 

Yes, I bought the book.  I'm a geek.  In fact, I went so far as to create a new variant:  the Kangeiko Chaos Subtheory.  Go to Kangeiko and you won't fit into a bridesmaids dress two months later. 

It goes like this:

At any given time, you can assume that about 25% - 30% of people in a crowd are carrying some sort of virus.  This is why many people come down with colds after flying in an airplane, going to a concert in an enclosed auditorium... or going to Kangeiko.

There are something like 200 viruses which cause colds.  Depending on the person, these same viruses can also cause other health problems, such as ear infections. 

If someone gets one of these viruses in their inner ear, it can cause brutal issues with your balance and vertigo.  This means that when the person, say, moves their head, the room could spin around violently.  This condition is called labyrinthitis, and there's not a darn thing you can do about it except let it run its course.  You keep still, lie down a lot, don't drive, and certainly don't do karate.  On a side note, if you've never had an ear infection, this is highly disorienting.

If you do karate with vertigo and balance problems, you'd probably find yourself losing your balance at some point, no matter how careful you are.  So you'd do a balance check, which means catching all your weight on one leg.  If you did that awkwardly, you might find yourself pulling a muscle.

The hamstring is used for just about everything you do.  If you pull your hamstring, it takes a ridiculous amount of time to heal, because you can't rest it.  If you do too much too soon, you can reinjure it.  That reinjury can be even worse than the original.  It could be, say, a tear.

If you tear a hamstring, you don't exercise for awhile.  Say, a month.  This happens no matter how stubborn you are, because there's a serious pain factor by then, not to mention the fact that you can barely support your own weight just standing up or sitting down. 

If you generally eat enough to keep about three people alive, and aren't burning it off for, say, a month, you will probably gain weight.  This is inconvenient if you are scheduled to be fit into a bridesmaids dress around that time.

So there's my chaos theory:  Kangeiko -->  cold -->  labyrinthitis  -->  pulled hamstring  -->  torn hamstring  -->  can't fit into my bridesmaids dress!

The wise will read between the lines and realize that I exercised my much-demonstrated gift for impatience, and kept doing too much, too soon.  Since Kangeiko ended at the end of January, I've been prevented from training for about one out of the past two months.  If I'd been really smart, I would not have trained at all until just before tournament, but I'm not always smart.  I had to pull out of the tournament because my leg could barely support my weight.  Realizing by then that I'd torn the hamstring, I just couldn't risk damaging it any further.  I took the next two weeks off.  Just this past week, I have returned to training, being exceedingly cautious:  no kicks with the left leg, period.  Any stances are moved into slowly and carefully.  Turns are exquisitely slow.  "Full speed" has no meaning to me right now.  However, I am able to train again, with leg wrapped tightly, which is good for my mental health because I was going stir crazy sitting around so much.  I'm not going to ask much beyond that.  Something is better than nothing!

Little things really do make a difference, and this is as true in the dojo as anywhere else.  There's a reason that senseis always pick on you for all of these little things in your form and your training habits and your attitude.  One little mistake, like coming in when you're feeling a bit woozy, can lead to two months out of the dojo.  At least right now, since I'm being forced to do everything so slowly and carefully, I can really pay attention to the small details of my form.  This might even be good for me.

And someday, I won't have to learn lessons the hard way, for at least the 100th time... !