Scott, whenever I read one of your comments on substack, I simply allow my mind to free-associate; it's as though I take a deep-dive into that vast ocean, and as I plummet further and further into its depths, I am actually entering into the depths of my subconScott, whenever I read one of your comments on substack, I simply allow my mind to free-associate; it's as though I take a deep-dive into that vast ocean, and as I plummet further and further into its depths, I am actually entering into the depths of my subconscoious. When I emerge, I receive a dominant thought. Because of my immersion in the Jewish tradition, customarily, I draw on some compelling notion, all through the process of free-association a la Freud.
But this time, upon reading your comments, after my "deep dive", I did not emerge with some compelling thought from the Jewish tradition, but rather from another tradition to which I have been exposed during my considerably long adult life, the philosophical tradition. In that case, I find myself reaching back to the philosophers of ancient Greece, to name just a few: Protagoras, Socrates, Plato and Aristotle.
Oh, and I mustn't forget one of my favorites, Diogenes of Sinop, the founder of the Cynic school that flourished during the first quarter of the fourth century BCE. He is reputed to have walked through the streets of Athens with a lantern in broad daylight, and if any of his fellow Athenians should ask what he was up to, he would respond, "I'm searching for an honest man." One more point about Diogenes. He lived in extreme poverty either in a large pipe, perhaps used for irrigation, or in some other oversized container; some suggest a large jar. He wished to demonstrate that virtue and independence from societal constraints were the keys to a good life.
But, alas, Scott, I did not emerge with one of the great ideas of the ancient Greek philosophical tradition. But I drew on one of the great innovative philosophers of the modern age, this time from the early twentieth century. The French philosopher, Henri Bergson, in 1907 coined the philosophical concept, Élan vital, best translated as "vital force." It refers to the continuously operating innate creative force within all living beings, which manifests itself through evolution, growth and adaptation.
Perhaps, Scott, you will begin to see the connection with the concepts you referred to in your practice of Aikido. Let me pull out from your present commentary a few phrases. How about this one:
"Growth comes from experiencing things differently. And when I truly allow that to happen, I am no longer standing in the comfort of the familiar."
Oops! Pardon me for slipping back to another ancient Greek philosopher. Heraclitus, (c. 535–475 BCE). His most noteworthy saying is "You cannot step into the same river twice." He meant by this that both the river and the person stepping into it are ever-changing. The water is constantly flowing while the person is continuously evolving. Change, for Heraclitus, is a fundamental principle of the universe. Whether we understand this principle in the practice of Aikido or in the living of life, absorbing that principle enables, at every moment of our lives, to prepare ourselves for change and away from the "familiar."
Let's take another of your comments, Scott: "If technique instead emerges from relationship, then perhaps there was never really a failed technique to begin with, only a continuing response to what is happening."
To my mind, Scott, concentrating on technique is akin to seeing each change as discrete moments in time, when, to use your words, "a continuing response to what is happening," that is, is changing constantly. It is no longer regarded as discrete, but a fluid movement, whether in Aikido or in Life.
Both practices, Aikido and living a life, require our constant and undivided attention.
Sounds exhausting, doesn't it? Well, that's why, in both cases, we need to take a rest. Away from the mat, in one case; sleep, in the other.
O-Sensei, talking about how he was not always balanced — -that he was constantly losing balance and recovering it.
-That makes a lot of sense to me!
It changes how I think about “right” and “wrong,”
As Well,
Yes, both in training and in life.
Love your Article here,
My thoughts that occurred to me reading it are,
-It feels human, and therefore approachable.
One of the things I’ve always appreciated about Buddhism is that the Buddha was human — awakening wasn’t presented as perfection, but as realization.
When I think about balance and being wrong,
I notice how much of modern life revolves around judgment, analysis, and evaluation.
Everything becomes pathology. There is pressure to be correct, composed, graceful, and right all the time — standards that are unrealistic and often hostile to real growth.
Yet
we deeply admire people who achieve mastery in very basic human capacities — like balance itself.
-The tightrope walker fascinates us not because they never lose balance, but because they continuously recover it.
I experienced this very personally during periods when
I had dizzy spells from extreme diet and exercise in the past. -Few things have unsettled me more than suddenly feeling my balance disappear.
What surprised me was not just the fear, but the sense of vulnerability and helplessness that followed.
Those experiences made me far more sensitive to my sense of balance.
-And that surprised me.
I began to notice that balance is never fixed. If I pay close attention, I can feel myself constantly drifting slightly off-center and readjusting.
-When awareness becomes too critical, it can even become anxiety-producing — like getting caught in a loop trying to control something that cannot be held still.
(But again I thought becoming MORE aware is better, but it is not always that way.)
The solution always seems to be the same:
Calmness and a kind of indifference.
-When I stop trying to force balance, balance returns on its own.
Before those dizzy spells,
I don’t think I could train my sense of balance in quite the same way.
-It’s not that I became some kind of circus tightrope walker.
But becoming familiar with being off-balance
deepened my understanding of kuzushi.
I began to feel that kuzushi is not something we first do to another person — it is something we learn by recognizing instability within ourselves.
-As you wrote in the article,
if I never lose balance, I may not be fully engaging with life. Practice becomes less about performing the correct technique and more about sensing imbalance and adjusting from center. Uke is no longer an opponent but a teacher.
-In a strange way,
it reminds me of the Seinfeld episode where
George Costanza decides to do everything opposite of his usual instincts — and suddenly life starts working. Sometimes letting go of being right
Scott, whenever I read one of your comments on substack, I simply allow my mind to free-associate; it's as though I take a deep-dive into that vast ocean, and as I plummet further and further into its depths, I am actually entering into the depths of my subconScott, whenever I read one of your comments on substack, I simply allow my mind to free-associate; it's as though I take a deep-dive into that vast ocean, and as I plummet further and further into its depths, I am actually entering into the depths of my subconscoious. When I emerge, I receive a dominant thought. Because of my immersion in the Jewish tradition, customarily, I draw on some compelling notion, all through the process of free-association a la Freud.
But this time, upon reading your comments, after my "deep dive", I did not emerge with some compelling thought from the Jewish tradition, but rather from another tradition to which I have been exposed during my considerably long adult life, the philosophical tradition. In that case, I find myself reaching back to the philosophers of ancient Greece, to name just a few: Protagoras, Socrates, Plato and Aristotle.
Oh, and I mustn't forget one of my favorites, Diogenes of Sinop, the founder of the Cynic school that flourished during the first quarter of the fourth century BCE. He is reputed to have walked through the streets of Athens with a lantern in broad daylight, and if any of his fellow Athenians should ask what he was up to, he would respond, "I'm searching for an honest man." One more point about Diogenes. He lived in extreme poverty either in a large pipe, perhaps used for irrigation, or in some other oversized container; some suggest a large jar. He wished to demonstrate that virtue and independence from societal constraints were the keys to a good life.
But, alas, Scott, I did not emerge with one of the great ideas of the ancient Greek philosophical tradition. But I drew on one of the great innovative philosophers of the modern age, this time from the early twentieth century. The French philosopher, Henri Bergson, in 1907 coined the philosophical concept, Élan vital, best translated as "vital force." It refers to the continuously operating innate creative force within all living beings, which manifests itself through evolution, growth and adaptation.
Perhaps, Scott, you will begin to see the connection with the concepts you referred to in your practice of Aikido. Let me pull out from your present commentary a few phrases. How about this one:
"Growth comes from experiencing things differently. And when I truly allow that to happen, I am no longer standing in the comfort of the familiar."
Oops! Pardon me for slipping back to another ancient Greek philosopher. Heraclitus, (c. 535–475 BCE). His most noteworthy saying is "You cannot step into the same river twice." He meant by this that both the river and the person stepping into it are ever-changing. The water is constantly flowing while the person is continuously evolving. Change, for Heraclitus, is a fundamental principle of the universe. Whether we understand this principle in the practice of Aikido or in the living of life, absorbing that principle enables, at every moment of our lives, to prepare ourselves for change and away from the "familiar."
Let's take another of your comments, Scott: "If technique instead emerges from relationship, then perhaps there was never really a failed technique to begin with, only a continuing response to what is happening."
To my mind, Scott, concentrating on technique is akin to seeing each change as discrete moments in time, when, to use your words, "a continuing response to what is happening," that is, is changing constantly. It is no longer regarded as discrete, but a fluid movement, whether in Aikido or in Life.
Both practices, Aikido and living a life, require our constant and undivided attention.
Sounds exhausting, doesn't it? Well, that's why, in both cases, we need to take a rest. Away from the mat, in one case; sleep, in the other.
____
I love Henka Waza! You just inspired me to work on that in class tonight. Thank you!
Yes! I as well
really appreciate Aikido’s Founder,
O-Sensei, talking about how he was not always balanced — -that he was constantly losing balance and recovering it.
-That makes a lot of sense to me!
It changes how I think about “right” and “wrong,”
As Well,
Yes, both in training and in life.
Love your Article here,
My thoughts that occurred to me reading it are,
-It feels human, and therefore approachable.
One of the things I’ve always appreciated about Buddhism is that the Buddha was human — awakening wasn’t presented as perfection, but as realization.
When I think about balance and being wrong,
I notice how much of modern life revolves around judgment, analysis, and evaluation.
Everything becomes pathology. There is pressure to be correct, composed, graceful, and right all the time — standards that are unrealistic and often hostile to real growth.
Yet
we deeply admire people who achieve mastery in very basic human capacities — like balance itself.
-The tightrope walker fascinates us not because they never lose balance, but because they continuously recover it.
I experienced this very personally during periods when
I had dizzy spells from extreme diet and exercise in the past. -Few things have unsettled me more than suddenly feeling my balance disappear.
What surprised me was not just the fear, but the sense of vulnerability and helplessness that followed.
Those experiences made me far more sensitive to my sense of balance.
-And that surprised me.
I began to notice that balance is never fixed. If I pay close attention, I can feel myself constantly drifting slightly off-center and readjusting.
-When awareness becomes too critical, it can even become anxiety-producing — like getting caught in a loop trying to control something that cannot be held still.
(But again I thought becoming MORE aware is better, but it is not always that way.)
The solution always seems to be the same:
Calmness and a kind of indifference.
-When I stop trying to force balance, balance returns on its own.
Before those dizzy spells,
I don’t think I could train my sense of balance in quite the same way.
-It’s not that I became some kind of circus tightrope walker.
But becoming familiar with being off-balance
deepened my understanding of kuzushi.
I began to feel that kuzushi is not something we first do to another person — it is something we learn by recognizing instability within ourselves.
-As you wrote in the article,
if I never lose balance, I may not be fully engaging with life. Practice becomes less about performing the correct technique and more about sensing imbalance and adjusting from center. Uke is no longer an opponent but a teacher.
-In a strange way,
it reminds me of the Seinfeld episode where
George Costanza decides to do everything opposite of his usual instincts — and suddenly life starts working. Sometimes letting go of being right
-is what finally allows things to come together.
My anatomy and physiology teacher
in college
used to emphasize walking,
-learning to walk,
-is about losing your balance and falling forward
and catching it.