Shu-Ha-Ri, and Imitation and Confidence

In the process of learning in budo, we learn by forms. This entails imitating the “signposts” created by those who came before us. Another way to consider forms is as the language, the letters, words, and grammar, that ultimately open the door for the practitioner to see the world the way the predecessors did, and describe it in the same way and more.

In the more modern grasp of budo, and particularly in the context of aikido which is without competitive matches, we also learn by those who we practice with. This can be seen clearly in the difference between a sensei and a coach: as students, we may think, “I want to become someone like my sensei” whereas we may not think so with respect to our coach, who is not in the practice in the same way or extent. Also, we may see our seniors as people to emulate and listen to, more than rivals to defeat or steal bits and pieces from in order to defeat. A psychological term that applies is, “introject”. We take into ourselves the worldview, opinions, expressions, etc. of another person. (“Introject” applies to kata as well, if we view kata as a message that our predecessors left us.)

In any case, the initial stage of budo is to learn by imitation, to take into oneself and become ingrained with that of others, and to develop/expand our capacity for doing the above. This is “shu” of the stages, “shu, ha, ri”.

When we become ingrained with something, of course it becomes comfortable and familiar. In a sense, it becomes habitual. Does this not detract or distract from knowing oneself? What is necessary to keep in mind while practicing is that the forms are a vehicle, or means, to some end. Indeed, we may have to suspend our ambition to reach that end to sufficiently go through the stage of “shu”. However, at some point we must revisit that original purpose.

The original purpose could be said to depend on the individual. One common original purpose is “to become strong”. Unfortunately, the change in being, seeing, and acting one can and should go through in “shu” can be shallow if one’s attachment to the original purpose is too strong, or one’s surrender to or enthusiasm about taking in the forms too faint. Thus, with a shallow change, one is more susceptible or amenable to suddenly ending the forms practice and simply attempting to use them according to one’s original vision of strength. The point is, one’s grasp of what it is to be strong, or of any original objective, is something that shouldn’t remain static or untouched by reflection. It should deepen and be dynamic.

To become able to do the forms well is to become more sensitive and perceptive. Thus, one can have deeper “conversations” with oneself, the environment, and the partner. To someone with undeveloped senses, there may appear to be nothing happening, whereas to a person with developed senses, something interesting and dynamic is occurring.

As stated above, regardless of one’s original objective in starting budo, that grasp should deepen and be dynamic. We can often see examples of convergent processes – namely, of different practitioners coming to the conclusion that the budo practice is to work on oneself, and that one’s opponent (relative to which one is striving to become strong) is oneself, not someone else. At the least, to become stronger relative to external opponents requires mastery of the self.

To progress in budo, then, is to continue having “conversations” and deepen those conversations. Thus, there is no particular end point to the practice. Also, there are no particular milestones of achievement – at least none that could be observed or assessed from the outside. Of course the “arena”, or format, of the practicing of those conversations is the kata.

To be better and better able to perform the kata is a by-product of increasing one’s capacity to sense and have those “conversations” (which of course includes adherence to the kata, rather than conversing without any limits, parameters, or structure). Of course, by one’s increasing capacity to sense and converse/communicate, the option to act outside the limits of the forms increases. Simultaneously, one can perceive when and how the limits, or structure, of the kata are more or less fitting at the moment. By practicing to viably step outside of the structure of the kata while maintaining the same fundamental communication, one is practicing in the “ha” stage.

How does this relate to “imitation” and “confidence”? By doing the form without communicating, that is, limiting one’s communication, one is over-emphasizing the superficial aspect of the form and neglecting practicing to deepen the communication. Developing the sense for deeper communication is likely what is indicated by the expression, “kan no me ()”. Neglecting to increase one’s capacity to communicate is the consequence of stopping at imitation. Another way to state this: each individual has a unique way to be and therefore to communicate; to nurture that capacity to be and communicate requires moving away from imitating and communicating like one’s role models. One has to reflect on one’s introjects and habits, those aspects of the self that aren’t truly of the self despite the comfort and familiarity that one may have toward them – in fact, they are the aspects that restrict the true self from manifesting.

What about “confidence”? To some extent, to some depth, to some degree of effectiveness, one may be able to accomplish the communication like one’s role models – that is, one can communicate well to some extent while still imitating. However, when we consider doing something in an unfamiliar way or having some unfamiliar experience, we experience fear and consequently hesitation, trepidation, etc. Confidence plays some part in overcoming such obstacles to encountering the unknown. In a grand sense, the unknown is the new, non-imitating way of communicating and being. In a smaller, more everyday sense, the unknown is every individual, spontaneous conversation that occurs.

It’s easy to say, you just need confidence, or need to be confident, to get over this obstacle of hesitating and wanting to stay within the limits of imitation. But how does one “get” confidence? One way is to view and recognize each individual conversation as entering into the unknown, and acknowledging that each occurs successfully, or even “just okay” – the point being, to consciously recognize the “success” with this thing that is supposedly scary, to enter into the unknown. Together with this way of viewing the situation, one has the opportunity to more and more let go of the “need” to arrive at a success. Such a “need” is just another manifestation of the limits we set and by which we create predictability and safety. (I.e., we set a limited range of definitions that we recognize as “successes”, even though there may in fact be a wider range ultimately.) This act of limiting also perpetuates a special position for “failures” – that is, failure as horrific and something which we should avoid at all costs. In one sense, to view failures this way is to be over-sensitive to them, while being under-sensitive to successes.

The original thought behind this writing was, how to get out of imitating. Thus it was not intended to center on the stages of shu-ha-ri, and so “ri” is not something immediately applicable although I will write some thoughts below.

(Perhaps it says something about me, but I am seeing the stage of “ha” as brief, and “shu” and “ri” as stages one spends more time in. If it is about me, it may say something about how much I’ve been over-thinking, and possibly have been going through the process of “ha” despite viewing myself as being in “shu”. In any case, my grasp is that these are not stages one tries to go through intentionally but to be used as a conceptual aid.)

If one is currently able to be, communicate, etc. independent of the specific action one is doing, then one is in the “ri” stage and the ongoing “project” in everyday practice is to communicate, etc.  regardless of the specific action, or kata, one is required to do. I have heard that one “returns to the form”. I take this to mean that there are certain demands in the form, such that a person who is highly advanced and in the “ri” stage can perceive them and has “something to work on” by the forms. It could also simply mean that the practitioner in “ri” is placing himself within certain limits by doing the forms, and by striving to communicate, etc. within the forms, he “has something to work on”.

Moving Forward in Discussions

This week of 2/15/09 on NPR (search online for “Holder’s ‘Cowards’ Comments Examined“(?)), there was a distinct part of the exchange in which the two people were discussing one of their speeches or essays. One person was critical, saying that he perceived that the writing’s focus on negative aspects of race-related discussions today was negating to all of the progress that has been made in the past few decades, that the focus ignored how different and positive it is for youth today compared to youth of thirty years ago. The author of the writing returned that he fully understood all of the progress that had been made as mentioned by the first person, but that that was not the topic of his writing – what was the topic were things that needed to be faced next. So the first person felt that, by its omission, it was being negated and overlooked. But here we have the author himself telling us he wasn’t doing that. Furthermore, we are given a description of his perspective and background which lend credibility – credibility that we are hearing the truth.

(Admittedly taking his side, here,) how is he supposed to compose a speech/essay that is concise and to the point, without digressing on a related but different tangent only to placate people with certain preconceptions and preoccupations? If we say that his essay has as a primary objective to reach everyone, including those who need placating, perhaps he in fact does need to spend some time on the digression. After all, his composition doesn’t come into this world into a vacuum, but into various contexts, which includes various audiences and respective interpretations. Perhaps, at the very least, a digression expressing what the goal of the composition is and what it consciously avoids would be valuable. On the other hand, we could say it’s the onus of the audience to deal with their own preoccupations and preconceptions. If they take in a composition (or read a book, see a movie, hear something from someone, etc.) and receive something that the creator never intended, shouldn’t they question how much was due to their own “junk”? In fact, isn’t the individual who is making the mis/re-interpretation the best person to have insight of what is happening to lead him to such an interpretation at all? And finally, since this is about communication, the format is relevant. If it is a conversation between two people, the speaker has the opportunity to get a sense of how the listener is receiving the words, and accordingly tweak what is being said. If it is an essay that has been completed, then the author does not have such an opportunity. The author’s skill in “pre-reading” the potential audiences’ reception may become apparent. Also, the audience may need to give the author the benefit of the doubt about what the author is striving to convey, precisely because they do not have the opportunity to hear the author’s clarifications.

In discussions about practitioners of aikido of different aspirations, the “moving forward” often becomes derailed by similar divergences of views and interpretations [1][2]. The people who have the knee jerk reactions of the defensive sort when they hear someone calling them or implying that they are “hobbyists”, evidently associate the idea of doing something as a hobby with doing something with little worth, little meaning, little benefit, little beauty, etc. Even if we consider something most people can probably grasp as a hobby, such as building birdhouses, tending a garden, or restoring old cars – for all of these things we can probably see the person doing it not as a professional yet investing much time, effort, energy, and money, attaining pleasure, peace, meaning, etc. and even bringing joy and benefit to others. How is it that “it’s a hobby” becomes “just a hobby”? Can the person hearing “just” acknowledge that that is what their mind is inclined to attach? Also, can such a person come up with an alternative word that is somehow more placating or satisfying? Would it help to assign a different word to those who are obviously more serious/invested? “Amateur”? “Apprentice”?

Without acknowledging and accounting for the objective of statements, conversations, terminology, and for the perspectives and formats of communication, then the discussions can’t move forward. And moving forward is inevitably going to include encountering some unsavory topics. In the case of race, it could include the topic of how to practically address differently different people’s socioeconomic positions as it related to their history. In the case of aikido, it could be about topics such as how teachers should be expected to treat different students differently, and what kind of discriminating treatment students should expect and tolerate. Recognizing that our discussion isn’t moving forward, assessing why it is so, and settling on some basic common ground are essential pieces of a complicated discussion. Without these pieces, it could be like talking about traveling together to the other side of the planet but not agreeing whether to start eastward or westward; like agreeing to travel some place relaxing or exciting but not agreeing where that is and even presuming the other person is thinking the same thing as oneself; like planning a trip somewhere with someone, with one person intending to stay for a few days and another for months, and packing the car accordingly.

Tuned out

Our  current historical environment can facilitate or even nurture a sense of safety and sufficiency (“What’s the big deal? It’s enough. I can get by”) while being tuned out or as say, “watching TV.” An excerpt from Anathem by Neal Stephenson:

As we were walking back down to the lake’s edge, Quin – who had been silent for a while – cleared his throat. “You mentioned that there were certain things you have to leave behind when you enter this new Magisterium [a kind of community],” he reminded me. “Does that include religion?”

One measure of how much things had changed was that this didn’t make me in the least bit nervous. “I’m glad you brought that up,” I said. “I noticed that Artisan Flec came with you.” 

[...] “Yeah. Anyway, I just want to say, if his presence here is not appropriate…” 

“The rule of thumb we’ve been using is that Deolaters [believers in gods] are welcome as long as they’re not certain they’re right,” I said. “As soon as you’re sure you’re right, there’s no point in your being here.” 

“Flec’s not sure of anything now,” Quin assured me. Then, after a minute: “Can you even have an Ark [a religious place/org.], if you’re not sure you’re right? Isn’t it just a social club, in that case?” 

[...] “Flec should hike up to Arsibalt’s Dowment,” I suggested. “It is going to be a center for working on that kind of thing.” 

Quin made a wry grin. “I’m not sure if Flec wants to work on it.”

“He just wants to be told?”

“Yes. Or at least, that’s what he’s used to – what he’s comfortable with.”

“I have a few Laterran friends now,” I said, “and one of them, the other say, was telling me about a philosopher named Emerson who had some useful upsights about the difference between poets and mystics. I’m thinking that it’s just as applicable in our cosmos as it is in his.”

“I’ll bite. What’s that difference?”

“The mystic nails a symbol to one meaning that was true for a moment but soon becomes false. The poet, on the other hand, sees that truth while it’s true but understands that symbols are always in flux and that their meanings are fleeting.” [...] “Anyway, my point is that guys like Flec have a weakness, almost a kind of addiction, for the mystical, as opposed to the poetic, way of using their minds. And there’s an optimistic side of me that says such a person could break that addiction, be retrained to think like a poet, and accept the fluxional nature of symbols and meaning.” 

“Okay, but what’s the pessimistic side telling you?”

“That the poet’s way is a feature of the brain, a specific organ or faculty, that you either have or you don’t. And that those who have it are doomed to be at war forever with those who don’t.”  

How much to cater to the mystic who comes into such a place, since they face the transition to becoming a poet regardless, and maybe deserves the benefit of the doubt, that he’s bothering to come in because being a mystic isn’t feeling sufficient? I wonder if most dojos let the mystic continue to be that way and even encourage him so.

Language/Communication

I find myself often return to the analogy of language (or conversation, communication, etc.) when thinking about aikido and people in general. I realized recently that the first time I wrote anything for others to read – it was for the Saku dojo newsletter – it was about the same thing. (I can’t remember specifically what I wrote but I’m sure it was a crude, beta version thing that covered way more topics than it should have in a page.)

Recently I’ve been thinking about style/method/school differences, such as at seminars, and about the teacher/student relationship. I think that both of these situations entail unique factors not likely found in “usual” relationships and communication.

Cheating

I was watching a ted.com video of Michael Moschen, and at one point he was talking about finding balance while he balanced a broom in the palm of his hand (the brush-end pointing up). While doing this he used the word, “cheating”, and gripped and steadied the broom with his fingers (which got a few laughs), then went on to say, “making up the rules so that you can’t cheat” e.g., by moving the broom up on to his forearm, shoulder, etc.

“Knowledge is Power”; “Power Corrupts”

This could be related to the idea/realization that a lot of the “aikido greats” uchideshi were young when they were kicking butt and being sent overseas to spread the good word. And since they were young we might unwittingly forget that at that stage in their life as human beings and aikido practitioners they had more or less universal issues to wrestle with (or pass over), such as impatience, dogma, objectifying others, arrogance, expectations of others, etc. And since I have more or less been in the same stage of life in recent years, I know I face these issues myself.