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Going with the Grain by Laura-Rose Russell Through the glass windows I am surprised to see Sensei leading a warm-up for class. I feel a slight sinking sensation as I see that already the evening is not going how I would like it to. I open the door as quietly as I can and slip inside. I avoid looking at Sensei as I remove my shoes and bowing to the kamiza, I scurry across the back of the mats towards the dressing rooms. As I change into my gi, I evaluate the situation. My attendance has dropped off significantly over the course of the summer for several reasons, and though I technically have enough practice days to be eligible for testing tonight, Sensei was skeptical of my commitment and reluctant to let me test. Today is his first day back from a week of seminars. I have been training hard, and Ed has given me permission to test, but I have yet to prove myself to Sensei. I thought we were going to have open practice before the tests, so I arrived an hour early, but instead I am fifteen minutes late for Sensei's class, which does not make me look committed. I wait at the edge of the mat, and Sensei gives me permission to join class. I warm-up quickly and begin to practice with my classmates. Sensei claps his hands and begins to demonstrate the next technique. It is an exercise we do not practice very often, and involves twisting uke into a headlock in which she is arched over backwards to the point that nage's arms around her neck are the only things keeping her from falling to the ground. My heart sinks again, this technique is very difficult for me emotionally. It terrifies me on a level that is difficult to explain. My mind scrambles for options; I could sit out and maintain my equilibrium to get me through the tests. I do not care if my classmates disapprove. They may think I sit out whenever I don't want to do something, but I am not studying aikido to impress them. Normally I wouldn't consider disobeying my instincts for Sensei either, but tonight I want to test, I want to show Sensei my level of commitment, and sitting out now may affect that in some way. I do not actively seek a partner, and decide that my choice to sit out or not will be made by whether I trust the person I end up being paired with. I find myself bowing to a man whom I trust very much; he knows his own strength and can read his uke's abilities very accurately. My voice is diminished by the emotions rising within me, and I quietly ask him to do the technique slowly so that I can get used to the ukemi. He is my sempei (senior student), so I attack him first, focusing on my breathing to calm myself As he wraps my head in his arms, my throat clenches and mentally I resist the urge to lash out and free myself. My body is rigid. Although I know that staying relaxed will be safer, my body tries instinctively to protect itself. Nage releases me with a gentle push, and I fall to the ground free and unharmed. I get up and enter the fear again as I attack, feeling my heart bind itself into knots, and tears begin to well up in my eyes. For a moment I fight them back, responding to a lifetime of demands from this culture not to show emotion, not to upset others by my feelings and, not to be so sensitive, so weak (because they equate the two). I have grown weary of those commands, and now I let the tears fall, knowing that if they cause anyone else distress it will be minimal in comparison to my own. Releasing the tears also releases some of the tension within me, and I find it easier to breath when I am not trying to hide my discomfort. Four times I enter this zone of intensity and vulnerability, and so far the fear is still building. Now I am nage, and I wish that this offered me some relief. While this is not the most difficult technique for me as nage, I am not comfortable with my task here, and I find my mind wandering to weapons work. When I began studying jo I was overwhelmed by new emotions that surfaced as I learned to handle the staff. The act of swinging a jo towards my partner's temple brought a rush of adrenaline to my system reminiscent of seeing an animal or child run into the street in front of my car. I fought to control the jo with the same incredible sense of terror as slamming on the brakes as I prayed to Gods I didn't believe in to please not let me hurt that small life. Facing this level of intensity and emotion each week in class wore me out, and affected my daily life. As I take my partner's head in my arms, and control his balance, I am aware of having the power to hurt him, and I do not welcome that power. He attacks me again, and even though I am protecting myself, potentially learning to protect myself against real harm, I am saddened by the unwanted power I must repeatedly draw into myself. Tears continue to fall as I release him to the ground. Four times I gain control of this man, and let him go, each time moving deeper into the sadness. When Sensei claps his hands again, I allow myself to feel relief at having completed the exercise. My sigh dies in my throat, however, as I watch Sensei demonstrate another variation on the same technique. I feel anger rising in my chest towards Sensei, my face grows tense and hot and I stiffen throughout. I seek the same comfort as before, leaving chance to decide whether or not I will continue on. I find myself bowing this time to a man whom I not only trust, but consider a friend. Internally I agree to go on. My partner looks at me with concern, and we begin to practice. It does get a little bit easier, I split my attention between taking ukemi and relaxing the fibers in my heart and throat. One part of my mind stays with my external body, attempting to stay loose and fall correctly, while the other part of my mind imagines clean air filling my lungs, flowing water soothing my skin, and gentle pressure massaging and heating the knots within. I am aware of how much harder it is to do this than to sit out from the exercise, but I am also aware of how much better it feels to train through my distress rather than hide or deny it. When I am nage, I remind myself that I can wield my power gently, and protect both uke and myself, that in fact Aikido teaches me to do just that. We stop practicing and kneel to watch Sensei demonstrate a finer point to another student. After a moment Sensei says "Laura-Rose, please," and nods to me, inviting me to attack him. I stare at him incredulously. Surely he has seen how much difficulty I am having. Surely he has seen my lips drawn tight and my brow furrowed, when normally I laugh and smile and spring up from each throw. I have just barely managed to get myself under some semblance of control, but I know my eyes are still red and swollen, and he wants me to visit this hell in front of the whole class. I am outraged. How dare he push me like this, how dare he think he knows my limits better than I do. I consider refusing him, knowing that I have never seen anyone refuse Sensei, and it is probably a serious breach of etiquette. At the moment I don't care if refusing him would be as rude as spitting on him, his audacity appalls me. I feel so close to meltdown though, that even total annihilation looks like a welcome respite. Without seeming to notice my hesitation, Sensei nods to me again. His hands are held in front of him, directed towards me, and I watch that familiar bob of his head cheerfully invite me back into the fray. Because this dojo has repeatedly accepted my vulnerability, because time and time again they have allowed me the choice of when to face my fear and discomfort, and because I know I can refuse at this moment, I step again into my fear and bow to Sensei. I bow slowly to demonstrate respect to him, to myself, and to the art of Aikido, and begin the attack.