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Thrust without Thrusting: Some thoughts on Weapons Training by Benjamin Pincus Sensei Chief Instructor, Aikido of Champlain Valley Do not thrust with the mind, Do not thrust with the hands, Let the spear make the thrust- Thrust without thrusting. From the Hundred Verses of the Spear Writing, like aikido practice, does not always come easily to me. I find it particularly difficult to evoke the spirit of aikido on paper. Aikido is ephemeral in the sense that we throw or cut and then move on, while ink lasts forever. My reluctance to describe my training comes from an attempt to escape my excessive preoccupation with thought. I seek to thrust without thrusting, throwing or striking without any desire to achieve anything beyond the martial urgency of that moment. I want to translate this spontaneity on the mat into learning how to live a focused life, unimpeded by doubts, fear and distractions. I sometimes think that I need to "burn the manuscripts" — stop dwelling on thought — to find this clarity. Zen Buddhists, despite copious amounts of religious manuscripts, often express antipathy towards the written word, which is viewed as a poor analogue for the immediacy of experience. The 13th century Chinese sage Mumon, with the characteristic pithiness of Zen, says it best: If you want to express the truth throw out your words ...and tell me about your own Zen. So I approach writing with some trepidation, brush halfway drawn. If I start thinking too much I lose the passion of the moment. I toss the brush. Ink splatters dojo walls. My mind is once again empty of distraction and hesitation. Perhaps this is why I like weapons practice. The thrust of sword allows little time for discursive thought. If the mind stops, you will be hit. It is so simple in its angles and repetition, yet so difficult in its infinite subtlety — the complex interrelationship between timing, distance, tension, and relaxation. Kiri otoshi embodies this complexity, and perhaps is the essence of martial arts practice. Kiri otoshi means "dropping cut": simply described, the attacker strikes for the head or shoulder in a shomenuchi (strike to the top of the head) movement with the bokken (wooden sword) and the defender steps back, mirroring the same movement with a cut that twists slightly into the sword of the opponent. Victory or defeat is determined by a very narrow margin — if the hip is not properly pulled, the distance is wrong, or the cut is too slow, the encounter will result in ai-uchi, literally harmonious strike. Mutual death. Sometimes people talk while training. As a result, they have no focus and little martial spirit in their practice. However, you cannot talk and execute kiri otoshi with any clarity or finesse. It demands absolute attention. Consider how much we think on the mat, and how rarely thought is germane to the immediacy of the encounter. Here is no room for ego — do I look good? Did Sensei see me? Does this work? In reality, there is no time for thought. If your mind is caught, your opponent can attack before you move, because a cloudy mind already invites a suki - a gap or opening in one's awareness. What a beautiful, simple practice, and a lesson for how to live! I am reminded of the Korean Zen story of the temple abbot who refused to show respect to a conquering General. "I could run you through with my sword without blinking," the General says, angrily grasping the hilt of his weapon. The Abbot calmly returns his stare. "I could get run through without blinking," he replies. The General, realizing that he has met his match, bows and walks away. This commitment to being cut, this glimpse of the void, is what constitutes focused weapons practice. I think the awareness that comes with martial focus is paradoxically an antidote to violence. Violence appears with otherness — a mistaken sense that I am separate from others. But the sword that I cut with also cuts myself, annihilating ego, pretensions, anger and the illusion of autonomy. After all, existence is characterized by the inevitability of ai-uchi. Eventually we will all face a great void. It is up to us whether or not we have the compassion and the awareness to join hands and leap (or strike) together. I am alone in the dojo; silence whispers infinite possibility. It is dusk before a class in midwinter. My feet merge gently with the darkness. Cool mats under my feet while I sweat with the concentration and fatigue of cutting. One cut then one hundred then one thousand as I lose count and my left hand is raw from the abrasion of oak against sweaty palm. I will often only do shomen cuts — a strike toward the top of the head or through the face of an imaginary opponent. So simple, yet there is so much involved. The bokken must feel alive, like a blade in my hands. It is not a mechanical act, but an expression of my awareness and commitment. I hope I never stop learning. So I never stop cutting, even as the darkness of winter embraces my body. The bokken, jo and iaito teach me that someone grabbing my wrist does not limit my internal strength. I can extend ki beyond this point, through my fingertips. The weapon then taught me how the power of the mind extends beyond my hands on the hilt, and even beyond the tip. Power is unlimited, but we tend to focus on what we hold, rather than embracing the universe.