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Remembering Paul Sylvain Sensei by Benjamin Pincus My teacher Paul Sylvain Sensei died in an automobile crash with his two year old daughter, Chloe, five years ago on Memorial Day weekend. His van hit a concrete bridge abutment at high speed just when his life seemed so clear: he had a new dojo, a loving wife and three beautiful children. He died in flames, which adds to the myth when I recall his fiery focus and intensity. But more than that, I remember someone who transformed my life, who had a heart (and forearms) so big that sometimes, when he made himself vulnerable, it seemed like he could embrace the universe. He was a great man made human by his contradictions: a graceful weightlifter and ex-football player who believed that he was clumsy, a Buddhist scholar turned dad and aikido Sensei. He loved sports, especially basketball, yet spoke passionately about politics and the poetry of William Blake. He was so clear and definite on the mat, but hid his shyness and fear behind a cold-eyed stare, especially around people he did not trust. He was possibly the first official American Aikido Shihan (awarded posthumously) and 6th dan in aikido, and Shihan and 7th dan in Muso Shinden Ryu iaido. He had so many accomplishments, a big, arrogant man who often felt small and inadequate. At first, I found these contradictions and his arrogance difficult to swallow, and I almost left his dojo. But over the years I learned to love him with dedication and a deep sense of trust. He was a great teacher because of his contradictions, and his ability to create a wonderful aikido community precisely because he needed this stability. I miss grabbing his giant wrists, his technical precision, and his fire. But most importantly, I miss his presence and his ability to transmit his vision of aikido with humor, love and grace. I wrote the following article shortly after he died. I could think of so many things to say about Sylvain Sensei five years after the accident, yet this piece was directly from my heart, and that is perhaps the most important thing. — Benjamin Pincus, 2001 What they undertook to do They brought to pass; All things hang like a drop of dew Upon a blade of grass. W.B. Yeats, "Gratitude to the Unknown Instructors" I began training with