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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 Paul in 1987, and continued to practice at Valley Aikido for the next five years. Paul's technique, refined over years of training and instruction, was inspiring; I recall my surprise that such a large, powerful man could move so lightly. An excellent teacher, Paul knew how to challenge his students, always encouraging change and refinement. Yet he rarely praised us, concealing compliments in wordplay that blended approbation with disapproval. He would say, with characteristic irony, things like, "You move like me; the only problem is you are not big enough," or, during a particularly frustrating bokken, class, "You practice weapons the way you drive a car." Paul was fond of stating that some of his best (and worst) students came out of Hampshire College, my alma mater. With direct approval so rare, I recklessly assumed that he was acknowledging my progress. He also was an excellent cook. I recall thinking about food while painting his house in Belchertown in the morning sunlight. I paused on the ladder, wiping the sweat from my brow and Paul called for a lunch break. We ate countless dishes of pickled radish and ginger, scallions, sauteed mushrooms, and soba noodles. "Slurp louder," he urged, demonstrating his skill with a particularly fierce intake of noodles, broth and air. In Japan, slurping is a sign of sincere appreciation and hearty appetite. Eating, he implied, should be a manifestation of our awareness. Perhaps this was my most important lesson: that training, even during ordinary moments, never ceased. During my years with Paul, I realized that aikido was not simply reducible to technical prowess. Instead it is about how to become a student; how to become receptive, sensitive, and open to new challenges and experiences. In the Japanese martial tradition, the sword embodies both the capacity to take life — satsujinken — and give life — katsujinken. I think that Paul's ability to blend these two elements and his commitment to aikido is what made him such a wonderful and difficult teacher. Two memories of Paul illuminate this notion of taking and giving life. I recall the time he applied nikkyo. I had only recently joined the dojo, and I already thought I knew something about aikido. I resisted, and he glared at me. "I could break your wrist like a twig," he said. Training with Paul was always intense; he was powerful and intimidating, and there was always an element of sharpness, of danger. Yet I always felt safe. He recognized my emotional and physical limits and I rose from the floor with a sense of strength coupled with lightness, a defiance of gravity. This feeling reflected the other side of Paul: his ability to wrestle with private demons and contradiction within himself and still transmit joyful energy; his integrity, humor, and love of his students and children. He played with his children with an incredible sense of joy, as if he wanted to give them the love and lightness that he never had for himself as a child. My final memory of Paul captures some of this softness. I was about to leave for India, and wanted to stay in touch. After class, I said goodbye and gave him a gallon of Vermont maple syrup. "The kids will love it," he said, and quickly, almost shyly, received the container. And then, in the silence of his office, he gave me a sudden hug, something he rarely did. I felt off-balance, surprised, and pleased. "Take care," he said, and that was the last time I saw him. I think about Paul often. Especially during quiet, reflective moments: in the flat light of early morning, or in the kitchen at sunset. I prepare soba; I smell ginger and sesame oil and gaze past steam rising in the air. It is so green outside, so alive; lilacs are in bloom, and the recent rains imbue the grass with a diamond-like clarity. I take all of this in and swallow hot noodles, slurping as loudly as possible. "Domo Arigato Gozaimashita, Sensei." Thank you with all my heart, Paul, for everything you have taught me. Benjamin Pincus June 15, 1996