"Close Your Mouth And Keep Your Soul Inside."

Teaching Aikido on the mat is only a small part of the job as an Aikido instructor.  

Off the mat, we continue to answer the many questions from students -- sometimes in person, sometimes via email or texts.  It makes me feel like an advice columnist.

This day, Miss Know-It-All received a fan mail, asking about "being focused".

To my eyes, this student often lacks focus on the mat.  Even when he tries, his concentration oozes out easily.  He says that, when he meditates, he often focuses on his breathing.  Yet, during practices, when so many things are going on, it turns into a mess.  

"Does this make any sense at all?" he asks.

On this, he is hardly alone.  I remember feeling that way before.  To this day, when I engage in activities that I am not proficient at, I can still feel this way.  To varying degrees, other students exhibit similar problems, too.

He got me thinking about what "being focused" really means.

I watch people practice in class all the time.  It is not like they do not try.  They actually try super hard.  It just seems like they are not chanelling their energy in the most productive way.  One telltale sign that people are overthinking and trying too hard is that their heads are sticking out -- sometimes to the extent that their jaws are hanging low, and their mouths are wide open.  Their eyes tend to be fixated at where their hands are.  They are so committed to "making something happen" that they have lost sight of everything else.

Perhaps, "focus" is not really the right word.  

Awareness.  They have lost their awareness.

Being focused does not mean being consumed.  Yet, many times, people are consumed by the perceived task that is in front of them.  When I point out something that is rather obvious, like their distorted posture, for example, they seem surprised.  They have no idea of what they have been doing.

Aikido is about managing oneself.  What task can be so important that it warrants losing your composure?

Willfulness and Mindfulness are the Yin and Yang of the mind.  As soon as one side enlarges, the other side shrinks.  It is a zero-sum game.  It is almost impossible to expect people to be mindful when they are in a task-oriented mode.  

Many years ago, Takeguchi Sensei had us practice a certain footwork.  "It only takes two steps.  One is faster than two; two is faster than three.  For this move, we cannot get away with just one step.  So, stick to two.  Try not to do three, or four . . . " 

Sensei came by to watch me and my partner practice.  When it was my turn, Sensei announced in a calm but firm voice, "Three."  I was surprised.  "Huh?"  I looked at Sensei.  Without showing much emotion, Sensei elaborated, "Three.  You made three steps."  

I tried again.  

"Three." Sensei announced. 

"What?  How can it be?" I thought to myself.  

I slowed down to examine myself:  Indeed, I did three steps!  How could I have made three steps without knowing?  

If I looked at my feet and slowed down to glacial speed, I could pull it off with two steps.  However, the moment I tried to do it normally, came Sensei's voice, "Three."  

"Three."  

"Three."  

"Three."  

Over and over and over again.

"Three." 

It felt as if I were possessed or something.  "Why am I making three steps uncontrollably???"  I was stuck in the Hell of Three Steps.  

One recent evening, we practiced a footwork that required two steps.  It was like a reenactment of the scene from years ago.  A relatively experienced student kept taking three steps for this two-step move.  I stood near him to watch and started announcing "Three" every time he took an extra step.  

At first, he was in disbelief.  And then he struggled.  The more he tried to make it happen, the harder it was to control his feet.  It did not take long for this physical struggle to turn into an emotional one.  I could have walked away and left him alone, but I did not.  I stayed to continue to say "Three" for him when he made an extra step -- just like what my teacher once did for me.  

I could tell my dear student was on an emotional rollercoaster.  It was written all over his face.  Maybe he was kicking and beating on himself.  Maybe he was angry with me.  Maybe he wanted me to just vanish.  But I stayed there to say the much dreaded number in the same even but firm voice, hoping that he finds the rut for two.  

To this day, I still remember the intense and complicated emotions as I tried to learn my moves while my teacher said "Three." next to me.  He already gave me the address of the destination.  He could have left the rest to me.  It was my journey.  He could not walk it for me.  Yet, he accompanied me the entire way.  However long it took me to finally get from three to two, he stayed with me the whole time.  I cannot be more grateful.  

And now it is my turn to walk someone else.