Be Like Water

Be like water… that is something of a motto for all the budo. It carries with it many implications and connotations, all of which fit compactly within the confines of the words, much the same way as the finer, intuitive points of technique and application are layered within the kata.

The past few weeks, Sensei has been focusing our attention to the mental aspect of the form as much as anything else—being aware, tranquil, meditative, and prepared for anything. That gives me an edge, because I have a solid grasp of the philosophy of budo, and my mind is slightly sharper than my body. Sure, my ankles could be a little more flexible to facilitate the explosive, plyometric reaction necessary to bolt from any stance. Sure, I’m projecting my intentions with my hips too much before I actually execute the technique. But I do have my strengths, too.

So that’s a large part of what Sensei has us doing lately. Coincidentally, I went on a fast last weekend (not counting Friday night, when I went to the plaza with Dean). Saturday afternoon, since it wasn’t too hot outside, I took a backpack with a few books and a bottle of water to Blue River Parkway, the most satisfying forest trail network I have found to date. Spending some time off the beaten path, I read up on a few things, emptied my head of the ceaseless music, and searched for my center. You could call it a retreat, I suppose. A refreshing reconciliation of Eastern and Christian Knowledge. No “new” internal discoveries were made, but it doesn’t hurt to empty your cup and re-learn some of the hazy parts.

Also, this was my element. The woods of Missouri. What better place than the same type of environment I would explore with earnest as a child? What better place than the trees, the river, the cliffs? I couldn’t help but notice that certain trees had some low, downward-curved branches that provided canopies reminiscent of Dagobah. No, Missouri is much prettier than Dagobah. No bog serpents, either. But I digress.

The hunger didn’t get to me as much as the wear and tear on my feet and calves. But I found what I was looking for.

Too much humility can be a bad thing, by the way. I’ve noticed that, in every facet of life, my wisdom has gone unnoticed or unappreciated. I had been fine with that; sharing such things with receiving credit in mind would be the wrong reason for doing so. But there comes a point when internalizing everything does you more harm than good.

When I take humility to the extreme, not seeking recognition for my knowledge, wisdom, and experience, it is no wonder that I am regarded with dismissive skepticism when I do try to communicate concept to someone (especially during composition seminars at BGSU, or even religious discussions with my own family). How many times did people ignore important words because they didn’t respect the mind those words were coming from? Think about all the Dan McDonoughs and Burton Beermans of the world—those naïve enough to presume that because they know you in one single context that they have a glimpse of your persona as a whole. Think about that master class in which Dr. Lillios led a discussion on “deep listening.” I tried to contribute, because I could contribute, I could further explain some of her concepts to the rest of the composers, but I was struck down and muted. (The faculty there never wanted a discussion; they wanted a lecture under the guise of free-thinking, open discussion. They wanted a room full of bobble heads to adulate their experience.)

I was ignored because they didn’t see what I had to offer. They didn’t see because I was too humble to bring it up. Because I didn’t give the impression that I knew what I was talking about prior to that, I lacked the credibility to execute. In retrospect, I probably should have opened myself more at BG. Anything “Eastern” was instantly admired there, though I kept my knowledge secret, out of humility. Thus humility and secrecy became the seeds of resentment, and the rest is history.

Discussions I had with Amanda Plocher in June came to mind, the theme being credibility, accountability, and how they all tie into identity. This, of course, is very complex. This, of course, was part of what I pondered in the woods. This is, of course, a lengthy aside, and not the true nature of my reflections, nor a stunning revelation.

The point is that it shocks some people when I tell them I was fasting in the wilderness, walking the lonely path between East and West. The point is that I know more than I let on. The point is that it is disheartening when people are surprised to find out that I might be a little more centered than they expect.

My chronic, crippling paradox: how do you blog/talk about something without sounding anything but humble about it? That must be why I usually don’t even try. That must be why I have such a love-hate relationship with this blog: my phobia of misrepresentation. My blog has recently proved to have a much more eclectic readership than I was aware of, too; it’s like I’m standing in the middle of a crowded room where everyone knows me but not each other, and I say something really loudly towards a small niche of people that makes everyone else in the room fidgety. Oh well, this is my story. It’s also the only thing I have to talk about lately, so… it’s going on the blog. That’s what a blog is for.

Find your center. Be like water.