Worse than tests.

Tests are a chance to showcase techniques. What goes on at tests, though, is often more about nerves than it is techniques. Perhaps, if we were being picky, it would be more accurate to say it's about techniques in the midst of nerves. Either way, nerves have a lot to do with it. The thing about nerves is that the bruises and scars they leave last much longer than those of punches and kicks.

At tests, uke and nage both get both kinds of bruises and scars.

The upcoming test is now the most-recently-passed test. I took--this is an estimate, of course--about two-hundred falls. Add another fifty or hundred to that for the class and free practice before the test. And, I'm not saying that all didn't hurt; quite the opposite, it hurts right now down the whole length of my legs, arms, and back. I think there's a bump forming on the back of my head. Something's wrong with two or three of my fingers, and there's probably more to come as my body continues its conversations with me. Much more painful were the few genuine goofs committed.

The goofs hurt both those who pulled them and me, watching them. They took the forms of lapses in etiquette, mistakes in technique, and a simple social faux pas. You try to teach them better; they try to learn. You both cringe when what was more than adequate preparation turns out to have been just not enough. This post has turned out morose, when my overriding feeling of the day is actually satisfaction: about a dozen friends went through a trial today, and they handled themselves, on balance, with grace, poise, and skill. Be it a sin or not, I am proud of them. That's no small joy... There's just no ibuprofen for regret.

Sometimes, you get hit with a stick. (Installment #1)

It's barely there, anymore, but on the middle knuckle of my pointer finger is a still-pink and puffy, half-scabbed spot from where my finger had lost an argument with a shinai. That's right: not even the noble heft of a bokken to blame, this time. Just a rattling, bending shinai. Anyway, it was nearly healed in only a couple of days, only to get infected, swell up to the point that I couldn't really bend my finger, then take another week or so to shrink down to the point that the scab catches on my pocket every time I take my wallet or phone from my pants. The picture doesn't show much, but there's not much left of it, either--just enough to annoy me, which hardly singles it out for attention.



I wasn't even going to mention the finger. Then I went for some ibuprofen before class today, and the bottle gave me pause. There was blood on my ibuprofen bottle. Nobody else has been in my house, much less messing with my ibuprofen. So it must be my blood, I reasoned. It's only a little blood, so I hadn't lost enough bodily fluids to go light-headed and fail to realize an open wound. Rather, as I held up the bottle to inspect it further, I saw my finger instead of the bottle and realized the problem was the bloody finger from a week ago. Now, bleeding on my medicine is only a small problem. Not realizing I had done so, is a slightly larger one, because of its implications regarding my overall mental health, especially given the number of times I've picked up that bottle in the last week. I'm not going to dwell on this, or anything, because I'm sure there'll be more, worse, and better to worry about the next time I get hit with a stick.

When I'm not there.

A few stats on last week's training:

--Classes attended: 11
--With practice after class: more than 22 hours of training
--It wasn't aspirin, after all: more than 36 ibuprofen tablets taken
--Each ibuprofen: 200mg
--Dogi worn: 4
--Loads of dojo-specific laundry: 3
--Miles driven to and from the dojo: 96 (estimated)

The bright spot is that last one. In college, my commute to the dojo was ninety miles each way. So, relative to my younger days, at least I'm saving money. I'm probably spending all the money saved on gas on ibuprofen; back then, I needed only a distraction (homework; girls; Law&Order reruns) and a beer to heal. Aging, apparently, involves pecuniary as well as existential costs. I'm at least a little thankful each day, though, that I now spend more time inside the dojo than driving to and from it. Even when the traffic getting there is holiday-season-dumb.

The pain today is having to make that qualification: (estimated). Today, my girlfriend came back into town after a week away, and, by Murphy's Law, her flight got in during class time. There were two classes today, and the girlfriend is a far better one than I deserve, so she agreed to wait in the dojo during the second class, because it's halfway between home and the airport, and the timing just barely worked out.

Now, of course I was gratified when Sensei seemed actually glad to see make the second class, but as I recall the smile he greeted me with, I reflexively think about the class he'd finished teaching only minutes earlier, which I had missed.

No, I don't remember who did it, or where, but there was a poll taken of centenarians at the turn of the milennium, which asked, among other things, about their biggest regrets. Their consensus: missed opportunities. I'm not likening missing one hour of aikido to a marriage proposal, participation in a war, or international travel. I'm just shedding a little light on the dark corners of what some might call an aikido addiciton. Aikido is a living art. Every practice, practitioner, and execution of a technique is a unique intersection of effort and time. O-Sensei wrote of this repeatedly, in terms more eloquent than mine. I'll recommend his writings rather than elucidate further. At any rate, each moment of training I miss is one I can't ever get back. In this way, the love for aikido is just like that for a girlfirend, or a good drive, or anything else.

Admittedly, sometimes, with the bruises and the fat lips and the limping, the love of aikido does look very different from those other ones.