Teacher Tom: Everyone Protecting Everyone

Teacher Tom: Everyone Protecting Everyone.

When the girls came outside, the boys chased the girls chased the boys, wildly, around and around our outdoor space, all flushed and breathing hard, chasing without catching, everyone protecting everyone.”

The way he did it, honestly sharing his opinion, not adding any judgment,and the playful shuttle diplomacy he practiced, is pure playwork.

Shame that many playworkers don’t do it like this.

This is either because they aren’t allowed to, or they haven’t been shown, or, probably, they haven’t been allowed to learn how to.

THE ART OF HELPING: Why is he drunk? What should I do? What I? What do?

subjaptrain

THE TRAIN CLANKED and rattled through the suburbs of Tokyo on a drowsy spring afternoon. Our car was comparatively empty – a few housewives with their kids in tow, some old folks going shopping. I gazed absently at the drab houses and dusty hedgerows.

At one station the doors opened, and suddenly the afternoon quiet was shattered by a man bellowing violent, incomprehensible curses. The man staggered into our car. He wore laborers clothing, and he was big, drunk, and dirty. Screaming, he swung at a woman holding a baby. The blow sent her spinning into the laps of an elderly couple. It was a miracle that the was unharmed. Terrified, the couple jumped up and scrambled toward the other end of the car. The laborer aimed a kick at the retreating back of the old woman but missed as she scuttled to safety. This so enraged the drunk that he grabbed the metal pole in the center of the car and tried to wrench it out of its stanchion. I could see that on of his hands was cut and bleeding. The train lurched ahead, the passengers frozen with fear. I stood up.

I was young then, some 20 years ago, and in pretty good shape. I’d been putting in a solid eight hours of aikido training nearly every day for the past three years. I like to throw and grapple. I thought I was tough. Trouble was, my martial skill was untested in actual combat. As students of aikido, we were not allowed to fight.

“Aikido,” my teacher had said again and again, “is the art of reconciliation. Whoever has the mind to fight has broken his connection with the universe. If you try to dominate people, you are already defeated. We study how to resolve conflict, not how to start it.”

I listened to his words. I tried hard I even went so far as to cross the street to avoid the chimpira, the pinball punks who lounged around the train stations. My forbearance exalted me. I felt both tough and holy. In my heart, however, I wanted an absolutely legitimate opportunity whereby I might save the innocent by destroying the guilty.

This is it! I said to myself, getting to my feet. People are in danger and if I don’t do something fast, they will probably get hurt. Seeing me stand up, the drunk recognized a chance to focus his rage. “Aha!” He roared. “A foreigner! You need a lesson in Japanese manners!”

I held on lightly to the commuter strap overhead and gave him a slow look of disgust and dismissal. I planned to take this turkey apart, but he had to make the first move. I wanted him mad, so I pursed my lips and blew him an insolent kiss.”All right!” he hollered. “You’re gonna get a lesson.” He gathered himself for a rush at me.

A split second before he could move, someone shouted “Hey!” It was ear splitting. I remember the strangely joyous, lilting quality of it – as though you and a friend had been searching diligently for something, and he suddenly stumbled upon it. “Hey!”

I wheeled to my left; the drunk spun to his right. We both stared down at a little old Japanese. He must have been well into his seventies, this tiny gentleman, sitting there immaculate in his kimono. He took no notice of me, but beamed delightedly at the laborer, as though he had a most important, most welcome secret to share.

“C’mere,” the old man said in an easy vernacular, beckoning to the drunk. “C’mere and talk with me.” He waved his hand lightly. The big man followed, as if on a string. He planted his feet belligerently in front of the old gentleman, and roared above the clacking wheels, “Why the hell should I talk to you?” The drunk now had his back to me. If his elbow moved so much as a millimeter, I’d drop him in his socks.
The old man continued to beam at the laborer. “Whatcha been drinkin?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with interest.

“I been drinkin sake,” the laborer bellowed back, “and it’s none of your business!” Flecks of spittle spattered the old man.

japanese-persimmon“Oh, that’s wonderful,” the old man said, “absolutely wonderful! You see, I love sake too. Every night, me and my wife (she’s 76, you know), we warm up a little bottle of sake and take it out into the garden, and we sit on an old wooden bench. We watch the sun go down, and we look to see how our persimmon tree is doing. My great-grandfather planted that tree, and we worry about whether it will recover from those ice storms we had last winter. Our tree had done better than I expected, though especially when you consider the poor quality of the soil. It is gratifying to watch when we take our sake and go out to enjoy the evening – even when it rains!” He looked up at the laborer, eyes twinkling.

As he struggled to follow the old man’s conversation, the drunk’s face began to soften. His fists slowly unclenched. “Yeah,” he said. “I love persimmons too.” His voice trailed off.

“Yes,” said the old man, smiling, “and I’m sure you have a wonderful wife.”

“No,” replied the laborer. “My wife died.” Very gently, swaying with the motion of the train, the big man began to sob. “I don’t got no wife, I don’t got no home, I don’t got no job. I am so ashamed of myself.” Tears rolled down his cheeks; a spasm of despair rippled through his body.

Now it was my turn. Standing there in well-scrubbed youthful innocence, my make-this-world-safe-for-democracy righteousness, I suddenly felt dirtier than he was.

Then the train arrived at my stop. As the doors opened, I heard the old man cluck sympathetically. “My, my,” he said, “that is a difficult predicament, indeed. Sit down here and tell me about it.”
I turned my head for one last look. The laborer was sprawled on the seat, his head in the old man’s lap. The old man was softly stroking the filthy, matted hair.

As the train pulled away, I sat down on a bench. What I had wanted to do with muscle had been accomplished with kind words. I had just seen aikido tried in combat, and the essence of it was love. I would have to practice the art with an entirely different spirit. It would be a long time before I could speak about the resolution of conflict.

Terry Dobson

”I found this on the web, but it closely follows “A Kind Word Turneth Away Wrath” by Terry Dobson in ‘Aikido and the New Warrior’ edited by R. S. Heckler. The book chapter reads better; what follows sounds like a early draft. —SAP

and I found it here, says APB:

http://omlc.ogi.edu/aikido/talk/others/dobson.html

~~~ I'D LIKE TO HAVE SEEN BASHO AT…

~~~

I’D LIKE TO HAVE SEEN,
BASHO AT WORK IN 1674,
WHEN HE RAN,
THE ‘EDO PREFECTURE CHILDREN’S PLAY GARDEN #8′,
.

~~~

I’d like to have seen Basho at work when he ran ‘Edo Prefecture Children’s Play Garden #8′ in 1674.

He was only there for two years. Argument with management.

Here is a reasonably-well transliterified version of what he wrote, 300 years ago, in a different language, on the other side of your planet:

the first cold rainstorm –

even the monkey seems to want

a little straw raincoat

Basho (1644 – 1694)

That seems an apposite haiku for the cold winter of our dis-affluence and the cold winter of our weather.

Don’t read on, I talk about poetry!

  • too late!

Here is another (older?), version:

Winter downpour
even the monkey
needs a raincoat

Although, I, being both a haiku ponce and nerd, prefer the first version:

The first cold rainstorm:
Even the monkey seems to want
a little straw raincoat.

And notice that I replaced that softer colon with a minidash, to honour the ‘cutting’ of the rules of haiku.*

The first translitation gets to the point, and enables the non-Japanese to ‘get it’, sort of, but Basho is being more specific and allusive (and ill- and el -usive) when he describes the first cold rain and the onset of winter in japan.

Japan is on the same latitude —or is it longi- ?— same -tude, anyway, meaning same distance above equator as the UK, but much colder, because it has no gulf stream, is an island chain in deep ocean not on a continental shelf, and has Siberia and Alaska as cold and distant neighbours.

And Basho would never presume to know what the monkey needs or wants.

Like Wittgenstein, he wouldn’t presume to know what a monkey might say, even if a monkey could speak English (or Japanese), he would merely offer a tentative finger pointing to a possibility…

A bit like a good playworker gently deflecting a child’s request to draw her a picture of a house (except when we don’t deflect, added a wiser playworker).

He might want to make a toothpick from the straw of the coat, or, he might want want to…

This exquisite ‘tentativity’ (!) is present in Basho almost always. And in good playworkers often.

I’d like to have seen Basho at work when he ran ‘Edo Prefecture Children’s Play Garden #8′ in 1674.

footlike notational bottom matter:

  • rules of haiku.

There are several schools, on a continuum. One extreme is the ‘It has to have 17 syllables’ school: this is stupid for about 37 reasons (yes, ask me at break). The other is the ‘Just write what you feel, maan and arrange it like a poem, like’. That one is stupid as well, not in 37 small ways but in a 3 bigger ways.

I like to think I fall between two schools, because I don’t own a chair and I’m on the edge of both their catchment areas. But check out my SATs.**

footlike feetnote to the foot above:

  • SATs

My new acronym for SOCIAL ARGUMENT TECHNOLOGY, which is my NEW management methodology.

A poem about trees and small boys

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173524

 

a quote from the middle:

But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.

Orange County city council unanimous: Occupy tents are a form of speech

http://boingboing.net/2011/10/27/orange-county-city-council-unanimous-occupy-tents-are-a-form-of-speech.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+boingboing%2FiBag+%28Boing+Boing%29

Not in the City of London they aren’t. Earlier today Call me Dave was exhorting us to camp out in Oxford street or something. A rare example of American liberalism.