Stillness and Flow -Reflections from Iwama

by Jacob Clapsadle

After sixteen time zones crossed, thirty hours awake and eternity spent in the customs line at Narita airport, only one thing could keep me from falling straight into bed:

A gigantic bowl of ramen.

Alexis, who had been on the same plane to Japan, ventured with me into the wet Ueno night to seek sustenance. We were not disappointed. A short walk later we found ourselves in a tiny shop huddled over steaming heaps of heavenly tsukemen dipping noodles.

But something wasn’t right. As I slurped and stared out the window, the rain slick street outside seemed to sway back and forth. It was like the ramen shop was a boat, and all Tokyo a shimmering neon nighttime sea. Was it an earthquake, or the shudder of a passing train? I rubbed my eyes and blinked. No, it was me.

Whether from sleep deprivation or some unknown inner-ear conundrum, this seasick sensation would rock me time and again over the next two weeks. It was ironic: I had traveled to Japan to solidify my Aikido practice; a metaphorical, spiritual centering. Yet there I was, literally and physically out of balance! Going to bed that night I couldn’t wait to reach Iwama. There, in the distraction-free uchi deshi lifestyle, I was sure to find stability and focus.

When we arrived there a few days later, the trees that lined the driveway held a tunnel-like canopy of webs, woven by the huge, green-black Jorō spiders that seemed to be everywhere. They didn’t frighten me. I recalled them from visits past, and like so many impressions of Iwama, they evoked fond memories. I associated them with the sound of slapping hands against hard tatami, the smell of the warm cedar slats of the dojo on a sunny day, and the bustle of the steamy shokudo, crowded with cooks. As we wheeled our luggage into the compound, it was comforting to see that not too much had changed.

The five of us from Oakland would stay there for ten days. The daily schedule would not be easy: chores before sunrise, then training, more chores, more training, a little break, then evening class. Ten days was hardly enough time to get used to it, but it was all we could manage that year.

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Inagaki Sensei was present almost every morning. Addressing the foreign visitors before keiko, he took care to explain not just his own long history in Aikido, but the specific dates and reasons that O’sensei established the dojo and the Aiki Shrine, and how Saito Sensei came to be dojo-cho. He pointed out the floor area of the original 24-tatami training hall, before it was expanded to its current size, and the space near the kamiza which had once been screened off as a room for O’Sensei to meditate and pray. In evening classes, other teachers reminisced about the old days, the hard training, and the rustic country life.

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Despite so much tradition, stability was elusive in those first days. The facilities were spartan as ever and the days of work were as long and hard as the roots of the summer weeds that we battled with mower, scythe and barrow. Like forgotten childhood bullies, I became reacquainted with the four great discomforts of uchi deshi life: The heat, the cold, the mosquitoes, and the endless deficit of clean laundry. On this trip, personal space was particularly scarce. The dojo’s calendar was packed with visitors from all over the globe, and the futon delivery van could hardly keep up with all their comings and goings. On one night of peak capacity, there were twenty uchi deshi sleeping on the mat, in the dormitory cabin, or squirreling away in the various side rooms.

One morning during breakfast rush in the shokudo I got the news that an old friend had passed away— a former neighbor from my hometown. He was one of my first training partners when I started Aikido in high school, back when I believed it was all about who could take the biggest rolls and survive the highest high falls. It felt like a million years ago. My friend had retired from training but was still very much in the community and his passing was unexpected. I found it hard to think about; it was all so far away, and besides I had to finish eating and take a shower before morning chores began.

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Keiko was a time of great solace. Within the sweat and pain and the shouted kiai, I found peace and forgot the responsibilities of home. The instructors were top-notch. Although each one brought their own background and emphasis, a throughline was clear from past to present that transcended stylistic differences. I was especially proud to watch our white belt students Alexis and Craig during those intense practices; it was evident that the Aikido they learned in America was not some foreign thing but rather contained, at the foundational level, the same shapes and movements still practiced in Iwama. One point that came up again and again was that training should have a clear progression from “basic” to “flowing” to “fast/ advanced.” This too was familiar: At home, we approach this as the kihon to ki-no-nagare progression. However, seeing this lesson in context made me consider it in a different way. When visiting a dojo overseas, it’s easy to get a “snapshot” of a training method and then replicate it later. This can be useful, but it can lead to a fixation on one level of technique at the expense of the others. Advanced students and beginners alike must be cautious in how we train lest we forget that each piece is part of a greater whole.

When we weren’t training, working, or eating, we explored. One crisp Monday morning after finishing chores, the five of us made the trek up Mount Atago. We ducked spider webs on the forest trail, scaled the treacherous stone stairway, and paid our respects to the Tengu Temple on the summit.

Having made good time, we took an extra walk around the backside of the mountain to the waterfall at Takiirifudoson. It was a mossy, shaded place, quiet except for the gurgling stream. I imagined O’Sensei perched on a rock beneath the frigid cascade, performing misogi. At the tiny, fern-covered temple next to the trail, Dave Sensei pointed out a plaque about its patron deity, Fudō Myō-ō, and explained how his image can be found near waterfalls all over Japan. One translation of his name is “The immovable or unshakable one.” I found it curious that this god, associated with misogi practices with wild running water, was pictured as engulfed in flame.

I often pondered these things on the mat during keiko: the waterfall, the fire, and the nature of stability. During practice, I sometimes felt consumed by fire, lost in the heat of the moment, acting on instinct alone in the dance of uke and nage. I tried to watch and listen, to follow the lesson at hand instead of reverting to autopilot. I focused on balance, on my center, but I noticed more than ever how that center could be affected by other bodies and forces.

Interestingly, the mere proximity of another body, or the anticipation of force, could create a profound imbalance even before contact. At such times I found it useful to invoke the image of a mountain, or a stone beneath a waterfall. Such things do not rebalance themselves against external forces, they simply direct the power around and through themselves, down into the immovable earth.

Inagaki Sensei explained how O’Sensei had three goals when he founded the Ibaraki dojo: To refine the art of Aikido, to establish the Aiki shrine, and to foster a lifestyle that unified budo and farming. I wondered what it would be like to live full time like that, working the land by day and developing the body and spirit in the training hall every night. Staying on as uchi deshi only gave me a glimpse, but after the first week I felt a tangible change. The constant fatigue turned into calm readiness, my sore muscles grew used to the training regimen, and the dizzy spells all but disappeared. It was bittersweet and a little funny that the stability I had sought would crystallize just when we were nearing the end of our visit. Still, I was grateful. I never would have experienced it at all without the help of those who had paved the way before, without my teachers, friends and Aikido family, or without the profound hospitality of the Ibaraki community.

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On my last afternoon in Iwama I packed my suitcase so I’d be ready to catch the early train in the morning. I had too many souvenirs. Artifacts from Atago-San, stationeries, fabrics, and all manner of sweets from the chestnut shop were vying for space in my already overstuffed luggage. But I needed to find room for one special gift: a framed fragment of the old dojo’s wooden sliding door that Inagaki sensei had given us to take home. It was from before the 2011 Tohoku earthquake, which precipitated extensive repairs to the facility. I remembered watching the news from that time, just before my first trip to Japan, and the images of buildings collapsed, and heavy kawara roof tiles crumpled on the ground like tissue paper. In other parts of the country, whole towns had been washed away in the tsunami.

In my imagination, Iwama is an unshakeable rock— a living connection to the foundations of Aikido. Of course, in my heart I know that everything changes in time. Dojos open and close. Students grow into teachers, teachers eventually retire. Training partners sweat and learn beside us until one day they pass on from our lives.

My belongings were all packed, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing—something I was afraid to leave behind. I thought about going home. I thought about the plane ride ahead of me, that long empty sky over the ocean, and the turbulent clouds above America.

Just then, the windows rattled in their frames, and the building began to tremble— a real earthquake, this time. I moved to the doorway, but the tremor passed quickly. Outside, other uchi deshi were at the picnic table, laughing about something. They had hardly noticed the shake. Behind them, out in the field beyond the sakura trees, the grass was all cropped short where we had mowed, raked, and carted the trimmings away. Many hands tend the grounds of the dojo and Aiki Shrine, and I couldn’t remember ever seeing the place look so tidy. I went back inside and tucked the wooden gift into a soft space between my gi jacket and my hakama, then I closed the suitcase.

For Dan
November, 2024