"Just Get Here": Thursday Nights with Sensei

A couple of weeks ago, I was telling my friend Mike that I might be making a trip to Seattle for my Sensei’s 7th Dan promotion ceremony. He asked me about Aikido, and I told him that I had trained for over 20 years and loved training because it is such a beautiful martial art. I told him that Aikido is very challenging physically and mentally, along with having an amazing community wrapped around the Two Cranes Aikido dojo.

My friend said, “Wow, you must really miss not being a part of that.” He then asked, “So, what do you miss most about training?” I had to stop and think about that question, as there are so many things. What popped into my mind surprised me as I replied to Mike, “Cleaning the mats after advanced class on Thursday nights.” I think I was more surprised by my answer than my friend was. Mike replied, “That’s quite an odd answer. I thought you were going to say something like you missed the community, the movement, the people—but cleaning mats after class seems a strange answer.” “Why in the world would you miss cleaning mats?”

I wasn’t sure myself, but I replied, “Mike, let me tell you about Thursday night training at the dojo.”

There are two classes on Thursday nights: the regular class at 6:00 p.m. that is open to everyone, and then the advanced class at 7:00 p.m. that is only open to brown and black belts. To say that the later advanced class was challenging would be a grand understatement. There were many very experienced students with ranks as high as 6th Dan. Sensei always taught this class, so the energy was off the charts.

Thursday night class really began for me around 5:00 p.m., sitting at my office in Mukilteo. Thursdays were challenging and always marked the closing of a hectic week. Business activities, family life, coaching—all seemed to gang up on me by the end of the day. So, around 5:00 p.m., my brain would start a debate between fighting an hour of traffic to get to the dojo or choosing something much more relaxing. My body would then chime in with, “Are you really going to put me through those exhausting classes again?” The pleasure part of my brain would join in with, “How great would a nice IPA, medium-rare cheeseburger, and NFL Thursday night football be instead of driving all the way to Seattle and training!”

Then I would remember the old Nike commercial: Just Do It! But what would put me over the top and heading southbound on I-5 toward the dojo was Sensei’s expression about training: “Just Get Here!” Off I would go, gulping down a Gatorade and a handful of Advil in preparation for the next few hours.

I wish I could say that as soon as I walked through the dojo doors, I was injected with robust energy and ran as fast as I could to the dressing room, put on my gi, and flew to the mat! Nope. I would put on my best “isn’t it just great to be here” face, drag myself up to the dressing room, dress, try to remember how to tie my hakama for about the thousandth time, and drag myself onto the mat for the 6:00 p.m. class.

Right or wrong, I always looked at the 6:00 p.m. class as a warm-up for the main show—the 7:00 p.m. class with Sensei teaching and firing on all eight cylinders. It was a time to work the kinks out and help newer students. It was always very fun and engaging, but quite a different vibe from what was coming at 7:00 p.m.

One of the things I loved about Aikido was the many wonderful rituals that are almost sacramental in nature—the way they took you out of life’s daily routine and brought you closer to expansive, deep time. One of these rituals was clapping in to start class. At the beginning of each class, all the students would line up in seiza facing the Shomen. Sensei would bow to the Shomen and then bow to the students, and we would return the bow. There was then a short pause of silence followed by four crisp claps. For me, this was the beginning of the journey into the liminal space of training.

Advanced class would begin. Sensei was a master at bringing the best out of each student. She would teach the class like a conductor for the New York Philharmonic Orchestra, infusing intrigue, energy, knowledge, and compassion into every “note” of her class.

The energy and focus of the class would grow and expand throughout the 60 minutes. I never knew when, but sometime during class, any thoughts of past or future would disappear, leaving only the naked truth of the now. Any thoughts of my outside world, business, kids, family, would vanish, crossing the threshold into the realm of the present moment. Hand strikes, knives, swords would appear and disappear, each time opening up a little more of my heart space. The compassion of the art flowed as potentially lethal techniques transformed into throws, joint locks, and pins, always taking care of our uke.

Finally, class would conclude, and we would all gather and sit in seiza once again facing the Shomen. Sensei would bow and then turn to bow to us. The four claps at the end of this class would sound like the crash of pure thunder echoing in the space, honoring the sincere and fierce training over the past 60 minutes.

Another ritual was folding our hakama after class. All the black belts would find a space on the mat and follow a preordained process of folding up our hakama. Admittedly, I was not very good at this, but I always found it serene watching 10 or more powerful black belts sitting on the mat, delicately folding their hakama.

After the hakama were folded and removed from the mat, someone would fill a partitioned bucket—half with mild cleaning solution, half with water. All the students would grab a single-blade mop and then stand in line until it was our turn to dip our mop and clean the mat, single file.

This whole process would take around 10 minutes, and it was a relaxed time filled with light banter as we floated on the energy created by the class. Once the mats were cleaned, we would put our blade mops away and head upstairs to the dressing room to change into our street clothes. Coming down the stairs from the dressing room, I would gaze at the clean mats glistening under the lights of the dojo. I would feel an immeasurable sense of completion.

So, for me, the cleaning of the mats became a metaphor for the purification of our spirit that training on Thursday nights manifested. The energy of the evening stayed with me as I put on my shoes and made my way through the doors and outside to my car. No matter how cold it was or how far I had to walk to my car, I never once felt cold after class.

So, I concluded to Mike, that is why what I miss most about Aikido is cleaning the mats on Thursday nights.

Now, off to find that burger, beer, and the end of the football game.