Notes toward a Greater Unbalancing: Judo, Your Mother, and Clive Cussler Calling

I

Play a little martial arts in your life—particularly judo—and you come to appreciate what the Japanese call kuzushi, or unbalancing. Overcommit in one direction, and you’re vulnerable in the opposite. Every push invites a pull, every throw a counter, every strength a secret weakness in the end, and you only learn to throw by being thrown, only keep your balance by losing your balance. As a white belt you practice almost nothing except how to fall. It’s what you do—fall, get up, fall again—until falling becomes second nature to you, something so basic you don’t even think about ukemi anymore. Foundation of an entire art—ju (gentle) do (way)—no strikes, no kicks, nothing but the easy give-and-take of balance. When done well, it will feel absolutely effortless. As tori, when you throw your opponent, when you steal or break his balance, or as uke, when your feet suddenly go from under you, when you wheel through the air on some fulcrum of leg and shoulder, there’s a giddy joy of perfection, the wild rush of having your ass handed to you so incredibly well, of hitting the mat with force and speed, and of finding yourself amazingly undamaged, unafraid, unbalanced.

Not uncommon to laugh—little bird of relief escaping your throat as you get to your feet, adjust your uniform, tie your belt, and bow to start again—a good judo player remaining loose like this. Buoyant, dynamic, jaunty, oddly unfixed and unfixable, like a bead of mercury. Pliant is another word—less common, but perhaps more accurate—for the Japanese character ju. The best judoka must cultivate an ability to keep somehow, always, pliant. Rooted yet floating, strong yet soft, heavy yet light, fierce yet calm, you come to life in contradictions. Through the chess games of newaza (grappling), and the choreography of kata (forms), and the free play of randori (literally “chaos taking”), you start to catch glimpses of all the endless nuances, begin to grasp just how many things go into the most basic of foot sweeps.

Balance, timing, preparation, experience, and luck—luck to escape serious injury, luck to have sensei standing there, with his constant nudges and scowls and occasional beams of praise, luck to have senpais in front of you, senior students who take this art and class and commitment seriously, luck to have fellow judoka in the dojo beside you, luck even to have this dojo at all—and this is part of the reason you bow upon entering the do (way) jo (place), and bow upon seeing your sensei, and your senpais, and the photograph of Professor Jigorō Kanō, founder of judo. It’s why you err on the side of bowing and bow whenever you are in doubt of bowing.

Even something as simple as the etiquette of ritsu-rei (standing bow) becomes nearly infinite in its meanings over the years. Not only do you bow in respect of the tradition; not only do you lower your neck to take the yoke of technique, waza, and to demonstrate proper spirit, ki, and to honor all the blessings and sacrifices that enable you to be here once again, five or six nights a week; not only do you bow to the whole wheeling world that supports and nurtures and makes this dojo possible for you; you also bow in order to set that whole wheeling world aside for a moment; and bow to clear your mind of everything but the hour that awaits; and bow to pause and gather yourself, to concentrate and be present for the practice before you. Your bow is an effort to bring spirit and body together, an attempt to put future and past aside, a chance to concentrate on the moment at hand. On the mat you bow to acknowledge your fellow player, bow without taking your eyes off your opponent, without submitting in any way, without giving any taunt or hint of strength or weakness.

There are times, of course, when a bow is just a...