Martial Mania
Martial Paranoia
By George Donahue
A few years back, a friend, Robert Agar-Hutton, was visiting
from England. Aside from his total lack of a sense of humor, his total
lack of even a hint of any physical grace, and his most unfortunate total
lack of appeal with the ladies, Robert* and I have a lot in common. A
very striking trait we share is that we both live life on the fence between
paranoia and heightened awareness. Or so it seems to us. Others might
think we’re far beyond fence sitting and that any awareness we might
have is delusive and far from heightened. (Or at least they might think
that of me.)
On our way back to Boston from a traditional weapons seminar in New Jersey,
we stopped off in a greasy spoon for a traditional mega-cholesterol lunch
of animal chunks fried in animal fat, garnished with processed animal
fat, and with salty fries on the side. Very tasty and just the thing to
give an English dandy a flavor of the real US and probably something to
remember us by once he got home, too. As we entered the diner, after the
mandatory three-minute round of “after you,” “no, after
you, I insist”—only three minutes because each of us trusts
the other enough to let him walk behind, in a crowded place at least—we
were shown to our booth. We both headed straight for the command seat,
the seat with the best view of any possible danger. We’re not friendly
enough or thin enough for both of us to occupy the command seat of a two-topper
booth, so after an eternity of jockeying for position, we agreed to let
the innocent from abroad, Robert, have the command seat while I took the
seat opposite him—aka siege perilous. We laughed about this, because
without saying what we were up to, each knew what the other was doing.
We were each intent on establishing our security perimeter, settling in
for comfort, but also digging in to defend ourselves against any deranged
diner staff or hostile fellow customers. By tacit agreement, we quickly
established our joint perimeter and set about watching each other’s
back.
People like Robert and me are cursed, or blessed, by our long years of
defense training. We seldom let our guard down. We can’t walk into
a room without first scoping it out completely, checking out all the exits,
all the windows, all the possible shelter from hostile gunfire. We don’t
like to sit with our backs exposed. We don’t settle contentedly
into unnecessarily vulnerable seats. We survey all the other inhabitants
of the room for the least evidence of irregularity, hostility, or untrustworthiness.
We keep an eye on the doors, even the door to the ladies’ room.
We evaluate and re-evaluate constantly. Every object in view is scrutinized
for its possible application as a weapon, if the need arises. In a restaurant,
we arrange the dishes and tableware so that we have a weapon within easy
reach at all times. This might seem like a bit of over-caution, but it’s
not paranoia. We’re able to process all this evidence and usually
still relax enough to enjoy ourselves and our lives. We can choose to
risk ourselves by ignoring a potentially dangerous situation, if we assess
the probability of harm to be low and the advantage of relaxation to be
high. A full-blown paranoiac can never relax and can never make time for
pleasure.
Some of us have at times crossed the line from appropriate vigilance
to at least mild paranoia. For example, after training in karate for about
a year, one of my students—a very peaceful, intelligent, and centered
young man who was a colleague from my office—began to have difficulty
riding the subway home from work or the dojo. He couldn’t sit anywhere
but in the end seat, next to the conductor’s booth. He had to check
and re-check each passenger in the car. When passengers talked quietly
with each other, he wondered if they were talking about him. He began
to imagine that some of the passengers were plotting, waiting for his
attention to waver, so they could pull out their weapons and attack. Even
worse for him was the walk from the subway station to his apartment. Every
shadow held a threat; every stranger he passed was a menace. Eventually,
he had to give up his martial training. It was better for him to remove
himself totally from any consideration of safety or self-defense. After
all, what good is self-defense if the self to be defended is living in
utter misery? After he quit training, he was able to regain his balance
and live a pleasant life again. He’s been fortunate enough to avoid
trouble anyway. Even though he doesn’t make his personal security
a paramount issue, he is still not blithely charging through life unaware—a
good practical compromise between risk and opportunity. It just doesn’t
work for me, or Robert, or others like us.
Some martial practitioners, who may be otherwise somewhat sane, are proud—some
even boast of it—that they never let their guard down. From my personal
observation, these people are usually deluded, because their guard is
actually down as often as anyone else’s. They’re frequently
totally vulnerable to surprise attack and it’s tempting at times
to just drop a noogie on them. However, they feel more comfortable imagining
that they are ever-vigilant. That imaginary lack of vulnerability makes
them pretty easy to manipulate to your advantage, by the way. Teenage
boys are particularly prone to this delusion, but most of them grow out
of it.
Others, a rare few, really are watchful at all times. With some of these
people, the tension is palpable; stress drips from every pore. It’s
very obvious, even to people who know nothing about self-defense, that
they’re on red alert. The best thing to do with these people is
keep your distance, because they’re wound hair-trigger tight and
they’re dangerous (prone to rampage, too) to all: you, innocent
passersby, etc., and especially themselves. People of this sort really
are paranoid. They don’t have much to live for but the negative
energy they feed off.
Others of the constantly alert have managed to maintain their balance.
They are not visibly tense because they have found a way to relax while
keeping a dynamic but somewhat distant concentration on all things at
once while simultaneously not focusing on any one thing. They are aware
when there is the possibility of risk, but they’re not worried about
it. They are able to dwell in a state called in Japanese zanshin. In earlier
times, such as the Warring States periods in China and Japan, there were
probably many people with this trait. After all, they knew they were going
to die soon, one way or another, so why worry about it? And, on the other
hand, why make it too easy for an aggressor? Zanshin was a trait that
prolonged survival, but it certainly didn’t much improve the quality
of the lengthened life. Those were miserable times for all. In modern
times, there is less reason to cultivate the mindfulness necessary to
be relaxed but aware, with the exception of driving a car. For one thing,
it’s not of as much use in modern warfare. I’ve met only about
a half dozen people who have the ability to an impressive degree. Only
three of them were involved in martial training, and only one of these
three had military experience. Three others were monks (one Zen Buddhist,
one Theravada Buddhist, and one a Franciscan friar of the Episcopal Church);
and one an ex-marine who was not aware that he possessed the trait; he
walked the walk without thinking the thought. Eventually, his state of
awareness dissipated.
Awareness is always a good thing, but hard to maintain. Reasonable vigilance
at reasonable times is a good thing and can be learned and maintained
by almost anyone. This state increases the chances of survival in good
physical and mental health without actually ruling out having fun in life.
Total absence of vigilance is a dangerous thing—even a flock of
sheep in wolf country is better off. I used to strive for the state of
constant relaxed awareness, but it was beyond my ability to attain without
giving up too many other things, particularly the ability to leave myself
open to delightful surprises from my children. Looking back, I think I
might have strayed now and then over to the paranoid side of the fence.
I’m still working on finding the right approach and the right balance.
It seems to be getting somewhat easier for students of the martial ways
as they age, so that gives us all something to look forward to in our
dotage.
Copyright © 2008 by George Donahue
& FightingArts.com
About The Author:
George Donahue has been on the board of FightingArts.com
since its inception. He is a freelance writer and editor, providing literary
and consulting services to writers, literary agents, and publishers, as
well to advertising agencies. He has worked in publishing for more than
three decades, beginning as a journal and legal editor. Among his positions
have been editorial stints at Random House; Tuttle Publishing, where he
was the executive editor, martial arts editor, and Asian Studies editor;
and Lyons Press, where he was the senior acquisitions editor and where
he established a martial arts publishing program. He is a 6th dan student
of karate and kobujutsu—as well as Yamane Ryu Bojutsu—of Shinzato
Katsuhiko in Okinawa Karatedo Shorin Ryu Kishaba Juku. He was also a student
of Kishaba Chokei and Nakamura Seigi until their deaths. He teaches Kishaba
Juku in New York and Connecticut, as well as traveling to provide seminars
and special training in karate, weapons, and self-defense. His early training
was in judo and jujutsu, primarily with Ando Shunnosuke in Tokyo. He also
studied kyujutsu (archery), sojutsu (spear), and kenjutsu (swordsmanship)
in Japan as a youth. Following his move to the US, he continued to practice
judo and jujutsu, as well as marksmanship with bow and gun, and began
the study of Matsubayashi Ryu karate in his late teens. Subsequently,
he has studied aikido and taiji and cross trained in ying jow pai kung
fu. |
