Dancing with the Angels
by Chris Keating
Wednesday morning class is special. Not just because it's for advanced students, but also because it lacks the usual pulsating aerobic music of the gym. A mantle of spiritual solitude descends over the students sequestered in the mirrored dance studio on the top floor of the YMCA. Sensei seems to rise a notch from her regular teaching.
One class made an indelible imprint on my aikido memory. I say "aikido memory" because there is something special about the way one remembers an Aikido class — some of the recollection may be cerebral, but more often than not, it is a sense, a feeling. That day, the autumn sun streaming through the large windows was competing fiercely with the anticipation of the students.
This was a year ago. It seemed to me that Sensei had taken leave of her senses. The same erudite techniques...but nature had overtaken her. There was a flow to her movements that resembled an early-November snowstorm accosting a clump of sturdy white birch trees.
I hold back from saying that she was in touch with an angel, but a few months before, the venerable, dying Terry Dobson had given a class in the same dance studio. It's a wonderful moment in aikido when a teacher drops the constraints of their knowledge and allows the space, the sun and the angels (mortal and otherwise) to permeate the lesson. A student with an open inner ear can hear the music.
I wouldn't want to repeat this experience too often. Not that it would become mundane, but personally, I just couldn't handle the rush.
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