Shintaido and nature; Nature and Shintaido – always have been linked. I was reminded of this during our recent Shintaido of America Podcast discussion when the topic of Shinrin-yoku (forest bathing) was discussed. As I reflected more on nature, the teachings of nature on the cycle of life and on giving meaning to life. I realized this connection from the soil to the sky can result in moments of Yugen (a deepening of emotional awareness triggered by awareness of the universe).
One moment of such awareness was in New England in the fall of 1986 at Spring Hill. Annelie Wilde wrote about this in Body Dialogue:
During Friday evening keiko we were treated to a magnificent display of stars. As we studied variations of mochikai, someone turned off the surrounding lights. Lacking competition from earthbound illumination, the stars seemed to multiply and move closer to the earth to fill our hearts and souls with wonder and reverence. lto-sensei asked Faith Ingulsrud read to us from Psalms 19:1
“The heavens declare the glory of God, The vault of heaven proclaims his handiwork; Day discourses of it to day, night to night hands on the knowledge. No utterance at all, no speech, No sound that anyone can hear; Yet their voice goes out through all the earth, And their message to the ends of the world.”
To prepare us for hoshiotoshi or knocking down stars, he told us about the Italian painter Fontana, who painted a canvas all gold and then cut through the canvas to reach the other side. Our objective was to scratch out a mere 1000 stars. There were so many stars in the heavens that night that even if we had each succeeded in our task, none would have been missed.
Perhaps I have stirred some memories for you – at the beach, on a mountain top, in the wilds of national parks or green space in the inner city. I think now of how alive the soil was and is beneath our feet with each handful of soil teaming with life. What moments are stirred for you?
Join us in the monthly Shintaido of America Podcast discussions. Our next meeting is 27 June 2023 at 11am Pacific, 2pm Eastern, 7pm UK and 8pm Europe. Contact Connie at president@shintaido.org for the ZOOM link.
On May 1st, 2023, after a long struggle with Parkinson’s disease, James Cumming took the MAiD (Medical Assistance in Dying) medicine, which is legal in the state of Vermont where he lived. He passed away peacefully with his wife Evangelina “Vangie” Holvino by his side.
James was a longtime Shintaido practitioner in England. He also spent time in the San Francisco Bay Area, where he stayed for a time with Bela Breslau and Ito-sensei. Here’s a photo of James (on the left) doing Shintaido on a beach somewhere with his longtime friend and business partner John Kent.
I got to know James through Bela. When we moved East in 2004 to build and run the Shintaido Farm, Bill Strawn and Eve Siegel, friends from the Bay Area let Bela know that that James and Vangie were still living in Brattleboro, just a few miles up the road from Deerfield. We connected with them. James came back to Shintaido, participated in a few classes at the Farm, and reconnected with Master Instructor Michael Thompson and other people in Shintaido Northeast.
James introduced me to Tai Chi, which I have been studying for a dozen years now. This is a great debt I owe James, because Tai Chi turned out to be the right practice for me at my age–soft, relaxing, thoughtful. James and I worked on a non-fiction book proposal, and quickly grew close. James and Vangie had many friends in the area, particularly among the Tai Chi students of teacher Wolfe Lowenthal. Somehow, possibly through the practice of Tai Chi, James had managed to stabilize his Parkinson’s and for many years he was in relatively good health despite his illness. Unfortunately, at the end of last year, James fell in the parking lot of a medical facility after a doctor’s appointment. That fall precipitated a difficult period of decline marked by stays in three hospitals and rehab places before returning home after three months.
You can read more about James’s struggles and joys in his and Vangie’s website Paths to the End, where they posted updates about James and created a forum where people could talk comfortably and exchange ideas about death and dying. Though he looks a bit forlorn in the picture on the home page of their website, James was a strong man with a terrific sense of humor, dry and wry in the British way, but also capable of a loud belly laugh when the mood struck him. He was gentle, inquisitive, warm, a loyal friend and a rousing companion. Bela told me stories of she and James and a few other roustabouts having long evenings of carousing in San Francisco. Here’s a picture of a young James, around the time he met Vangie:
James and I had many wonderful talks on a variety of subjects. Among other things, I learned that James had been a pilot in the RAF, though he never had to serve in combat. For many years he and John Kent taught cross-cultural learning classes. Later James and Vangie gave workshops on change through their company Chaos Management.
My favorite picture of James is this one of him handling a falcon at New England Falconry in 2019:
Both James and the bird are majestic.
James included a link to the British Army’s Last Post bugle call as part of his final post on the Paths to the End website. Quintessentially English, James was a citizen of the world. Shintaido practitioner. Tai Chi student, international traveler, gifted teacher, loving husband, cherished friend.
I was looking for some words from Tai Chi or Shintaido that might sum up James’s life and ending. What I found instead were the last lines from The Soldier, by the poet Robert Frost from James’s adopted home state Vermont:
General Instructor Jim Sterling asked me and Bela to submit an article to Shintaido of America’s Body Dialogue newsletter, using excerpts from our recently published novel Pilgrim Maya that reflect our background as longtime Shintaido practitioners.
Although we never use the word Shintaido in the book, Shintaido was the inspiration for many scenes. We have both put many episodes from our lives into this novel. For example, in one chapter the main character goes to Japan and attends a wedding. Bela participated in a wedding ceremony in Japan. In this article, though, we’re going to confine the excerpts to two that will be familiar to anyone who has practiced Shintaido, especially those practitioners in the Bay Area.
In Pilgrim Maya, the main character, Maya Marinovich has lost her husband and baby daughter in a freak car crash. To find a new start, Maya leaves Boston for San Francisco. She gets involved briefly, but passionately, with the leader of a Japanese-Jewish cult movement. This part of the novel is not based on Shintaido, but the excerpt below about a hike up a hill in Tennessee Valley in Marin County will be familiar to Bay Area practitioners of Shintaido. Ito-sensei led many groups up that hill over the years. In the second third of the novel, Maya, lands a job as assistant property manager for The Bon Vivants, a group of artists in a co-housing building in Oakland. Later she learns details about the accident and spirals into depression and thoughts of suicide. In the final chapters, Maya meets Buddhist teachers Eli Ronen and his wife Reva, and begins a lifelong process of healing and transformation, finding meaning through helping others. Here are two excerpts that were inspired by our Shintaido experiences.
Bela Breslau and Stephen Billias
A hike in Tennessee Valley:
Chapter 8 The View from the Top of the World
It’s not that easy, I discover, to get to Tennessee Valley without a car. I suppose I could have asked one of the Tribers, but I’m still clinging to a loner’s independence. I take two buses and a long walk to get to the trailhead, at the upper end of a deep valley that leads to an ocean beach. The vivid air smells of sage and salt. It’s easy to find the Tribe of Dan in the area in front of the parking lot by the first gate into the valley, a common meeting point. Their white robes make them stand out from the young couples with baby strollers and the avid hikers in shorts and hiking boots. When I arrive, a California Highway Patrol officer is interrogating Sajiro while the rest of the Tribe stand around looking amused. Manami comes up to me immediately.
“Wonderful,” she says. “Glad you came.”
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Oh, we get this all the time. He just wants to make sure we’re not a terrorist group.”
“Are you a terrorist group?” I ask. Manami just laughs. The CHP officer soon leaves, apparently satisfied that Sajiro and his people aren’t going to blow up anything or throw themselves off a cliff in a mass suicide. The Tribe starts down the flat, easy trail out to the beach, but after a quarter mile they veer onto a steep path up the side of the hill. I struggle to keep up. Sajiro is a good hundred yards ahead already. I can’t tell whether his followers are letting him be ahead or whether he’s just in much better shape than everyone else. It takes us a good forty-five minutes to crest the ridge. We walk another quarter mile to where the views are most spectacular up and down the coast and far out to sea. I wonder if we’re going to do more chanting and moving, but we don’t. All we do is face the ocean in a natural stance. Though he isn’t saying or doing anything, Sajiro is leading us. Some people have their eyes closed. Others have them open. I’m looking around, wondering when we will finish, wondering what this is all about and at the same time totally enjoying being here on the continent’s edge with amazing views of the Pacific.
After the meditation, Sajiro turns and stands with his back to the ocean, facing us. “This is always here,” he says, gesturing to the panorama of sparkling water, golden hills, a cloudless day with a heaven full of different shades of blue, sky and ocean meeting at a soft line in the far distance. “Don’t be afraid to come back here, any time. Even if just in your mind.” The walk down is somewhat easier. I catch a glimpse of the city of San Francisco, just for a minute between the hills. It shines white and pink like a fairy castle in the air. Then Sajiro is walking by my side.
“Very beautiful and peaceful, isn’t it?” he says.
I nod, still somehow embarrassed and strained by being near him. He laughs easily and puts his arm over my shoulder and says how glad he is that I have decided to be open to the beauty around me, and that it reflects the beauty that is inside me. I am surprised at the ease and innocence of his gesture and what he says. I laugh easily also, letting go of the tension and uncertainty.
A keiko in a Japanese martial art that strongly resembles Shintaido, followed by an episode of takigyo (waterfall training) that some Shintaido practitioners (including Bela) have experienced:
Chapter 21 Zen Body, Zen Mind
The next time I do yoga, I see Jimmy again and am impressed by his physical agility, grace, and balance. I remember what he said about studying a martial art of some sort. Over the next several weeks, I start looking into martial arts. As helpful as I find yoga, the nightmares have persisted. Maybe something more active and rigorous would speed things up, dislodge the body memories of nighttime car crashes. Something tells me it might also augment my development in meditation. I’m never sure what drives me but with the help of my Zen teachers and my therapist Sarah, I’m coming to trust and believe in myself and I follow my intuition, my instincts. It’s San Francisco—with a cornucopia of offerings available—tai chi, karate, aikido, tae kwon do, as well as lesser-known practices. I try classes in different forms but nothing fits. Tai chi is too passive, karate too focused on combat and self-defense. I continue my long walks, and on a sunny Sunday afternoon, I find myself in front of the Kiri-Do dojo on California Street. With a start I remember that this is the family dojo of my new friend from yoga, Jimmy. A large poster covers the window.
Need to Change Your Life?
Try Kiri-Do (The Way of Cutting)
The Martial Art for Personal Transformation
A jolt runs through me as I read the words. That’s me: I need to change my life. I’m on the path already. Maybe Kiri-Do is what Sarah was getting at when she suggested a body-centered practice. At the end of the next yoga class, I approach Jimmy and ask about beginners’ classes.
“We’re all beginners. We always will be. You should just come. We all practice together. Are you free Wednesday night? If you are, come by. I’ll be there too.”
So here I am showing up for class on a drizzly San Francisco Wednesday night. I’m wearing grey sweatpants and a long-sleeved white t-shirt. The dojo is a nearly empty room with a scuffed and worn wooden floor and a tokonoma altar in one corner. Everyone leaves their shoes and street clothes in the outer entry way. The first thing I notice is that there are few students, and they’re all in incredible shape. A youngish woman welcomes me. She’s not Japanese, but she’s dressed in a white martial arts outfit I later learn is called a gi.
I’m surprised when Jimmy comes out. He’s wearing a white uniform, white special shoes, and a white skirt-like covering that makes him loom large. When he sees me, he smiles broadly and nods in my direction. The class is about to start. Jimmy has everyone form a circle.
Jimmy leads warmups, a series of increasingly strenuous stretches, starting at the top of the head and working down to the lower part of the body. It’s not too hard. I’m getting a bit comfortable. We reform the circle at the end of warm-ups and have a short standing meditation. An older Japanese man walks out from a back room. He’s shorter than Jimmy, and has the square body of a martial artist, compact, muscular, with short-cropped gray hair and glasses. His face is severe, with none of the easy warmth Jimmy projects. He notices me right away and comes over to me while the rest of the class waits on the side. Jimmy hurries over to make an introduction.
“Father, this is Maya, a friend of mine from yoga class. Maya, this is my father, Mr. Ueda. In class we call him Sensei.”
Sensei nods. “Hello, Sensei,” I say, and I bow, something I learned from my time in the Tribe.
“Please just follow. You are not expected to know what to do. Jimmy will be near you.”
What happens next surprises me. There are a series of partner exercises that include leading and following and jumping. Lots of jumping. After twenty or thirty minutes, I am completely exhausted and surprised. I thought I was already in pretty strong shape, but these exercises are something else. Also, there is something to the way we are touching one another. Holding out our hands to support the person doing the jumping. Jimmy comes by to be my partner toward the end of the break-out session and I follow as best I can. When I lead him, I notice how the slightest movement on my part sends him jumping up almost to the ceiling. I try to pull back my energy, but he just smiles at me and continues.
We again stand in a circle for a brief calming meditation. We do some strange movements accompanied by sounds. I continue to do my best to follow. The rest of the class is more technical. As far as I can tell, it’s basic karate stuff, except the students aren’t sparring, there’s no headgear or padding, and when they do partner practice, they don’t strike each other. I try to follow Jimmy’s father, the teacher, but it’s hopeless. He doesn’t explain anything and pays no attention to me. I’m supposed to copy what he’s doing, without any instruction. Oh well, I think, waiting for the class to be over so that I can leave and never come back. A funny thing happens toward the end of class. We take up wooden practice swords. I notice that each of the students has one of their own, carefully wrapped in cloth scabbards or furoshikis. Jimmy gives me a loaner. We follow Sensei in a series of cuts. Jimmy comes over to correct my form because I’m holding the sword upside down, but in my defense it’s hard to tell, since the thing, I learn, is called a bohkutoh andis just a straight, heavy piece of hard wood that barely resembles a sword; it has no curve and only the hint of a blade edge, though it does have a rough point which keeps me from holding it by the wrong end, thank goodness! The funny thing is, I like it all—the sword, the cutting, everything!
After the class, Jimmy comes over to ask how I am and what I thought. The other students are filtering out of the dojo, bowing to the Sensei and bowing at the entrance before turning to leave. I intuitively understand that they are appreciating and acknowledging the sacredness of their practice space. My time with the Tribe and in Japan taught me at least that much.
Just as I am about to leave, Jimmy’s father comes over to the two of us.
“Why are you here?” he asks. It’s a challenge. I wonder: Did I do something wrong. Have I presumed too much in some way I’m unaware of?
The question takes me by surprise. I don’t have a quick, easy answer. Sensei is silent; he’s not offering anything. He waits. He expects an answer. I think about it. Hesitantly I start to give a response:
“I’ll tell you why I’m here. I love the zazen, the sitting that I’m doing at the Zen Center. I love the kinhin, the walking meditation. I have terrible nightmares; my therapist told me it’s from my worst memories locked in my body. And, sometimes I get so restless that I just want to—”
“Scream—” he says.
“Yes.”
“So. I see. Scream, right now.”
“What?”
“Go ahead. Scream.”
I look at Jimmy, but he’s stepped back and is letting me have this moment with Sensei on my own.
“Scream what?”
“Anything. ‘Yes!’ ‘No!’ Your scream is a meditation also.”
“I don’t know,” I say doubtfully. Okay, I’m not completely ignorant. I’ve heard of Primal Screaming. It’s so unlike anything Eli and Reva are teaching me.
“There are many ways,” Sensei says. “Even within Zen. Many ways. You have to find your own way within the No Way.”
“No Way?”
“Exactly.” And he opens his mouth and lets loose a yell that roars around the dojo until I think it’s going to shatter the windows that rim the upper level of the room.
“Try,” he says. “First, go deeply silent. Then, scream!”
“Ah,” I say. ‘Go deeply silent’ is a clue. I kneel down, make myself small, concentrate my breathing, empty my mind. I go toward the place that I’ve been seeking these months in the zendo. This time when I get there—instead of grasping to stay in it and immediately losing it, always fleeting, never settling in—this time I jump up and give out a shriek that comes from the depths of my being, from the inside of a smashed car, from the newfound power I have found through meditation. I start to cry, but then I stop.
Sensei smiles for the first time and says in a kind, almost gentle voice: “You have pain locked in your body. I’m glad you are here even if it is for a short time.”
Can he see the pain I am holding? Can he see the hot molten river that still flows somewhere inside me? The one I’ve tried and am still trying to bury. To escape. Can he see the pain from the accident? The part Sarah says is locked in me?
“Now, try running around the dojo screaming.”
“Wait, what? Why? What for?”
“To free yourself, of course. Sitting is good, standing is good, walking is good, all will get you where you want to go. You have good teachers at the Zen Center. Now try. Cut! As if you have a samurai sword in your hands, the sharpest blade imaginable.”
“Cut what?”
“Cut everything. The air, the walls, the sky. Me. Yourself. Scream!”
I have no idea what I’m doing but I try again. And again. And again. Each time, Sensei exhorts me to try harder, express myself more and more. Finally, I get frustrated and angry, and I run around the room like a crazy woman, yelling, “Yes!” and “No!” randomly, hating the teacher, hating this foolish exercise. When I stop, I’m crying. As before, I stop myself, a new thing for me. Before I can say anything, he says: “Better.” That’s all. It’s just a moment, but in that instant of complete release I see possibilities.
At the next meditation session in the zendo I mention my first Kiri-Do class experience to Reva. She knows of the Uedas and approves of the idea of me taking up another practice.
“It can only help,” she says.
I also mention my new sword practice during an early-morning session with Sarah. She also approves, using almost the same language as Reva: “Perhaps it will help.”
I make Kiri-Do a regular part of my routine and go to class weekly. I even get a gi and a basic wooden sword, bohkutoh. I notice the students treat these plain swords with utmost respect as if they were sacred objects, keeping them in their coverings except when using them, and bowing after each use. I’m never going to be a master swordsman, but the one-pointedness, the intense focus and concentration required is certainly good for taming my erratic mind. It’s deepening my zazen in ways that I can hardly understand. I learn the basic cuts, and I enjoy the way the combination of the gently strenuous yoga and the outright arduous Kiri-Do classes complement each other.
A couple of months go by. One day after yoga class, Jimmy mentions that there’s a special Kiri-Do event planned for the weekend and asks if I would like to go.
“What is it?” I ask.
“It’s called takigyo. Waterfall training. Up in Marin. My father will lead it. If you want to come, show up at the dojo on Saturday morning.” I’m noncommittal with Jimmy. The idea brings back memories of the hike up Tennessee Valley with Sajiro. I think about it and decide I shouldn’t let the past influence the future. No regrets, the Buddhist texts say.
On Saturday, Sensei takes a vanload of students up onto Mount Tam. We drive halfway up the mountain, park in a lot near Lake Lagunitas, and hike up an almost hidden path. I soon learn why the trail is avoided by most hikers. It’s steep and slippery. Water runs down it, making footing treacherous as it parallels a runoff stream, sometimes crossing it. High up on the mountain we come upon a waterfall, the rivulet spilling over a ledge more than twenty feet up, into a shallow pool. It’s a magical place, a hidden dell of wondrous natural beauty, sheltered and tranquil, the water splashing into the pool musically. Sajiro’s words about the ocean view at Tennessee Valley come to me unbidden: “This is always here.”
“Here,” Sensei says. We all take off our daypacks and the others start to change into their white gis. No one cares about modesty, so I strip down with the rest and put on my gi. Sensei stands at the edge of the pool and chants a prayer, intermittently clapping his hands. A senior student informs me that this is a supplication to the water god to keep us safe and not send anything over the fall onto us while we’re there. “It’s a Shinto thing,” he says. I shrug off this oddity and watch as Sensei enters the water first. He stands under the plunging cascade, takes the horse riding stance, and executes tsuki punches, each time emitting a shout which reverberates over the sound of the water into the surrounding silence of the forest. When he’s satisfied that the falls are safe, he leads us, one by one under the waterfall, senior students first, and leaves us there for as long as we can stand it. Before the first person goes in, he says: “In Japan the water would be much stronger than this, and much colder, but for American students this is a good first time for takigyo.”
Some people last only seconds, others revel in the pulsing crashing liquid beating down on their heads. Some simply stand there, and others perform imaginary sword movements; and no one takes their sword into the cataract even though people have brought theirs with them. When my turn comes, I’m shocked by how cold the water is, and I think that I’ll stay in for only a second or two. I find myself standing straight and still. I lift my hand up and reach up into the water that’s crashing down and cut forward with my arms. It’s the movement I did from the balcony a long time ago, when I was planning to jump and end my life, the time when I turned away from death and towards the struggle to find a way to live.
When I step out, hands reach out to assist me. I stand by the dark wet rock next to the falls and support myself with one hand. I look at my white hand against the dark shining wet black rock. The rock is me. I am the same as the rock. We have become one.
On the next Wednesday, as I enter the dojo, I’m shy for some reason. The waterfall training humbled me and at the same time ignited a fire inside me. How can standing in cold water ignite a fire? How can my white hand be the same as black rock? How can black rock be me?
Jimmy starts the class by asking us to form a circle. This time we sit in seiza position on our knees with our eyes closed. There’s an obvious space in the circle and I’m expecting Jimmy’s father to step into that space and meditate with us. Instead, a tall blond woman quietly slips into the circle, wearing the white skirt that I have learned is called a hakama. I immediately recognize her as Jimmy’s mother. She is the Sensei’s wife, and the Sensei this evening. She has curly blond hair that frames a round beautiful face. When Jimmy ends the meditation, we all bow toward her.
She steps into the circle and asks us to hold hands, to let the energy of the circle pass through us, through the left and to the right. I’m surprised at how the circle comes alive, pulsating, swaying as one. When we start the class, we again do more cutting movements. The difference is that we do them slowly as if we are cutting through a thick liquid. We end up reaching to Ten (Heaven) and slowly cutting down. This is my movement, that I’ve done instinctually. It is the movement that saved me from jumping. It is my waterfall movement. It’s wonderful to follow this strong woman. The entire class is free hand. No swords, but plenty of movement, plenty of cutting using our hands and arms, with many different partners. The end of the class is simply running and cutting with our arms for a long time. Energy comes and goes, surges and ebbs until I am in a trance of movement and meditation.
At the end, Jimmy calls us back into a circle for meditation.
“Jimmy, your mother is amazing,” I say after class. He leads me over to introduce me, and I have a sensation of surrender. I’ve found another teacher, another woman to help me find my way.
I never miss a class of Kiri-Do. My sword work becomes more assured.
Similar to my experience in the zendo, I surpass some students who have been practicing much longer than me.
“It’s not a competition,” Mrs. Ueda tells one student who is peeved that I’m progressing so rapidly. “It’s not a competition with anyone except yourself. Remember that.”
My posture changes. I notice that when I walk down the street, people are, if not truly afraid of me, then respectful. I doubt a mugger would ever pick on me, I’m projecting too formidable a presence, without doing anything martial whatsoever.
Then one day it all ends suddenly.
In class one Wednesday evening, Jimmy’s father is watching me in partner practice with another student, Paul, a guy I don’t know well. Paul is a lanky white guy, not so much muscular as lithe, stringy, flexible, and quick. We’re practicing timing and cutting techniques. We have to catch the other’s movement. Beat him or her to the punch so to speak. Sensei stops us almost immediately after we change roles. He gives me a funny look. I can’t read it. Is he going to praise or criticize me?
“Do you want to defeat and humiliate your opponent?” he asks. “Do you wish to be victorious and ego proud? No! You want to lead them into mu, emptiness. Suck them into the vacuum space where there is no ego. Can you do that?”
He gives me that look again, and this time I think I understand. It’s a test, like the first day when he made me run around the dojo forever. I stand with my eyes closed for a long while. Sensei’s eyes are on me. Paul is waiting. To do what Sensei is looking for, I must connect with Paul in some way that I haven’t yet. I must find his center, cut it open, and let it expand. I have an instantaneous momentary vision of the poster of Kuan-yin hanging on Taisha’s door in The Laundry. Unbidden, the phrase “kill him with kindness” comes into my head.
I face Paul again, look at him as deeply as I know how, really examining him, his strengths and his pains. He looks away at the last instant before we bow. Then, each time he raises up his sword, I slash across his body in the space he’s opened up. I’m shredding him with each cut. In some weird way as I’m cutting Paul, I’m revealing myself also, opening up my shell and letting inside and outside merge. I finish the round and bow deeply to Paul, who also appears to have been strongly affected by the experience. He walks away with a slightly stunned expression on his face. Sensei approaches me. He doesn’t bow, which would be totally out of character, but he cocks his head to one side and says:
“For you the sword is a step on the path. For me, it is the path. It is my life. Different paths. I’m glad ours crossed.”
I bow, holding back tears. Sensei is dismissing me. He knows I’ll never study sword long enough or hard enough to follow his path. I can’t let anything, even the practice of Kiri-Do that I enjoy so much, get in the way of my true search. We both know this is my last class. As Sensei Ueda says so wisely, I’m on my own path and must follow it.
Interested readers can go to Odeon Press to purchase the book from a variety of sources including Amazon, Barnes & Noble Booksellers, and iTunes.
Greetings from your friends at the board of Shintaido of America! It’s time to renew your membership. Last year we added to our membership and QUADRUPLED the amount of traffic on our website. Can we do that again this year?
Your $60 annual membership fee now offers more benefits than ever. While most groups are now (thankfully!) back to holding keikos in-person, the technological lessons learned during the pandemic have continued to stretch and strengthen our practice.
Zoom offerings:
Connie Borden, Rob Gaston, and Sandra Bengtsson continue to co-teach a weekly Sunday ZOOM class from 9am to 10am Pacific Time. Everyone is welcome to join. Many of these classes are available on the Shintaido of America YouTube channel.
Ito-sensei teaches regularly on Zoom from his home in France. From the UK, General Instructor Charles Burns teaches several classes each week from his dojo. Shintaido of America members are warmly invited to join.
The second season of the Shintaido Podcast was launched on February 5, 2023, on several listening platforms. Season Two of the podcast begin with chapters of the book Untying Knots: A Shintaido Chronicle by the co-founder of Shintaido of America, Master Instructor, Michael Thompson, narrated by General Instructor David Franklin. Michael Sensei was feted at the launch by the receipt of a Lifetime Achievement Award during which several of his students offered their memories of his gorei. Here’s what one member said:
Watching the podcast brought many memories from the last 20 years. I consider myself so damn lucky for being introduced to Shintaido and all of you. I often wonder where would I be today without Shintaido, what life would I have, who would I be… Gorazd Drozina
Also on the Podcast, David hosts a series of interviews on Shintaido-related topics with various people familiar with our practice, including the visual artist Mario Uribe, rock musician Amanda Palmer and classical conductor Kent Nagano.
General Instructor and Shintaido of America Board Director Connie Borden hosts a monthly podcast discussion group on the last Tuesday of each month. Please contact Connie if you’d like to join in!
In addition, Shintaido of America supports our community of practitioners by providing members with:
1. Full access to the Shintaido of America Website. Check it out! New things are happening all the time! We now feature a media page that includes all our newsletter, YouTube and Podcast links.
2. Body Dialogue is now completely digital and appears in real time as postings on the website.
5. Liability Insurance for instructors and students – so you and your students are covered no matter where you practice. This is available to members at no cost.
6. Access to the most up-to-date changes to the curriculum, which continues to develop, especially the Kenjutsu curriculum.
7. Support to our instructors and the National Technical Committee.
8. Communication with International Shintaido Technical and Exam Committee (ITEC)
9. Leadership by Shintaido of America and ESC as the organizing and sponsoring organizations for international activities.
10. Shintaido of America examinations and Shintaido of America Diplomas.
11. Shintaido of America has 4 grants for 2023. These grants are to support start up costs for new classes or expand Shintaido into healthcare and associated settings. Contact Connie for more information.
Membership fees are still only $60. For ALL of the benefits listed above, your annual membership works out to only $5 a month, or 16 cents a day!
Alternately, a check for $60 payable to SOA can be mailed to:
Shintaido of America Membership 426 Day Street San Francisco, CA 94131 (as of 12/2023)
We sincerely hope you will consider renewing your membership, and join us as Shintaido of America moves into the future!
Connie Borden, Chair SOA Board of Director Shin Aoki, Chair SOA NTC Sandra Bengtsoon, Treasurer Nancy Billias, Membership David Franklin, Podcast Michael Thompson, co-founder H.F. Ito, co-founder
by Jim Sterling On February 5, 2021, Shintaido of America (SOA) held a celebration via Zoom to honor Michael Thompson, Doshu, with a Lifetime Achievement Award. During this event over…
In the Northeast, our coldest cold spell this winter came in February. It was down to zero where I live just north of NYC, and windy as well. In an otherwise mostly mild winter, it suddenly felt dangerous just to be outside. My chickens, who usually strut around happily in the open air all season, took refuge in their dog crate and did not want to come out. I was reminded that cold, very cold, and extremely cold are all quite different things.
So it was for Kangeiko weekend. I planned to join the gasshuku late, driving up to Massachusetts in time to make the second keiko, because I had business at home on Saturday morning. That morning I got voice mail from Mary Foran saying, “The dojo has no heat. We are in the basement with a space heater. Just letting you know in case you want to rethink coming all this way.” I texted back, “Unless you decide to give up and go home, I’d like to come. I want to see everybody.” Since Kangeiko means cold weather practice, and since we’ve done a lot of Kangeiko together for many years, I didn’t think there was much chance of disbanding because of cold weather, even extremely cold weather.
Sure enough, when I got to the Town Hall in Petersham, Massachusetts, I was greeted by friends in down vests and gloves, saying, “Wear whatever you want for this keiko as long as it’s warm.” They led down to the basement where, with the help of the space heater, the space was up above freezing, just barely. Bela Breslau had taught that morning, and had to start by discussing with the group what to do about the lack of heat. Unfortunately, a couple of people had needed to drop out because the cold wasn’t workable for them, including Michael Thompson who had been scheduled to give some of the instruction. The people who stayed had begun by huddling in a circle and sharing verbally some of what was going on in their lives. Then Bela led freehand sword cutting. Swords turned out not to work because the basement ceiling was too low.
For the second keiko, Matt Shorten led warmups and Stephen Billias taught. I found that the basement was really very cold! After a 3-hour drive, it was hard to feel that warmups had done much in the way of warming my body. But as we went through our usual keiko progression, bringing more vigor into our movement, the warmth started to come. We practiced more sword movements free hand: hasso and mugen. Finally, Stephen asked if we were willing to go upstairs into the dojo with no heat at all, so we could use our swords. We agreed, we went, and it was even colder! But – now we had bokutohs and boken. And Stephen had us working in pairs. There is something about the alertness that comes with kumitachi that warms my body, every time. It was especially noticeable once Stephen put us in groups of five, with four attacking one who stood in the center. The eyes, the brain, the blood, the arms and legs all went on high alert. Now it seemed good to me to be doing such a very cold weather practice, bringing life and warmth into the depths of winter.
Stephen brought us outside for a final tenso-shoko. We stood in a patch of the village green and cut forward as the church bell struck five and the bell tower of the Town Hall turned orange in the setting sun.
Dinner was at Matt and Bonnie’s home, cozy, potluck, with a dog and a fire. Some of us stayed at Hartmann’s herb farm, a place we have been before, before the pandemic, before Joe Zawielski sensei’s passing. It was good to be back. As Margaret Guay- who was my roommate – said to me, “This feels important.” The importance was not in the content of the keikos so much as in the resumption of the gasshuku kata. It was important to eat together, to do more than one keiko and experience the physical/emotional/spiritual changes from one keiko to the next. It was good that at least some of us could be together under one roof.
On Sunday morning, Margaret led us in beautiful katas: diamond eight (free hand and then with sword) and finally Taimyo Part One. As we walked out of Town Hall after saying our goodbyes, guess what! It was up to forty degrees. The cold weather lasted just as long as the Kangeiko.
It had been three years since Pacific Shintaido was able to host its annual Kangeiko gathering in person. But, after two years of surprisingly successful virtual workshops, with participants from all over North America and Europe interacting via Zoom, Shintaido practitioners came together over the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday weekend to explore the theme Hei Ho: The Strategy of Fighting, the Strategy of Peace. On Saturday, January 14, and Sunday, January 15, four keikos were held in the gymnasium at Claremont Middle School in Oakland.
General Instructor Connie Borden and Senior Instructor Rob Gaston accepted the invitation by the Pacific Shintaido Board—Shin Aoki, Cheryl Williams, and Derk Richardson—to serve as guest instructors for Kangeiko 2023. Both hold Yondan ranking in kenjutsu, which was the general subject for the workshop. The specific theme, Hei Ho: The Strategy of Fighting, the Strategy of Peace, was inspired by a 2020 interview with Master Instructor Masashi Minagawa (published in Body Dialogue on November 6, 2022). In his opening ceremony remarks, Derk quoted Minagawa Sensei’s comments on Kangeiko (“we refresh our old selves and go back to the original beginner’s mind”), Kenjutsu (“The sword can be used as a tool or compass which can show us how to manage our lives, it can show us which direction to follow”), and the concept of Hei Ho. “The word Hei Ho 兵法 … means the Strategy of War. If Hei is written differently [using another Chinese character 平] it can also mean Strategy of Peace 平法.… Therefore, there are two ways of studying martial arts, the way of war and the way of peace.”
Before we began warmups, led by Director of Instruction Shin Aoki, Rob Sensei led us in an exercise to help set our intention for both Kangeiko and the coming year. He asked the ten attendees to offer up words that spontaneously came to mind when we thought about achieving peace in the world. Responses included “love,” “empathy,” “compassion,” “forgiveness,” “community,” “diversity,” and more. Rob Sensei urged us to fold those thoughts into our intention and hold that intention throughout the workshop.
After warmups, Connie Sensei led us in several sets of Reppaku, two linked movements in Taimyo kata. Drawing fists to hips, we opened palms and extended them forward while taking a right hangetsu step. Then, bringing feet together and the backs of our hands together at the chest, we reached up overhead, twisted our hands back, and cut forward and out while taking a left hangetsu step. Connie Sensei offered the images of emptying our pockets, lightening our loads, letting go of the burdens we carry, and spreading the seeds of intention, and then flying up and opening out to see the view before us. After a couple of repetitions, we were encouraged to find our own inspirations and images as we repeated the movements.
For the next hour, Rob Sensei led us in kiri-oroshi kumite, a partner cutting and opening technique, keeping in mind the goals of reconnecting and establishing a physical and spiritual conversation. Keiko one concluded with Rob Sensei leading us in Hoten Kokyu Ho, the gentle kata of embracing the great universe, bowing, embracing the tiniest universe, and rising up again. Those of us familiar with the poem Rob Sensei had written to correspond with the movements might have envisioned expanding our awareness from ourselves to others, to greater communities and cultures, to nature, the biosphere, and cycles of birth and death, and to the solar system, galaxies, and black holes, acknowledging that we are made of stardust and the universe is in us, and finally expanding our awareness to Ten and rising up to Ten Chi Jin.
The next three keikos were dedicated almost entirely to kenjutsu, with participants using bokuto or, in some cases, bokken. Connie Sensei and Rob Sensei taught alternating segments of the curriculum they have developed together. On Saturday afternoon, after Sandra Bengtsson led warmups, Connie led us through stepping practice with bokuto—steps number one through four, plus irimukae, holding the bokuto in a vertical position close to the body and doing step number one, as if stepping into one’s sword. Rob Sensei guided us in sword-drawing techniques and in practicing the transitions between shoko and tenso. And Connie Sensei gave us instruction in bokuto kumite, dai jodan versus jodan, demonstrating with Rob Sensei and adding new partner pairings until all participants were doing the kumitachi. Keiko number two ended with 15 minutes of open-hand Tenshingoso kumite.
Keiko number three, on Sunday morning, began with Connie Sensei leading a freeform style of warmups with the aim of dissolving the roles of leader and follower, emphasizing listening, softening, releasing, and achieving fluid movement. Rob Sensei reviewed the previous afternoon’s kumitachi, which we practiced with different partners and many repetitions. Connie Sensei introduced one-hand Tenshingoso kumite, with one partner responding to the other’s four Tenshingoso movements, cultivating a tight, elastic “ma.” We did the same in two lines of partners facing each other, one side leading and the other responding, moving together in a chorale. In the end, practitioners in both lines did all four Tenshingoso movements, the lines flowing back and forth like ocean waves. Ten minutes of Wakame brought the keiko to a close.
For the last of the four keikos, after Derk led 30 minutes of warmups, we continued with our kenjutsu practice. We divided into two groups. One person stood in the middle, sword raised in tenso. One by one, the others stepped forward quickly and cut the stationary person with jodan kiri komi. Each practitioner took a turn in the center. Our final sword practice was eiko dai kumite, dai jodan versus jodan kiri komi. It started with Connie Sensei and Rob Sensei. Then it became a rotation until everyone had participated. The last few pairings became more free-flowing and continuous. The keiko closed with Connie Sensei leading us in another movement from part one of Taimyo kata, Sai-Zan, “breaking through mountains.” She has reflected deeply on this movement’s relationship to the practice of death awareness, an analog to an army’s retreat, in focused concentration, without fear. But, as a coda to our Kangeiko curriculum, it felt more like an affirmation of life and of our collective intention to move forward with what we had learned.
Overall, the kenjutsu curriculum that Connie Sensei and Rob Sensei created for Pacific Shintaido’s Kangeiko 2023 was fairly basic—simple, foundational movements with a lot of repetition and opportunities to practice with different partners. For those practitioners with less kenjutsu experience, it provided an opportunity to develop muscle memory and inhabit the form. For more senior practitioners, it opened up the space to go deeper into their relationship with the sword—bokuto or bokken—and explore the meaning within. For all, there was an exhilarating suffusion of tenso feeling. We thank Connie Sensei and Rob Sensei, and participants from the greater Bay Area and from Florida, for making Kangeiko an expanded moment of self-refection and enhanced connection with our fellow Shintaido “beginner’s mind” practitioners, the human community, and the universe.
I wrote a recent article on grief, death and loss; I now have some reflections on the benefit of practicing Taimyo Part I — specifically the movement 碎山/Sai-Zan “breaking through mountains”— using kokyu in relation to the individual practice of death awareness. As a forewarning, the subject is awareness of one’s mortality, so you may wish to pick the best time to read and reflect on this topic.
What can be practiced with Sai-Zan within Taimyo? This was a focus of study at the Quebec Gasshuku in September 2022: we step back while doing a tsuki forward, we step back a second time, while keeping our concentration, then we step back a third time bringing our fists to the center of our chest/heart and then tsuki forward to finish with our arms open wide. The analogous military strategy is when the leader retreats with their troops while keeping concentration, keeping troops from fleeing in fear, and making sure no one is left behind.
Sai-Zan and its application to living life was the focus of a dinner discussion in Quebec. I asked the group, “Can you name other (non-military) heroic efforts threatened by almost certain demise?” Here are some of the ones I thought about: the doctors and nurses in New Orleans during Hurricane Katrina in the stranded nursing home with its frail residents; neighbors like Ko Ueda taking food to isolated neighbors during the COVID pandemic; Mike Sheets taking sandbags in wheelbarrows up our street to prevent garages from flooding, when a large water main broke and sent rivers of brown sludge down our street. Can you think of examples?
I have been reading and reflecting on how our mind resists awareness of our mortality. Fears and regrets are often reasons to avoid this subject. What do most of us really wish for? One desire is to build an ideal world, to live fully, so we may not want to ask ourselves “What if?”
And what about our daily life awareness? I was fortunate to experience 20 years of working in hospice and palliative care, experiencing death and dying up close. I was aware of my mortality and the ever-present reminders of the shortness of life that made me stay awake and stay aware.
I see a practice for death awareness, so I explored doing the three movements of Sai-Zan, while incorporating what Thich Nhat Hanh wrote in his book, The Blooming of a Lotus:
Knowing I will get old, I breathe in, Knowing I can’t escape old age, I breathe out. Knowing I will get sick, I breathe in. Knowing I can’t escape, I breathe out. Knowing I will die, I breathe in. Knowing I can’t escape death, I breathe out.
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Determined to live my days deeply in mindfulness, I breathe in. Seeing the joy and benefit of living mindfully, I breathe out.
I brought this practice to a local hospice during an open mic session on death and dying on November 3rd. Comments included “visceral,” “cathartic,” and “a way to process grief.” For Shintaido and students of body movement, there is focused work with the breath – kokyu – breathing in through the nose; breathing into the belly and slowly releasing. We can practice Sai-Zan with a focus on our breath while stepping backward and reaching forward with our arms/fists.
This is an unfinished essay – how might you finish it? How do you develop awareness of mortality? What parts do you resist or how do you avoid daily practice? What are your deepest fears? What are your greatest joys?
Watch the Reflection on Sai-Zan on Shintaido of America YouTube channel.
*Many ask me “What’s next Connie?”- hence my moniker: Next Steps Connie.
Phillipe Beauvois has been a student and teacher of Shintaido for 45 years along with Taichi and Shin-Anma Shiatsu. He participated in the First International Shintaido Gasshuku in 1980 and studied with Robert Breant. In 1985 he started teaching Shintaido on the French Riviera in Grasse. Phillipe, who has been diagnosed with terminal head and neck cancer, reflects on his learnings and his wishes for future students.
Consider visiting Phillipe´s website (in French, can be translated into English in a browser).
About the author Many of you may have been fortunate to have had a chance to do keiko with Robert Gaston. He is a Senior Instructor of Shintaido and has practiced and studied for almost 40 years. He is a member of the International Technical Exam Committee (ITEC).
Rob initially studied Shintaido with John Seaman while he was at college in Oregon. When he left school, he joined the U.S. Navy and was stationed on the USS Enterprise aircraft carrier. He made part of this giant ship his dojo where he taught Shintaido to his colleagues.
He currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with his wife Sandra and daughter Sally both of whom practice Shintaido.
Rob teaches two classes a week; one Bojutsu and one Shintaido via Zoom. Please enjoy his movement and poetry.
This poem came to me at the end of a Zoom Master style class for the Global Taimyo Community taught by Clélie Dudon with Ito-sensei giving feedback.
She taught Taimyo part 3. Ito-sensei gave feedback to us all that focused on the Hoten-kyoku-ho. He expressed two important points, first focus on extending our reach in the bow, like a starfish encompassing and surrounding a sea urchin and second to feel ourselves being inflated from the outside, like the hairs on our entire body are being gently pulled.
I am not sure when I first learned the basic sequence of Hoten-kyoku-ho. It was probably at a Pacific Shintaido meditation workshop in the early to mid 90s.
Initially, it was a healthy body movement that helped ease my sore back after a lot of kaihokei Keiko. But when it was included in the Taimyo sequence and the subsequent Pacific Shintaido’s Taimyo workshop, it became one of the movements I began to feel connected, to others, to nature, to the universe, to something more.
It has had, like other Shintaido movements (i.e ,kirioroshi kumite) a multi-layer effect on my consciousness, peeling or cutting through levels of awareness. The effects and my awareness of Hoten-kyoku-ho have been gradual over many years and I have expressed my most recent “ah-ha” in this poem.
Thank you and please enjoy.
Hoten Kokyu Ho (“Hugging Heaven”)
I bow and embrace, thank and acknowledge myself, body, present situation. Turning to the right, I feel myself invited to expand my awareness to others my family, friends, coworkers, those I struggle with.
I turn and face forward, changing my view point to face life directly. I bow and embrace, thank and acknowledge them. Turning to the left, I feel myself invited to expand my awareness to a greater community the struggles we have with other viewpoints and cultures.
I turn and face forward appreciating the beauty and strength in diversity. I bow and embrace, thank and acknowledge humanity. Turning to the right, I feel myself invited to expand my awareness to Nature, ecosystems, the biosphere, the earth, the struggle of survival, the cycles of life and death of all beings.
I turn and face forward changing my view point, Nature and I are inherently interlinked. I bow and embrace, thank and acknowledge connection to nature. I turn to the left. I feel myself invited to expand my awareness to the solar system, the sun, the planets and all their moons, the space between and their cycles.
I turn and face forward changing my view point, I am affected by their cycles their pull and tug keeping my world safe for life. I bow and embrace, thank and acknowledge our solar system.
I turn to the right, I feel myself invited to expand my awareness to the Milky Way and all galaxies. The star nurseries, nebulae, supernova and black holes.
I turn and face forward changing my view point, I am made of stardust and all that is in the universe is in me. I bow and embrace, thank and acknowledge the cosmos.
I turn to the left and I feel myself invited to expand my awareness to Ten. I turn and face forward changing my view point, I am always in Ten and Ten is in me. I bow and embrace, thank and acknowledge. I rise up to Ten Chi Jin posture.
by Heather Kuhn Heather Kuhn has practiced Shintaido for 23 years with the Shintaido North East (SNE) group. Also, she is a somatic psychotherapist who provides individual therapy focused on early life trauma.
As you will read, she is launching a new group Good Enough for Me that integrates Shintaido movements with other expressive arts therapy.
I had been showing up to keiko with increasing fervor for a decade. For ten years, I cultivated the radical resources of pleasure, joy, connection, and yes, a modicum of self esteem. Simultaneously, peeling the many layers of the soma-spiritual defenses I had built up from early life neglect and narcissistic abuse. This required of me leaps of trust, courage, pacing, and apparently, oceans of tears.
The twisted shell I had formed to protect me was challenged, one muddy keiko at a time, until one day I could name what was happening as, gulp, healing. After all, I had come by these unconscious defense strategies all too honestly. They were both the shield I used to avoid grief and the arrows I threw to project my own self loathing.
Through generous gorei, and more than a few sensei willing to hang in there with me, I peeled away these layers, slowly revealing an impossibly soft belly of selfness. I could see with more and more clear how painful it actually was to live that way. I could sense the value of allowing and receiving. I began to plant the seeds of vulnerability as liberation. In a world that trains us to fight each other for scraps and trained me to stay a victim, standing tall while also being soft was nothing short of transformational.
“And the Day Came When the Risk to Remain Tight In a Bud Was More Painful Than the Risk It Took to Blossom.” – Anaïs Nin
As I peered out on the keiko field one Winter morning, I wondered to myself, is movement a recognized avenue for healing from trauma or am I the very first person to discover it? The question that has guided my purpose ever since was born.
And thankfully the simple answer was it absolutely is and no, I am definitively not.
Somatic psychology is a field that studies how our inner galaxies express, reflect, and can be influenced by our embodied awareness, movement, and relationship with our environment, the Earth and universe. It integrates wisdom traditions with grounded research and, more importantly practice to help us understand ourselves, evolve, connect, and heal.
Naturally, I chose to study somatic psychology at Naropa University, where learning is highly experiential, relational, and practice based. Naropa was a collaboration between Chögyam Trungpa and Alan Ginsberg and founded in 1974 on principles combining the wild-creative and Buddhist practice. There are compelling resonances between the Naropa and Shintaido lineages for sure.
While at Naropa, I learned to become what one of my professors calls an attention athlete, as well as how to observe and understand embodied phenomena, facilitate curiosity, and follow the threads of sensation and impulse (among much much more). I saw my studies in Dance/Movement Therapy as an extension of my Shintaido journey and learned to understand what we were up to in our practice, from a psychological perspective, along with strengths, tendencies of bias, and blind spots within it.
I saw myself as an ambassador for our modality, writing several papers integrating Shintaido principles with various therapeutic topics, including attachment theory, catharsis, issues around power and relationship dynamics, and finally in my masters paper about facilitating psychotherapeutic movement in the medium of water.
The program and working with a somatic therapist was what led me the rest of the way to total body connectivity; weaving my inner world with the outer and back again – the building blocks toward the aspiration of self awareness. For four years, I set down my Shintaido practice with an inner commitment to, in part, explore how my psyche was insidiously using my practice to avoid pain. I asked, ‘would I be ok without keiko?’, since I admit that before I began Shintaido, I was not.
I was ok, gratefully, but I discovered Shintaido provided a significant resource for me. Because of my trauma, compensatory practices will likely always be necessary. In other words, the more resilience I can cultivate through practice, the more capacity I will have to fully grieve. The more I can allow grief to move through me willingly, the more access I have to a fulfilling life without the need for defenses.
Fast forward to now. After 23 years of Shintaido, 25 years of meditation practice, 11 years of training in somatic psychology, and 9 years providing individual therapy focused on early life attachment trauma, I am thrilled to announce the launch of a program that integrates Shintaido with the expressive arts therapies to support others on similar paths.
The group is called Good Enough for Me and provides an in-depth process to support adults engaged in healing the lasting effects of childhood emotional neglect, low self-worth, and/or chronic self sabotage. It is a therapy group, complete with an intake process, one-on-one goals honing and check-in sessions, and peer support structures in place. Although there is never-ending depth to explore in Shintaido, the first 10 years of practice provided a universe of curriculum which can be shaped and shared with endless creativity. What might be considered beginning Shintaido is what I am drawing from for this group.
Good Enough for Me has been a dream in the making for 23 years. I’m incredibly proud of the work I have done to be in a place where I can support this vulnerable population and pass along the generosity I was so blessed to receive in our international Shintaido community.
There are a few call outs I would like to make to people without whom I would not have gotten this far. I will never ever forget the time Gianni said “you can do it!” at my side while I did kai kya kusho across the Shintaido farm dojo. It was the first time in my whole life someone said that to me. Or the time David encouraged me to focus on the trying rather than discerning good enoughness. Or how Joe, bless his spirit, would get tearful when he saw me after too long, letting me know I mattered, I belonged, and my presence was wanted. I could go on…
Which is to say, the movements of Shintaido are important, yes, but the opportunities afforded in the movements to help people heal and grow are the real treasures of Shintaido. I believe with all my heart we have something valuable to offer in this time of acute turmoil, volatility, and systemic narcissism.
I invoke Chapter 1 from Shintaido, The body is a message of the universe:
Shintaido is the light in the shade and the sun in the shadow. People who have been constitutionally weak and depressed from birth can discover extraordinary strength and ability through Shintaido. People who have lacked the will power or determination to express even a tenth of their talent can grow and develop in Shintaido. People who have never been aware of their true value will realize the dignity of being. Those who are too self-conscious by nature to express their ideas will find new confidence and conviction. Those whose spirits are closed and stagnant will be inspired with a new faith and purpose. Those who have become private and isolated will be able to communicate a new joy of life to others. Those who are downtrodden or oppressed will understand that all human beings are equal before God and free to express their being. This is why we call our movement Shintaido or “new body way.”
To read more about Good Enough for Me, follow this link.
