dancing with myselves
by lavinia plonka

As modern physics wrestles with vibrating strings and charm quarks, I find myself trying to shift from my Newtonian habits (Action = Reaction) to something more…quantum.

Unfortunately, my understanding of the laws of relativity mushes around in my brain with E = mc2 written across Einstein’s hairdo on a poster advocating imagination, images of mushroom clouds and the sensation of moving while in a stationary train next to one that’s pulling out. Relatively speaking, relating to, even relatives must have something to do with atomic explosions and moving while standing still. One of my biggest challenges in life and business is what happens to me in a moment of perceived incompetence. And one of the places I get to study this the most is when I practice Aikido, a martial art that stresses conflict resolution.

Most of the time when I go to Aikido class, I am subject to simple Newtonian physics: action/reaction, Force = mass times acceleration, a moving body will stay in motion unless something interferes. Aikido, when properly executed, uses the adversary’s energy to disarm him. Quantum physics, which the theory of relativity gave birth to, deals with quarks and neutrinos in vacuums and particle acceleration chambers, so how can it apply to two people throwing each other around on a mat?

The class begins, and like sub-atomic particles dancing in space, everyone searches for a partner. It is a moment of chaos as electrons link with protons to create hydrogen atoms across the mat. I am bouncing off of couples - is there such a thing as a lost quark? - searching for someone I can blend with, and come face to face with a senior student I generally avoid. He bows and I am sucked into his orbit.

Ted is big and pompous. I stare up at him and repeat my mantra. “O Sensei (the founder of Aikido) was under five feet tall. Aikido is for small people.” He attacks me as if I am twice my size, charging towards me like a runaway train. Even though I’m standing still, I feel like I’m moving backward. My technique goes out the window as my hands haphazardly fly up and I desperately pin him to the mat. I think I actually fall on him. After the very first round, he looks at me and asks condescendingly, “Would you mind some feedback?”

“Mind? Of course not!” I smile tightly. My hair is still on fire, my heart is pounding and the stars are still whirling around my head. Right. I can take feedback. Inwardly I begin to churn. He corrects my hand position. A hand position I know perfectly well, but that even after 10 years refuses to cooperate when I panic. And I still panic when rushed by anyone over 200 pounds with a superior attitude. I find myself following his instructions resentfully, like a child who has been told that her handwriting is too sloppy and she has to re-write it. Oblivious to my petulant scowl, he begins correcting other aspects of my technique. I can’t seem to do anything right.

By the time we switch partners, I’m seething. I’m radioactive. I’m in the beginning stages of meltdown and nothing can stop the chain reaction. My next partner is no help. Instead of hearing the warning bells and alarms screaming, “Red alert! Evacuate! Evacuate!” he accelerates the heating of my reactor core by giving me a hard time. Instead of blending with my technique, he seems to intentionally resist my efforts. When I go for the pin, he doesn’t budge. I have done this pin hundreds of times. For goodness sake, it was on my first test. Frustrated, I try to muscle him, a useless task against a much stronger male. At that moment, my teacher appears, as he always does when you don’t want him to see you. He corrects my hand, which I realize to my horror is not nestled in the crook of my partner’s elbow, but gripping his forearm for dear life. How has it gotten there? I know better than that! My teacher says, as he has said countless times, “Aim his hand for the stomach.” “I was aiming his hand! It wouldn’t move!” I explode. (Breach of the inner core! Meltdown in 30 seconds!) Feeling toxic, I repeat the move, my partner obligingly flips around. I am convinced he did it because the teacher was there, that I had been doing it right before and he had just been giving me a hard time. I can’t be wrong. My lip quivers. Then my partner shows me that it wasn’t just about the hand, it was how I moved the elbow as well. He insists that this small shift is what propelled him onto his stomach. I try to feel grateful, but instead bite back tears.

I remember the first time I heard my sister say that she went nuclear. We all laughed at the image - my sister erupting in a mushroom cloud, the fallout leaving everyone feeling slightly ill. A reaction can be triggered by the merest push of a button. (Don’t touch that red button!) Once the button is pushed, meltdown is almost inevitable.
When I was about 35, my Dad once took me aside. “Listen kid, I want to give you some words of advice if you want to succeed in business. It’s what helped me survive the war, and it will help you too. I learned these principles the hard way. I’ve tried to teach them to you by example, but now I’m just telling you. Remember one thing, OK two things. Number one - never let anyone know that you don’t know what you’re doing. Number two - if you make a mistake, don’t get caught. Oh, and Number three - if you do get caught, blame it on somebody else.”

Now I understand everything. The was the invisible myth that had formed my nuclear core. So much a part of my life, I had never even noticed. Arrrgh! Too late, I’m hard wired.

So here I am, about to annihilate the civilized world, blow up my laboratory, melt down in front of the whole class. The teacher signals to change partners. I stand, trembling, glowing with poisonous isotopes. As everyone in my near vicinity pretends not to see me, I feel my hair turning into serpents. Did Medusa just have a difficult childhood?
“Lavinia!” Harry’s grinning, open face bows before me. “May I have the pleasure of this dance?” He does not avoid my brimming eyes. I clumsily attack him, not even aware of what technique we are practicing. “Ho, ho!” he laughs, “Caught me off guard!” He whirls like lightning, his arm like an embrace around my neck and gently rolls me to the ground. Moshe Feldenkrais, a pioneer in somatic education once said that we are programmed by the time we are three years old. Certain habits are learned, then hard wired, into the system. Unless one is aware of the button about to be pressed, one is helpless when the reaction is triggered. It can be a look, a comment, a situation - I am a bunch of atoms in a particle accelerator that have just gotten excited and there’s no stopping the chain reaction. He also said, “If you know what you are doing, you can do what you want.” What about if you don’t know what you’re doing, but you’re acting as if you do?When it’s my turn to throw Harry, I repeatedly step back and turn to bring him down. He obligingly lands, but it’s like downing a leaping walrus. His arm seems like a piece of board screwed into his torso, only responding if I grit my teeth and muscle him. He says nothing. The rocket scientist that I am, I conclude that since he is a black belt, perhaps there is something in my technique that could be refined. Of course, this means I break Dad’s rule Number One and admit that I don’t know what I’m doing. When I ask him, he beams as if I have discovered, why, the theory of relativity, and proceeds to show me several ways to connect better; get closer, use my hip, just so. We are like two kids opening up their first chemistry set. I am exhilarated.

I start thinking about fusion vs. fission. If instead of reacting when someone points out that I don’t know what I’m doing, perhaps admitting it would be like like blending, agreeing with his point of view. From there, learning can take place and a new energy emerges! As I imagine the possibilities, I think to myself maybe scientists could solve the question of fusion if they studied the principles of Aikido.

Lavinia Plonka: When not throwing large men around at Aikido, Lavinia guides others to move with greater ease through life via The Feldenkrais Method®.

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