We both watch as the cat paces back and forth, eyes unusually bright and alert. There are a couple of false starts, and then, like a feather caught on a gust of wind, she lands on my knees.

She stands there unsteady. I have a book in one hand and my arm around my daughter, so I cannot help. I called out to my wife, who quickly brings over a small blanket and guides Loopy securely into my lap.

She gratefully assumes a slouched sitting position, already purring. Daughter is delighted at this uncharacteristic behavior and immediately laughs and declares with toddler directness “Pet Loopy!?” We pet and brush the cat. Loop shakes her head a couple of times, sending drool everywhere. Finally she settles down.

Our cat has cancer. Some of it is in her throat, and she cannot swallow, so she drools constantly. She is probably down to 8 pounds or less, from an average of well over 16 lbs. I had taken her to the vet a few months ago concerned about weight loss. Instead of her usual sluggishness, she was looking svelt and being active. She had just taken a mourning dove. At that time she was down to 12 lbs., her fighting weight.

The vet saw nothing wrong with her, and we were perplexed that years of dieting had suddenly started working.

A few weeks later the drooling began, and coughing.

During the next visit, the vet removed a growth from her larynx. It was malignant.

Two months later she stopped eating and we were on the verge of taking her in to be put down.

It can be surprisingly difficult to determine when a pet is ready to go. I read articles, thought things through, discussed it with my wife, and was fairly certain that it was a linear process: She would slowly get worse and worse. We would pay close attention to her behavior and it would be obvious when the day came.

For me, at that two-month mark, the day had come. I was ready to go to the vet. And then, at the last minute, a can of Fancy Feast somehow caught her interest. And for another month or so, she was able to eat formerly forbidden brands of canned cat food, bask in the sun, enjoy lap time, brushing, etc.

Still, most of the time, she was obviously not happy. She had to return to her food plate dozens of times to finish a serving. She would sit for an hour at a time in front of the water bowl, taking periodic sips. There was no bounce in her step. But she was still our pet, and she still sought out her favorite things to do. She had gotten into the swing of being sick.

Then her mood shifted gradually but steadily downward. She would not sleep as much and was often staring into space. At other times, she would perk up a bit and seem to be her normal self, except for the drooling, which gave her a slightly mad, grizzled appearance. She also developed an ear infection and a permanent runny nose.

Consensus developed that the time was approaching, that it would be soon, then that it would be in a few days, then that it would be tomorrow, or perhaps the day after that. To some extent, I felt that it was past time, but I had been proven wrong by Fancy Feast. My wife and I had several discussions, coming to terms with how and when.

The trip to the vet was excruciating in some ways, quite seemingly normal in others. My wife carried our cat on a fluffy white blanket (she had been giving her fresh blankets almost daily). The veterinarian was exceedingly sensitive. The injection was slow, but the effect was fairly rapid. Loopy went to sleep with four sobbing humans petting her (the vet and her assistant were moved, which surprised and comforted us). Our cat was purring to the last moment.

That evening, at dinner, my daughter looked down at the water bowl. “Loopy hiding?” she said?

“Perhaps she is,” I said, keeping my eyes on my food.

Periodically, over the next few days, my daughter would find something that she wanted to show to the cat, and would run around the apartment saying “Loooopyyyy. Where aaaare yooooou?” We would explain that she is not here, but we refrained from saying more. These short explanations seemed to satisfy her.

About two weeks later, we were in a park, and my daughter was on a swing. It was a bright, sunny morning. We were both being quiet. As I pushed her, something compelled me to speak. Maybe it was more for me than for her.

I said “Are you wondering about Loopy?”

“Uh huh.” she said. “Loopy went doctor.”

I was surprised. We had called the veterinarian the doctor when taking her the previous two times, but she had not seen Loopy leave on that day. She had simply inferred that if the cat was not around, she must be at the doctor. Perhaps she had also connected the fact that the cat was sick.

I was also surprised at the speed of her reply. She is only two and a half, not yet at the age where she knows to keep some thoughts to herself, but clearly she had been thinking things through on her own without verbalizing.

I said that Lupe had passed away, that we would not see her again, and that she was with other cats. I didn’t use the word “death” and I didn’t mention sickness or the doctor.

She was very quiet, swinging in the sunshine.

“Do you understand?” I asked.

“Uh huh,” she said.

I believed her, and still do. We talk about it, in the limited way that talking about absence is possible with a toddler. She doesn’t look for the cat anymore.

Of course she understands. It’s her job to understand. She does it all day long. For her, understanding is a long process of returning to each question, trying it again and again, until a landscape of answers begin to resemble one answer.

And I suppose that is the way it is for all of us.

“Fireman!” she pointed.

“Uh, actually, that’s a soldier. See, he’s in green, and his helmet is round.”

Luckily I didn’t have to explain the gun.

Babies, toddlers, and children teach us that anyone can be pushed to their limit. Some babies aren’t very good at this. They are referred to as “easy babies.” Apparently your chances of getting an easy baby are better than your chance of winning the lottery, but not as high as hitting all green lights on your commute.

I thought that my aikido practice had given me enough experience in staying calm to deal with babies and toddlers, and to some extent, I was right. However, there have been plenty of times when it hasn’t been enough, and my blood pressure, sleep, and overall health have suffered as a result.

Adversity can be instructive though, and here’s what I’ve learned. The meditation side of aikido is underrated. The Zen practice of being fully aware, yet able to acknowledge and let go of things at will, without preconceptions or expectations, is a real source of strength.

Das Eksperiment

Case in point. Our daughter often interrupts our sleep. I won’t go into the mundane details, because this isn’t about how to correct the problem. Believe me, we’re working on it, with some success. But it happens nonetheless. It’s very common to have this problem with babies and young children. Almost as common as having them in the first place.

Sometimes I do not have to get out of bed. Sometimes I have to get up. Sometimes my wife does. Sometimes both of us. Sometimes I have to get up repeatedly, several times, at the worst possible points in my sleep cycle. The effect is like being one of those rats in a psychology experiment where rewards and punishments are random, so the rat eventually develops nervous ticks. It’s pretty cruel. And we’re on the receiving end.

No matter how bad the night though, I’ve found that things go infinitely smoother if I manage to stay in a Zen state of mind. I have to let go of the desire to get back to sleep, yet prepare for it at the same time. I have to stay engaged with my daughter, no matter what her state, in a positive way, and not attempt to force a predetermined solution.

Randori

Randori, the aikido practice of dealing with multiple attackers, works this way. You need to deal with the attacks. But it is set up in such a way that you do not control when the attacks end. And you cannot “take out” the attackers. It’s aikido. You can only dodge, unbalance, and throw them. True, you can “throw” someone with a punch, or give them a particularly hard fall, or propel them far from you, but they are going to get back up and come at you again.

Suppose you took an aggressive approach to randori. Enter vigorously into each attack with a solid punch in the face, hurling your attackers away. Might you be disappointed when they roll with the punches and come back up to attack? Might that disappointment and frustration weigh on you? What about all the energy you’ve expended attempted to overwhelm them?

Suppose one of the attackers succeeds in scoring a punch, tackling you, or otherwise exposing a vulnerability in your technique. Should you let dismay wash over you? Does that mean the gloves are off and it’s time for some payback? Is the randori over? No. No. And No.

Randori doesn’t work if you are trying to finish or win the game. It actually works better when you are trying to keep things going, like a volley in tennis. You acknowledge that you are in a randori, and it doesn’t bother you that the attacks keep coming. Eventually some attacks will succeed. That is what is supposed to happen. It’s a learning experience.

The Zone

This is the mindset you must often take with children. Do not try to absolutely control (get back in bed now!), but enter with a loose plan (get her back to sleep), blend with the other person (are you thirsty?, upset?, does your tooth hurt?), and be prepared to change tactics on a dime (you said you needed a blanket, but that doesn’t seem to be the case, can you tell me what’s the matter?).

Whatever happens, you must not focus on the fact that you’ve been cheated out of a good night’s sleep. You’re already awake. That is no longer in your control. And the more pissed off you feel about it, the worse your eventual sleep will be.

Consistency is important, but again, this isn’t about the actual child-rearing tactics. Plenty of books and blogs can give you tactics. I’m writing about a strategy for staying calm.

Sun Tzu said you cannot force victory, you can only prepare for it. This is the mindset. You have a plan, an agenda, a goal, but your emotions (and actions) do not need to be chained to it. Ultimately, at the end of the encounter, if you have remained calm, it is that much easier to get back to what you needed to be doing.

My shoulders are chronically tense, but while performing aikido movements, one should have relaxed shoulders (most of the time).

While training with me, a yudansha stopped, grabbed my shoulders, gave me a quick massage, then had me do the technique again. For about five minutes my shoulders felt as though they were two inches lower than usual, and settled snugly into my upper body. The techniques went very well. Then my shoulders rode up again.

Later I tried to make them relax, but the harder I tried, the less they responded.

Then for the heck of it I just pretended I was someone who has relaxed shoulders. Strangely, I am more relaxed when pretending to be a relaxed person than when I try to relax myself.

Irimi

The static irimi entry from katate tori ( same side wrist grab, evading to outside ).

While playing with it today, I tried out a variation that is popular in our dojo, which starts with the palm up, roughly at uke’s throat level. The problem with this one for me has always been that it stops uke’s forward momentum. We collide internally right at the point of uke gripping my wrist. Uke has to really be committed, or the energy can really stall. So with beginners I find myself walking toward them to keep the pressure on long enough to re-channel things.

I thought to myself, “so and so can get away with this because he weighs so much, like this,” and I dropped my center, instinctively imitating what I perceived to be his additional mass. This in fact dropped my elbow and uke’s elbow. Suddenly I saw the missing piece. At the moment of collision, you drop your weight via uke’s grip and then re-channel. An exaggerated form of this would twist uke’s elbow inward.

On the bright side, they tired me out pretty well and I didn’t lose focus, posture, or any of that zanshin goodness.

Uke was way better than I deserve, for which I am grateful.

What if the present moment and all moments are eternal? It never starts and never ends.

I think it’s more like the second one.

Arriving home, I found out that our toddler was asleep in the car, thus occupying wife and leaving the apartment to me. I managed about ten minutes of sit-ups and push-ups, started in on some curls, and they came in the door. End of session.

Still resolved to manage something, I decided to go to an early bird kickboxing workout the next day (today).

The instructor wore one of those loose fitting workout outfits, all white with stripes down the sides, microphone headset jammed down over his gel-spiked hair. Not the usual instructor I’ve had the four or five times I’ve actually done this. It’s okay, I thought, how different can they be? It’s the same studio.

Very different. Different music (80s remixed), different attitude. He bounced even more, if that’s possible, and did everything tightly. It was hard to tell if he was doing a hook or uppercut, roundhouse or front kick.

After about twenty minutes I realized that I hadn’t had to pause to catch my breath, which was heartening. Then we started doing this thing where you crouch down to the floor and then come up into a kind of karate-kid flying front kick. Cool, I can do that. Of course, I don’t so much fly as hover briefly, and the kick isn’t to the head but somewhere vaguely torso-ish, but I can do that.

Then we switch to something else and I’m all pleased with myself when the effort that went into those crouch/kicks hits me like a bear hug around my ribs, and the rest of the class is downhill. I’m covered in sweat, wondering when it will be over, and just trying to look like I’m keeping up.

Now I’m wishing for the usual instructor. It’s Stockholm syndrome. I want my usual punishment. Ugh. Shake it off. Not sane.

Things start to blur. “You can do it!” I can’t keep doing this. “This is it!” Uh, you just said that a couple minutes ago – Do you think we have the memories of goldfish? “Higher.” Yeah right. That chick over there is doing much worse that me. Good to know. I’m gonna stick with taking out imaginary knees and thigh-bones.

Now and then he brings around these black plastic sheets that he makes people kick. They crackle and make a loud noise no matter how well you kick them. He never holds them out for me. I’m obviously not worthy. But he does toss them on the ground near my feet. A few glances between jab cross jab confirm that those are in fact X-rays.

Whose X-rays? Why on earth are we kicking X-rays? Are these students who didn’t survive? Criminals? Mementos of the instructor’s martial injuries?

Then a brief feeling of serenity washes over me. Those are the keytones. Forgot all about that benefit of aerobic exercise. Haven’t felt that in years–since back when my ankles would let me jog long enough to get a runner’s high. Or else they’re piping some sort of gas into the building.

Okay, I may just stick with this kickboxing thing for a while.

Jogging is out (it would have been my preference). I’m just not built for it, and now past 40, my ankles don’t even recover well from three-milers.

I bike to work, but it really does nothing. I can’t bike fast because it would be hazardous. Plus I don’t want to show up at work bathed in sweat. Coming home that way is sometimes acceptable, so I’m going to do what I can with that.

Working out at home is out because our toddler daughter considers exercise the equivalent of ignoring her. Maybe she’s right.

So I’ve been trying cardio kickboxing. [looking sheepish]

Besides the occasional urge to direct one of my kicks into the instructor, who screams “HIGHER” over the techno beat, it has not been a completely embarrassing disaster. I do pause ever few minutes, with increasing frequency as the class progresses, to catch my breath or stifle the urge to throw up (five hours after last meal). I don’t tuck my hips under me for front kicks (not planning on backflips any time soon). My side kicks barely clear 2 feet off the ground. My quarter kicks and knee strikes from TKD ages ago have come back and seem to work pretty well.

I am literally the only person in the room who does not bounce on their feet. Seems martially wrong to me.

Just need to find a way to get to more than one class a week, or nothing much will stick aerobically.

Plan A is Aikido, which is part of Budo, which theoretically consists of all possibilities. Plan A gives precedence to those actions that de-escalate, reduce harm, and resolve conflict. If my Plan B is a potentially lethal strike to finish the game, that’s just too easy–at that moment I’ve stopped practicing aikido and completely broken with Plan A. Was Plan A just a ruse or a trick? Why bother? Aren’t we just training? Am I really in any danger?

Plan B is also legally problematic. People die in relatively minor scuffles now and then, and the one left standing can go to jail.

There is a term from Alexander Technique called end gaining. It refers to the natural human habit of focusing on the end-point of our actions and becoming frustrated when we do not immediately achieve our aims. Consciousness of this tendency in yourself allows you to inhibit it and focus instead on the moment. The ironic side effect is that achieve your aims more easily and with less stress when you aren’t directly obsessed with them.

For me, the aggressive Plan B in aikido is a kind of end-gaining. It sets up a habit of escalation in more things than aikido. It reminds me that I’m thinking about *me* winning, not a win for the situation. That can carryover to personal interactions off the mat.

I remember an exercise from when I was about 12, in a karate class. Your parter shoves you, and you do nothing, but stand your ground. He does it again. You again do nothing. He does it a third time. You take him out.

This exercise is very basic for a reason–it’s for children. And I’m sure I learned a bit of calm and patience from it. But I also learned [unfortunately] that past a certain point you can stop caring for the other person and just win. This has been my impression of most martial arts (aikido excluded). The idea being that a good defense isn’t just a good offense. A good defense is a perfectly timed rapid-fire highly targeted devastating attack that obliterates your opponent. Our culture, especially action movies, seems to encourage this thinking.

Outside of Hollywood fantasies, reality is more prosaic and bureaucratic. Training for police officers and emergency responders includes considerations of levels of force. Justifications for their use are laid out in detail, and woe to the officer who uses lethal force in any but the most obvious of circumstances. A mountain of paperwork, mandatory time-off, and possible legal action awaits. This is as it should be.

In our day-to-day life often the most dangerous situation we deal with is getting cut off in traffic. There are few immediate penalties for just being a jerk. There is unfortunately no dope-slap angel to appear and correct us when we go over the line. But training to be compassionate in a violent situation can, I think, mitigate some of our negative, though natural human responses.

We had originally planned to have friends over and make roast beef tenderloin with potatoes, carrots, yorkshire pudding, and a nice bottle of bordeaux, but their little boy came down with a bad cold. When two families with babies/toddlers want to do something together, a cold can nix it. Hard for those without kids to understand, but it’s serious stuff for the sleep-deprived. If you get my kid sick, you’ve just fogged my brain with sleep deprivation for the next week. So we deeply appreciated their consideration and I only looked longingly at the wine and beef tenderloin in the grocery store, then proceeded to pick up milk and sandwich meat.

The hike was nice. We discovered a great place that is nearby, and our daughter discovered she really likes riding in the Kelty carrier I picked up at a garage sale for $2 a couple months ago.

Didn’t get to reflect much on Darwin or being a naturalist for a day. But it’s a start.