"The road to freedom for all is long and well worn," a friend wrote in a note to me today.  Yes.  Not only as we fight for the freedom of those who are held down, but as we work out our own freedom.  It is a process to live it, and not exploit others around us.  I don't intend to, but we all grope for control in this crazy life, don't we.  And as parents and lovers and employers and friends, the lines blur.  Let us commit to love today.  To peace.  And to soft answers and gentle hugs.  To encouragement and building up those we know and meet.

One of the most famous stories in modern day martial arts illustrates the value of self discipline:

“A turning point in my life came one day on a train in the suburbs of Tokyo, in the middle of a drowsy spring afternoon.

At one station the doors opened, and suddenly the quiet afternoon was shattered. There stood a man at the doorway, bellowing at the top of his lungs. He yelled violent, obscene, incomprehensible curses. Just as the doors closed, the man staggered into the car. He was big, drunk, and dirty. He wore laborer’s clothing. His front was stiff with dried vomit. His eyes bugged out a demonic, neon red. His hair was crusted with filth. Screaming, he swung at the first person he saw, a woman with a baby. The blow glanced off her shoulder, sending her spinning into the laps of an elderly couple. It was a miracle that the baby was unharmed.

The couple jumped up and scrambled toward the other end of the car. They were terrified. The laborer aimed a kick at the retreating back of the old lady. `I’ll kill you, old woman!’ he bellowed. He missed, and the old woman scuttled to safety. This so enraged the drunk, he grabbed the metal pole in the center of the car and tried to wrench it out of its stanchion. I could see that one of his hands was cut and bleeding. The train lurched ahead, the passengers frozen with fear. I stood up.

I was young and in pretty good shape. I stood six feet, weighed 225. I’d been putting in a solid eight hours of Aikido training every day for the past three years. I liked to throw and grapple. I thought I was tough. Trouble was, my martial skill was untested in actual combat. As students of Aikido, we were not allowed to fight.

My teacher, the founder of Aikido, taught us each morning that martial arts were devoted to peace. `Aikido,’ he said again and again, `is the art of reconciliation. Whoever has the mind to fight has broken his connection with the universe. If you try to dominate other people, you are already defeated. We study how to resolve conflict, not how to start it.’

I listened to his words. I tried hard. I wanted to quit fighting. I could feel my forbearance exalting me. I felt both tough and holy. In my heart of hearts, however, I was dying to be a hero. I wanted a chance, an absolutely legitimate opportunity whereby I might save the innocent by destroying the guilty.

`This is it!’ I said to myself as I got to my feet. `This slob, this animal, is drunk and mean and violent. People are in danger. If I don’t do something fast, somebody will probably get hurt. I’m gonna take him to the cleaners.’

Seeing me stand up, the drunk saw a chance to focus his rage. `Aha!’ he roared. `A foreigner! You need a lesson in Japanese manners!’

I held on lightly to the commuter strap overhead. I gave him a slow look of disgust and dismissal. I gave him every bit of nastiness I could summon up. I planned to take this turkey apart, but he had to be the one to move first. And I wanted him mad, because the madder he got, the more certain the victory. I pursed my lips and blew him a sneering, insolent kiss. It hit him like a slap in the face. `All right!’ he hollered. `You’re gonna get a lesson.’ He gathered himself for a rush at me. He’d never know what hit him.

A split-second before he moved, someone shouted `HEY!’ It was so earsplitting. I wheeled to my left, the drunk spun to his right. We both stared down at a little old Japanese man. He must have been well into his seventies. He sat there immaculate in his kimono and hakama. He took no notice of me, but beamed delightedly at the laborer, as though he had a most important secret to share.

`C’mere,’ the old man said in an easy tone of voice. `C’mere and talk with me.’ He waved his old hand lightly. The big man followed. He planted his feet in front of the old man and towered over him. `Talk to you,’ he roared above the clacking wheels. `Why should I talk to you?’ The drunk now had his back to me. If his elbow moved so much as a millimeter, I’d drop him in his socks.

The old man continued to beam at the laborer. There was not a trace of fear or resentment about him. `What’cha been drinkin’?” he asked lightly, his eyes sparkling with interest. `I been drinkin sake,’ the laborer bellowed back. `And it’s none of your business!’ Flecks of spittle spattered the old man.

‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ the old man said with delight . . . `absolutely wonderful! You see, I love sake, too. Every night, my wife and I (she’s 76, you know), warm up a little bottle of sake. We take it out into the garden, and we sit on the old wooden bench that my grandfather’s first student made for him. We watch the sun go down behind the persimmon tree. It is most gratifying, even when it rains!’ He looked up at the laborer, eyes twinkling, happy to share the delightful details about his personal life.

As he struggled to figure where the old man’s conversation was taking him, the drunk’s face began to soften. His fists slowly unclenched. `Yeah,’ he said slowly. `I love persimmons, too . . . .’ His voice trailed off.

‘Yes,’ said the old man, smiling, `and I’m sure you have a wonderful wife.’

`No,’ replied the laborer. `My wife died.’ He hung his head. Very gently, swaying with the motion of the train, the big man began to sob. `I don’t got no wife. I don’t got no home. I don’t got no job. I don’t got no money. I don’t got nowhere to go. I’m so ashamed.’ Tears rolled down his cheeks. A spasm of pure despair rippled through his body. Above the luggage rack, a four-color ad trumpeted the virtues of suburban luxury living.

Now it was my turn. Standing there in my well-scrubbed youthful innocence, my `make this world safe for democracy’ self-righteousness, I suddenly felt dirtier than he was.

Just then, the train arrived at my stop. The platform was packed. The crowd surged into the car as soon as the doors opened. As I struggled to get out, I heard the old man cluck sympathetically. `My, my,’ he said. `That is a very difficult position to be in. Tell me about it.’

I turned my head for one last look. The laborer was sprawled like a sack on the seat, his head in the old man’s lap. The old man looked down at him, all compassion and delight. One hand softly stroked filthy, matted hair.

As the train pulled away, I sat down on a bench. What I had wanted to do with muscle and meanness had been done with a few kind words. Now I had seen Aikido in combat, and the essence of it was love, as the founder had said. I would have to practice the art with an entirely different spirit. It would be a long time before I could speak about the settling of conflict.”