In The Gift of Danger, author Mary Stein recounts her experience of taking up aikido in her mid-fifties and learning what it really means to face danger - both external and internal.

In this powerful collection of short essays, Stein undertakes a life-long practice of sensitivity, wholeness of response, and vigilant attention. As she practices an active and spirited defense on the mat, she also uncovers a lifetime of habitual tensions and emotional reactions, of flight and ineffective fight.

Above all, she learns that the sense of danger, far from being something to avoid, presents us with opportunities to challenge ourselves and put training and theory into practice. Appealing to the widespread longing for a more authentic life, free of fear, stress, and tension, The Gift of Danger demonstrates how the practice of aikido can show us what is really needed in our lives.

An excerpt from "The Gift of Danger" by Mary Stein

An Attentive Response
If uke is lucky, he's had some intimations from life that change is inevitable, that in certain moments he needs to give up an old equilibrium and accept a new balance to suit new conditions. In aikido, it means to be willing to let go and fall. It's up to nage (nah-gay), the defender, to confirm and support this attitude.

I vividly recall such a moment while practicing with Ben, one of the uchi-deshi or live-in students when I first joined Suginami. Ben is a big bear-like man, strong yet generous and responsive. He stood relaxed and open as I stepped forward to strike his head, then almost imperceptibly changed his angle, taking no more than a half-step to one side. As our bodies connected, I felt my center of gravity moving out from under me; I simply didn't have my balance any more. Ben had drawn me off-center into the current of his own flowing motion. There was no coercion, Ben didn't "do" anything to me, yet I had no alternative but to follow his curving lead right into a fall, with Ben keeping me at the tipping edge all the way. I fell backwards, all the unfurling length of my spine, then bounced back to my feet, re-balanced and ready to begin again.

I had played my part by striking with sincerity and determination. I didn't need to know or do much beyond that. Ben's equally sincere response, on the other hand, was more subtle and required considerable foresight and knowledge; it's as if the role of nage, the defender, calls for someone who's a little wiser than uke, the attacker. Ben played that role, welcoming my strike and joining it firmly and without hesitation. In a way, he was simply attending to his own integrity, his own stable posture. Getting me to fall was the least of his concerns.